The Abyss

[Dread]

(continued from Glass Dust)

Lion's Den

Mictian drummed his fingertips lightly against the note from Rice, answer to his enquiry.

Rejection.

In my time of blindness, it occurred to me that Gehyra have exposed themselves in ways they may not fully realise. They claim to be gekkonids. More gekkonid than gekkonid, even. By extension, the protection we offer the rest of the city, not to attack except when paid, does not apply. Just as we enlighten our brethren without outside prompt, we could Gehyra.

She'd just rejected his idea, stolidly referring to the codex. Steadfastly. He both loved, admired, and loathed her for it. Doubt churned his gut. Was he mistaken? She hadn't said.

I understand what we do to each other is consensual. I'm not suggesting to deviate from that. Gehyran pride ought to be enough to get their consent, though.

Inwardly, he played off the sequence of events he imagined again. Arguably the most violent part of it was wrestling one of them down and dragging them back to the Calignite. Andriel? He didn't want to target Andriel, the irony didn't outweigh the humiliation; even shackled in his mental realm, tied to a virtual chair in a virtual Calignite, the Archadex mocked him. 'If you're into bondage, you could have said.'

No, he didn't need that. Still, Rice's rejection felt in a way as if she were calling him out for an impulsive attempt at vengeance.

His left hand's index fingertip touched absent-mindedly against the pendant. Maybe she was right? Maybe his urge to protect the clan was nothing other than encapsulated, thinly veiled vengeance.

Except not thin enough for him to tell.

Let me know what you think.

Humbly,
- Mictian d'Avarice

What was wrong with the plan? Where had he strayed from his path?

With a sigh, he brought both his hands up to his face, kneading fingertips first into his forehead, then his scalp, palms coming to rest across his closed eyes, weight of his head pressing his elbows into the table.

'Thou shalt not attack another vampire unless thou was paid for it'

Fuck. It sounded simple enough, didn't it? But were their fellow gekkonids 'another vampire'? Was what they did to each other in friendship against the codex? And if not, why was Gehyra excempt, self-proclaimed superior race of gekkonids?

'Thou shalt not.'

Right.

No point pursuing that train of thought any further.

That left only one possible course of action.

[Dread]

[Crossposted from the Eventide board]

[Dread]

So. I heard you're trying to help us. Okay. We've had this repeatedly, really. I'm sorry I didn't trust you initially, my emotional stamina was worn thin. No, I'll be all right. I've had my peace of mind. I need you for something, though. I need you to hold the fort. My clan, you see. It's going to be without a decent leader. The only other Night Shard is Foamy, whom I trust about as far as I can throw. Actually, wait. I'm a vampire. I can throw him pretty far. Less than that.

Why am I leaving? Simple reason. I need to get into Gehyra. I don't want to divulge the details, exactly, forgive me. My trust is a bit thin, though of all vampires, you're quite high up on that scale.

I'm not really sure why. Aura? Your gestures? Your efforts?

No, you can't go in my place. It doesn't work, trust me. It has to be me. As much as I loathe it, it has to be me. I'm his childe, you know. Of Zyan, I mean. The leader of Gehyra? Yeah. I know him better than other people. Probably.

I don't know if I'll return. There's a genuine possibility that I might die. But I need your help now.

Take this. Bring it to Rice.

And keep an eye on Foamy for me.

[Dread]

[Crossposted from the Eventide board]

[Dread]

[#nightchilder, 6th March 2010; participants: James Reid and Mictian (as Deimos)]

'I don't know if I will return.' Mictian's message to the Eventide had left James both without a clan leader and his most immediate tie to the clan, abruptly thrown into the proverbially churning seas of Others. There was no reason as to why Mictian left. There had been no indicators, no recent substantial uprising from Foamy or other intra-clan troubles - Mictian had just left. And in his place now sat an entirely different person, stranger to everyone, a seemingly far less approachable man introducing himself as 'Sudden Death' or 'Deimos'. Right now, standing, not sitting. Perusing the old notes pinned to the Eventide's corkboard, bringing with him an awkward, out of place aura. He didn't belong here. But he knew why Mictian had left, as did Rice, who had given this strange man his keys.

Some part of him was numb. He now had what could be termed a tentative friendship with one member of the clan and an apparent acquaintance with another. If several minutes of conversation counted towards the latter. The rest were mere faces he'd passed, most concealing themselves under code names (why hadn't he thought of doing that?) leaving him unsure of how to approach them.

Another part was confused. What on earth had happened? It wasn't just him, everyone else seemed equally blindsided. Something major, it must have been, this was too sudden and severe to be anything else. Circumstances leaving no choice? May not return? Blackmail, maybe, some threat against another since it seemed one against Mictian himself may not have been as effective.

Naming Deimos as a replacement was hardly clearer. True, he'd said he'd do what it took to protect the clan even if it meant playing bodyguard, only now he was bound to the same rules as them. Only one hint added to his note, that it was clear he saw himself as a stand in, a temporary replacement, not a permanent addition. And clan leadership obviously trusted him.

Still, it was with caution that James approached the noticeboard himself, skimming over the current logs and waiting to one side to note his own book keeping.

Motion. Sylvain's gaze swerved around with almost tangible weight attached to it, attaching to James with a stolid expression framing that completely analytic stare. He has the air of a soldier; but without a platoon. A lone warrior. The kind of personality that one might expect in the Morningtide - not here. And a hint of bitterness, perhaps at being tied down by the rules he swore to uphold. "You're James?" he asks after a moment of studying the man; but it's a mostly rhethorical question, apparently. A hand extends, proffering itself for the shaking. An overdue formal introduction. "I'm Sylvain Deimos."

He'd been recognised? James wracked his brain, attempting to remember if he'd actually given his name. He doubted he had, the act of avoiding attention and attempting to go unremembered was a long habit. Or did clan leadership have some dossier on members with photographs and personal details? Ahh... it had been a bar. He had a loose aquaintance with most of the publicans, might have been from there.

Memory searching didn't stop him from shaking the hand of his new... was 'boss' the right word? Now he too had a name to match the face, and confirmation that the mysterious poster contactee had been the one delivering them. At least some of them. "Yes, I am." There didn't seem much else to say. Questions were burning at him in his desire to know what was going on, but this Deimos was an unknown. What would be considered too much? Could he be trusted? Better to hold his tongue until he knew more.

A brief, knowing smile tugs at Sylvain's lips, as if a statement to the effect of 'Glad you ended up with the clan' or 'Didn't expect to see you here' were better left unsaid. The face was certainly recognised now that he saw him in front of him rather than in the clan membership files. "I presume you've read that I'm in charge of the Tide for a while. I hope that's all right with you," Sylvain tips his head in polite hint of a bow, taking a step back from the board to let the younger vampire fiddle with it. There were other things to say, but it could wait until James was done with whatever he'd come here for.

A cautious, "I can't see why it wouldn't be," is his responce, with a mental comment on how it wouldn't matter if he did. A slip of paper drawn from his pocket and consulted, a brief scrabble for a working pen, and his monetary details are quickly updated. Not that he'd had anything difficult to complicate the accounting as of yet.

Additions done, he stepped back from the board in case the other was still occupied with it. "I hope you had luck with the posters," he notes. Deimos had seemed quite intense about them. Either enough that he'd ended up here or having displayed them in his desire to assist.

"Unfortunately, not really," he answers. And then it becomes obvious - the man is nervous, twitch touching his right shoulder. "... I've never lead a clan before." Correction. "Sub-clan. Group." His jaw works in silence for a moment, glancing at James with curiosity. "Is there... anything specific I should be doing?" There's nothing feeble about the tone in which the question is asked, bizarre juxtaposition to its content, but it's still unmistakable that he'd appreciate any help he might get.

A slow blink. That was unexpected. Some part of him assumed that if leadership - well, the rest of the leadership and the one missing, and he had no clue how many people that actually was - had appointed Deimos then he'd have had some experience. A strange group currently victims of a vendetta seemed an odd place to get one's feet wet.

"Well, most of the Eventide seem pretty independent, from what I've seen? Not as if we need the same level of coordination Morningtide does. Um, I'm probably not the best to ask. I'm just a little fish here." The last bit is deadpan, a touch self mocking. It was true, he was one of the newest here and didn't really have a clue what most did. It wasn't as if these were stable times.

The hint of uncertainty he recognised. Not one of self confidence, the other seemed to have it in spades, but the simple: 'What am I meant to be doing, again?' - "I suppose you could ask Foamy, but..." A hand was waved at the angry letter that had been prominantly pinned at eye level, "I'm not sure he's the best resource, all things considered." True, he didn't know Foamy personally, but if he'd gotten demoted then he may not be the most reliable individual. Or that there were currents under the surface likely to muddy the waters.

"I'm not sure who would be the most knowledgable," he added apoligetically.

Was he to mention that he'd been asking to keep an eye on Foamy, or was that confidential? Presumably latter, despite his instinct having nearly torn that from him. Instead, he nods, much in a way one might acknowledge words thankingly. Contemplatively. Thoughtfully.

A near-hissed exhale escapes the retired Nachthexe a moment later and he shakes his head. "Mictian should have stayed here - I should be the one out there now," he says, flexing his fingers. "This is the mother of terrible ideas."

Okaaay... this mess was getting deeper and deeper. "That doesn't sound promising," he finds himself remarking before common sense reminds him he doesn't exactly know this vampire. Next words are more carefully chosen. "I don't know what is happening, so can't comment if you should be doing it. I'd be happier if Mictian hadn't vanished though."

That's right. Of course he wouldn't know. This fell firmly in the category of something that shouldn't be mentioned. Definitely not to Foamy. By proxy, best not to anyone else in the gekkonids, short of Rice herself. But frustration at the insanity of it was whittling away at his resolve to keep it to himself. His right hand, curled tightly to a fist, rose up to his lips, knuckle of his index finger pressing against the same.

Shackled. That's what he was.

"I don't fully grasp what's happening, either, James," he says, bringing his right hand back down, but resting it somewhat awkwardly against his right shoulder. For a moment, he wrestled with this newly acquired sense of secrecy, before honesty instead spills forth, protesting against its prior restraints.

"Mictian's going into Gehyra. I tried to tell him that if he wants to spy, it ought to be me in there. He brushed me off. Effectively, I don't know what he's planning to do in Gehyra, but he assured me it's important he go in, solely because he's Zyan's childe." As he speaks, a growing streak of rage seems to infect him; a patronising anger, like a parent to a child not heeding well-meant advice. "Fuck that. He doesn't even know magic."

Shock. Sheer, utter, shock. He did what?! And hang on, he was childe to the leader of Gehyra? A glaze of 'Days of Our Lives' would only make this mess more terrifying.

Mind snaps into gear after several delayed seconds, expression blanking, crushing down the emotions and insane stream of pointless questions. "Combination of that and feeling responsible for the rest of us," is all he can think of. Or reasons for everyone else. If he pushed himself so much normally... - we were speaking of Gehyra months ago and he stated he wasn't sure how they wanted or expected the Splinters of Dusk to respond to their actions. I put my foot in my mouth as usual, stupidly commented 'Have you asked them?' I'm really, really hoping he hasn't gone to do just that."

The answer could well be an unpleasant one.

"I don't know, James," Sylvain exhales audibly, expression darkening. "I imagine you wouldn't have to join Gehyra to ask them a couple of questions." He shakes his head dismissively.

His left arm wraps about him, side of his right arm's elbow resting against the back of his left hand, nail of his right hand's thumb tapping soundlessly against his lower lip. Silence. Then: "I don't belong here." He closes his eyes. "I admire your clan and its tenets, but I am a protector - not a gekkonid." Eyes opening again, he settles them on James.

James.

A soft sigh later, his right hand curves through the air as if to cast the prior conversation away, before coming to rest loosely against his other arm. "My apologies, I'm guessing you could have done without that burden. I just don't... deal well with being caged like this."

"I seem to be good at listening. It's what I do, I keep my head down and pay attention to the world." A pause. "There has to be some reason you were asked to do this." No matter how he flips it about in his mind he cannot figure out the pieces, never mind where they all fit. Didn't help that he's running off minimal information. Probably more than he should have though.

A hand waved at the board. "At least most of the cage for us is paperwork, not so bad. You'd get more of it though I suppose." Optimisim petering out, he can only offer honesty. "Most of it is uncertainty," now clearly referencing to the stiffling pressure he felt about the situation in general. "Fear and uncertainty stretch hours into eons. Which is probably the point of what Gehyra is doing to us." 'And so shouldn't be what gekkonids are doing to each other, testing limits be damned.'

"You're fish in a barrel, that's what you are," Sylvain remarks, bitterly. "I admire the tenacity of each and every one of you, but that is, effectively, all you are. Fish. In a barrel. Trapped in your own rules, for Gehyra to manipulate as they please. And if the city as a whole is at all capable of learning from them, then you'll have to address that problem." Saying 'You need a guardian angel, or several,' seemed redundant at this point. By all means, he wouldn't be so vehemently on their side if they were any less principled, so the conversation left him with a bad taste; he didn't honestly want to be pushed to the point to suggest they change, but that was what he'd just done, wasn't it?

"Fish in a barrel? Oh, I know. Believe me, I know." A bitter laugh. "Mictian discouraged me from joining months ago for just that reason. I did so eventually when it was clear I was going to destroy myself faster on my own than Gehyra would here." Tone indicates he doesn't wish to elaborate further on that topic. "But unless someone is willing to take out paid hits on all of Gehyra then responding is a touch difficult under the current rules, changing the rules may just change the situation into mass crispings, and while the Splinters might be experienced and skilled enough to go head to head with Gehyra, depending on numbers, it isn't as if we'd be willing to consign them to oblivion in return." He'd leave the clan the day such an action was enforced.

"Not sure we could even take down Zyan though. He's survived sunlight once already." A sigh. "I'm begining to think the best option might be to pack the clan up and head out of town. Let Zyan claim this particular city for his own."

Sylvain's face crinkles somewhat, a shake of the head leading up to the words: "From what I gather, Zyan doesn't care about this city. The Splinters of Dusk were all across Europe back in his day, that's his territory. I imagine he's possessive enough about the clan to hunt you down regardless where you go."

Assumptions upon assumptions. 'But, do I actually know? No. I got no responses to my Gehyran enquiries. None. Nothing. Frustratingly, it's as if they don't exist outside of the reality of the Splinters of Dusk, saving chance mentions.'

"Like I said, I should be out there," Sylvain echoes his earlier sentiments. "I've learnt some magic, I have that advantage, at least. I could be fashioning myself into Zyan's worst nightmare right now. Instead I'm here, stand-in for Mictian."

Well, so much for that idea. He shouldn't have been surprised, he knew it was his own instincts to flee coming out to play. "If you were out there, working your way into Gehyra, making yourself a threat to Zyan would be one of the last things you could do. It would actually be easier here when you don't need to conceal yourself from a paranoid vampire keeping an eye on you," James points out. "I'm assuming from your note that you are planning to drop the codex and leave as soon as you are able."

His jaw works silently for a moment, muscles shifting under that pale skin. "I wasn't actually thinking of..." No, wait. Make it clear what you're responding to. "Worming my way into Gehyra and becoming Zyan's worst nightmare were separate plans." Better. "And, as to your question about the codex, yes." He allows himself another moment of silence, blinking across it once, before giving a resolute gesture of his left hand, slicing it through the air in almost violent dismissal. "I can't adhere to it. I can't watch you suffer. Your codex is simply not compatible with justice."

A shrug. "Somehow, if it weren't for the sun I don't think most wouldn't consider that an issue. Apparently hasn't been in the past. But I really don't know what I'm talking about there, I haven't been around nearly as much as most of the others."

Fingers ran unconsciously over his left hand, tracing non-existant wounds. Matching holes front and back, and a ragged burn down past the wrist. Two bookends. "Hard to when you've only been dead a year, and barely glimpsed justice in any of that" The unspoken silence was of doubt whether it would grow to be many more. "I think it's reaching a stage where it is less about what is fair and more about survival. 'Join us or die' isn't exactly appealing. Got any suggestions short of somehow managing to drag the wrath of the entire city down on their heads?" He was fighting to keep a note of frustration out of his voice, the simple fact that even if they did fight, it tended to be helpful to have a proper target and goal in mind.

"It's not meant as criticism, James. I'm on your side for a reason, after all. But it's nothing I can subscribe myself to." He shakes his head, only to cross his arms properly. "Your clan? You're basically a group of monks. Abstinence from all forms of bloodlust is an admirable goal, but I haven't grown up like that. I aspire to a different kind of neutrality - one that allows retaliation and the protection of immediate loved ones."

It wasn't strictly true - none of the gekkonids fell into the category of those one of neutral minds would protect. He barely even knew the leadership that had given him their blessing to take over for Mictian for a while. No, this was a protective urge born out of moral perception only. A paladin. There wasn't much neutrality about him.

Chasing his own tail again, it seemed. As if this wasn't something he'd spent many a daylight hour thinking of. "Understood. I also understand why you'd rather be doing something practical and not just sitting about here. Being reactive instead of active means always being on the wrong foot. Especially when said reaction is a passive one."

Shoulders were leant back against the wall, slump reflecting the inner frustration. "I don't know, maybe Mictian will find something helpful. And hopefully his defence holds up, I'm assuming Zyan being his sire is the reason he thinks it would be safer for him to go. Not that that makes any sense to me, but I'm biased when it comes to sire-childe relationships."

"Safer?" Sylvain remarks, tone and expression one of surprise. A moment later, what might be the underlying assumption made clicks into place. "Not at all," he shakes his head slightly, letting those shoulders sag a touch. "On the contrary. Zyan forced the bloodline on him a few months ago. No, he just thinks he knows Zyan best - both out of past experience and due to that metaphysical bond."

A forced siring. Wonderful, this madcap tale got better and better. And if this was several months ago... "Given that a few months ago Mictian would have done everything in his power to get away from such a bond this whole thing is less than encouraging." Head thumped back against the wall. "Can we find which gekkonid broke a mirror and somehow dump all the bad luck at once?"

Sylvain nods slowly, in agreeance with the underlying, less metaphorical statement. He watches James' motions with an absent-minded curiosity. Maybe it would be all right, despite their pessimism. Maybe the madman Mictian d'Avarice really knew what he was doing. Admittedly that wasn't going to stop him from loathing Gehyra and wanting to actively do something against them - he'd have to find an opportunity to talk to his old friend again sometime, talk him out of supporting the clan. Surely there was some sense left in him? There had to be. He'd never given Sylvain the impression of being devoid of rationale.

"I suppose we can't do much short of wait and see," he voices the conclusion of his own inner thoughts, bringing the conversation back to its start, regarding James with a resolute expression, stolid, yet given the conversation up to this point, by implication friendly, even if it was no different from the one first exhibited that had seemed almost stand-off-ish.

What Deimos said was true. There wasn't anything any of them could do along that angle, not for the moment. "I presume this conversation is classed as private and I'm not to breathe a word of it that cannot be found in Radiance or the Eventide rooms?" he asked almost absently. Well, it wasn't as if he had anyone to say anything to. "And for now business as usual?"

Lips pulse against each other, paling from pressure as he mulls that statement over with a look of partial numbness. "That would be nice," he says, knowing he had no means to control the information flow from here. He hoped he hadn't jeopardised anything sharing his information with this one - but it was his mistake if he had. Secrecy was the last thing he was good at, unfortunately, it just didn't come naturally. Still too new at this. Focus, Sylvain, focus!

A nod. "I'll leave you to your studying, unless there is anything else you'd like me to do?" James felt a strong urge to tack the word 'sir' on the end, something about the way Deimos held himself in addition to being at least acting head of the Eventide.

A smile briefly disturbs the otherwise so solemn expression, accompanied by the shake of his head, before, respectful traded gaze later, he's busying himself with the Tide's history yet again.

[Dread]

Gehyra. A word, verbal manifestion of a monster. A whisper creeping up his spine.

The labyrinthine catacombs throbbed in his senses like dimly lit arteries of some massive creature, pulsing to his own heart-beat. Without that his lungs had ceased functioning, he felt like he was suffocating, drowning. Mictian's shoulders rolled in lazy motions across the stone floor, his arms sweeping across those broken tiles. Shards of glass lay scattered not far away, glistening with the last remnants of the poison.

'Oh Rice, oh Silhouette, my Splinter, forgive me.'

Of course it wouldn't kill him.

He felt overwhelmed by a sense of disorientation as back when he had been new to unlife and at least as weak. The toxin ran through his blood like a lazy, liquid fire, lapping at his senses, brutally trying to reduce him down to the state of an animal.

'No.'

A dull series of sounds invaded his peripheral senses. Footsteps. Words - clearer than his conscious mind felt they should be given the circumstance, as if unaffected by the distortion of the world at whim of the poison in his veins - followed a moment of silence, carried by amusement, fondness and more than a hint of mockery: "Oh, Michael, you're far too well-behaved."

Eyes struggled up against fluttering eyelids and pierced a gaze at Zyan.

"No, of course I wouldn't have shown up if you hadn't," Zerachiel reacts to the stare, casual and jovial in mannerism, forgiving, almost apologetic. The sound of glass scraping across that broken floor grated through Mictian's synapses as Zyan cleared the immediate space around him.

The gekkonid's face distorted, eyes squeezing shut, display of brief inner struggle. Flimsy, breathy, a single syllable surfaced: "...what...?"

"It'll wear off to the point where you can speak properly in a moment," Zyan assures, still much as if speaking about the weather. "But to answer your question, it's a power inhibitor. To be perfectly honest you're more guinea pig for it than that I need you any more at my mercy, my childe, but I'll admit you have me curious." A pause, quaint little smile settling on the Gehyran Altachra's face. "Isn't Telepathy illegal for Shards to get?"

Knowing too much, as usual. Mictian twisted himself from his back onto his belly, the motion having about as much grace as a fish flopping about uselessly outside water. Slap. His arms rest against the tiles, half supporting a trembling body. That black, shoulder-length hair spilt down in tangles. 'I will not yield.'

Wrapped in silence, Zyan shifts into a crouch, balancing on his toes in those boots, arms rested across his thighs.

The worst of it was fading. Motor control was there, but choppy. His breath seemed accordingly erratic, slave to the whim of his lungs.

"Michael, tell me. What did you want to speak to me about?" Zyan asked, in a way suggesting that he already knew the answer. "This is an awful lot of effort to go through just to tell me to fuck off and die in a fire, wouldn't you say?"

He wanted to laugh. It was such a perfectly apt mirror of his inner rage that he was offended to be pegged so well, but simultaneously darkly tickled. "...want... into Gehyra," a jittery breath forced from the gekkonid, both hands curling to fists. And what a lie. It was the last thing he wanted, but it had to be done.

"Oh, Michael, please, my mothering instinct won't ever bypass my common sense. What are you hoping to break?"

A hiss, shivering with exertion. "...your... smug expression."

Of course it was a venomous retort - but this was Mictian, there was bound to be a shred of truth to it. Watching Mictian still struggle to collect himself from that suffocating, liquid magic lethargically curling through his veins, Zyan remained silent, using the moment for contemplation. Then: "Explain."

'Fuck you, Zyan. This would be easier if you hadn't decided to overclock on paranoia and reduced me to this state,' Mictian found himself thinking, rage slamming the thought through his mental landscape with nearly enough force to invoke physical momentum. Inhale. Exhale. "The gekkonids," he began, trying to time his sentence in a way that would make it at least sound less broken apart by that infernal weakness. "Aren't as weak." Another pause, glowering up at the Gehyran. "As you think."

"A challenge?" Zyan echoed the sentiment, a light smile playing on his face, head canting. A dark chuckle followed. "You deliver yourself unto Gehyra and want to prove you can withstand what we throw at you? Is that about accurate?"

His left hand uncurled, fingertips raking across the ground, testament to that weakness as he drew himself into a more steady posture... and nodded.

A subtle jolt touched Zyan's shoulders, expression lighting up both with a myriad of emotions. He wanted to throw those words back at Mictian: 'You are not like your clan. You are my childe. I've chosen you for a reason, and it's not because you represent the average.' But here was an opportunity. Zyan had seen what had happened to the Eventide since Mictian had taken it over, that influx. Effectively personal friends - and if they were chosen by Mictian, potentially Gehyran. Opportunity. A breath hissed from him. If Mictian's time in Gehyra won him over, and Zyan knew how to play him...

But not now.

'No, you sniveling little worm, you admirable little trouble-causer. I'm giving you nothing. I'll bleed you dry. Just like I bled Spinner dry.'

The Altachra extended a hand, brushing the back of it across Mictian's face in a gesture that would be soothing given any other context.

"Welcome home, my childe."

[Dread]

[#nightchilder, 7th March 2010; participants: Foamy and Mictian (as Deimos)]

Foamy's new leader had called him to Haddock and 67th. New leader. The man had come with Mictian's blessing, so the chances of him being less of a twat seemed miniscule - but he still had the title of Eventide leader. A title that should by rights reside with Foamy, punted from his leadership position as second-in-command as he had been not long ago. Demoted, without even a replacement, salt in the wound.

He entered the bank.

Night Shard. He'd been a Night Shard, and now this newbie to gekkonid lifestyle - if not to the city and vampire life - was to ascend past him and become an Eclipsed? On the other hand, it proved that Mictian had no further trust for any other Shard, either, which softened the blow. Had one of the new recruits...

Oh dear god. It's a prettyboy. With a stick up his ass, no doubt.

Sylvain swerved his gaze, it catching a hold of Foamy and anchoring on his face. "Sir, thank you for coming," the Eclipsed Shard - the replacement Eclipsed Shard, the fraudster, moreso than Mictian had been - closed his eyes and tipped his head in hint of a bow. "I appreciate it." Well, at least he's polite.

Actually, double-take. What had he said? Mildly stumped, yet wary, Foamy thinks: '"Sir"...? About time somebody round here showed me some respect.' Still unsure what to make of the character before him, he responds: "You are welcome. A little small change to help you on your way?"

"I just passed a transfer to the lady Rice," Sylvain informs, his hands kneading into each other, shoulders touched by a rolling motion. "It's cut deeply into what Mictian gave me for safe-keeping. Given my position in the clan, with obligation to have a certain degree of liquidity, I don't feel entirely comfortable with the state of my account. I imagine you could help me?"

"Well I'm sure we can help each other, you seem to know more about Mict's disappearance than I do... care to enlighten me?"

A trade of favours? Sylvain seems slightly taken aback by the change of subject. Used to a stricter adherence to protocol, despite his own breaking thereof not long ago, the question seems out of place, despite being entirely justified.

And this was Foamy. 'Keep an eye on him.' Dangerous, perhaps. A trouble-causer? What could he say without jeopardising Mictian's mission, whatever it was, in its detail? How could he wield the truth in a way to determine how much was to Mictian's paranoia?

"I'm not sure there's much I can tell you," Sylvain begins, cautiously. "I don't know that much, myself, ironically." It was true. "What is it you know? I'll try to supply what further information I can."

Foamy suspects Deimos is holding back but calmly says: "All I know is that Mict' has vanished. I wouldn't be surprised if he crawled off to those Gehyran scum; I never did trust him."

That seemed to come all too readily. Definitely a trouble-causer. But it might also just be all attitude. He cants his head, curiosity layered across his demeanour. "He told me to keep an eye on you," he says, casually, almost quizzically. "What caused the bad blood between you?" He could play neutral outsider. Effectively, it's what he was - if Foamy turned out more trustworthy than Mictian, then allegiances would shift accordingly, but he thought himself a better judge of character than that it would end up being that fickle.

"He has disappeared before - and when he comes back, he stirs up trouble in the clan; tricking his way back to head of the Eventide, then trying to force me out over a bit of loose change."

"Tricking?" Sylvain echoes, shifting himself to lean with his left shoulder against the wall beside the cash machine they're hogging. Since it's one of five and the others aren't in use at the moment, he's in no hurry. Foamy can take his time - it's not like he'd requested a specific sum yet. It could wait. This conversation was far more interesting.

Sensing Deimos wasn't going to give further information and might not even have any, Foamy says: "Since we are in the bank, I assume you still want some coins?"

He wasn't taking the bait. Either that meant he'd figured out where the conversation was heading, namely into a light interrogation, or he'd simply hit a nerve. Either way, there was no opportunity to continue where he'd lost grip on the conversation. "My apologies," he says, simply. "The workings of the clan are just new to me." Said, he tips his head into a nod of confirmation. "Do you have a quarter million or thereabouts for me? It's what I gave m'lady Rice."

Foamy thinks: 'Quarter of a million, quite a sum,' but he is determined not to give that impression. Casually, he replies: "Is that all? Okay, that's no problem."

"Thank you, Foamy. That makes you officially my lifesaver," Sylvain responds, his solemn demeanour briefly broken by a smile, before returning to the professional air. Said, he steps away from the machine and turns respectfully, casting his gaze at the far wall instead, letting Foamy withdraw the sum without having to fear getting his password stolen.

It doesn't take long for the money to be withdrawn. With the speed of experience, the amount is counted, then passed to Deimos. Throughout, he deems speed essential. It might not be a huge sum as per Foamy's standards, but having it stolen would be embarrassing.

Counted in turn, Sylvain moves back to the machine, nodding in non-verbal thanks for a moment, keeping it short. Deftly, those fingers play across the buttons, and an instant later the money vanishes back into the depths of the machine it had come from. A quaint process, really. It hadn't really gone anywhere at all, physically, had it? Exhaling, Deimos twists himself around again, facing Foamy. "Thank you, Sir. Pleasure working with you so far."

"You are most welcome," Foamy replies, sensing he may have bought a new friend in the city.

"Dismissed," Deimos nods to Foamy, straightening and gesturing respectfully but unambiguously to the door. There'd be other opportunities to ask this one questions, no doubt. So far, so good.

The transaction over, it is clear Deimos wants to be away from the bank - and since Foamy doesn't want to hang around too much longer, either, he exits, bidding his potential friend good day.

[Dread]

[#nightchilder, 21st February 2010; participants: Hit and Mictian (also as Zerachiel)]

Willow and 85th, adjacent to a bank though it might be, was a quaint location to be called to be the Altachra. On the other hand, he'd mentioned on several occasions that he didn't want to overuse The Belly Of The Whale, for anti-tracking purposes. So, presumably, that was the reason.

The block gives 'abandoned' a new feel though. It's a bit as if a bomb's struck the formerly four-storey building - perhaps half-finished deconstruction work? It's not neat enough for construction, anyway. Steel lining juts out from several spots, naked, into the night. The place is almost all concrete, with both a rather boring, straight staircase leading up to the second floor, as well as the rusty skeleton of what may or may not be a fire escape offering similar traction. Of course, the more solid of the choices would be former. Quite literally.

Up between a make-shift roof - a patchwork of sheets, probably assembled by some unfortunate homeless sometime in the past, before they were picked off by vampires - a small fire flickers up in the remnants of a room. Moonlight shines in past the drapes and into the worn four walls; the doorframe, long since devoid of wood, is its only reliable opening, though, and just so happens to be at the end of the aforementioned staircase.

Rising up to the room yields, aside from the clearer flicker of that small fire, Zerachiel's scrawny form, crouched near the same, half covering another, as if he were whispering into some stranger's ear.

Two males, that olfactory organ enlighted with the scent. Narrowing her gaze upon the two, sinewy neck bent at an awkard angle, as head canted to the side in slow form. Onyx orbs grazing across the strange visage before her, taking it in, processing it, and finding herself to be quite disappointed.

She had thought that things had been resolved between herself and Zyan, that he had seen the errors of his ways and would no longer be a threat to the mission of Gehyra. Yet, if her eyes did not deceive her, here he crouched beside the form of one very serious threat, Mictian - who, if she was not mistaken, had been her very own counter-part in the Splinters of Dusk.

Here he was, whispering into the ear of one who had given them hope, had given them a fighting chance. And she, she was not pleased.

"Do my eyes deceive me dear Zyan?" Words passed crimson tiers with a soft svelt tone, clearly restrained by any who would have spoken to know her by character of person. She stepped forward, approaching the pair... once, twice, thrice, those heels struck unforgiving against the ground below.

An abrupt yanking motion unravels what is nearly a sphere in its silhouette, and Zyan's torso's twisted to face the Sinichron, a mix of welcoming smile and oddly triumphant smirk distorting his face, left hand curled into Mictian's hair, pulling the crouched man's head back to bear his neck quite symbolically. Zyan's in half-crouch, himself, features painted by the flickering of the small fire not far away.

"Hit," he greets, his voice of a deep, lush darkness that he otherwise rarely indulges in. "I'm glad you could come - Andriel isn't so fortunate, he got wrapped up." For a bizarre moment, that might sound to paranoid ears like a threat of 'you'll be next', but it's quickly dispelled. "Oh, do tell me - have you met Michael?" the Altachra asks, even while he lets a fingertip play across that taut neck in the groove of the carotid artery.

Meanwhile, 'Michael' looks undeniably tense, a certain sub-visible shiver inherit to his entire body, shoulders pushed back, eyes partly closed, staring across at Hit as if she were some kind of nightmare incarnate... or maybe the restrained terror that refuses to bleed into motion, be it as struggling or fight, is reserved for the one holding him.

The darkness in his voice wrapped about her as that of a satin lover, coating her from head to toe in a coaxing manner, as if willing away her paranoia. Willing her to believe him - and it worked, for the most part at least, as she drew nearer to him. The brush of his voice sending a silver shiver through her spine.

"Michael..." She repeated the name, fingers aching to reach forward and stroke that vessel of life blood herself, to brush her tongue along it, to partake of that which lay within. She swallowed hard, biting back the unfamiliar emotions coiling through her form. "If only I had my glove... I could give you a proper greeting."

There's a slight shift in Mictian's posture, abrupt to start and end, but in itself fairly smooth, shoulders shifting to the side ever so slightly as he's addressed by the Sinichron. His heartbeat, erratic, undead though it may be, is a slight bit elevated in rate.

Zyan loops his right arm around Mictian's torso, embracing him lightly. "Michael," he remarks, to the gekkonid, in tone of light scolding, but doesn't further elaborate on it, instead shifting his attention back to Hit, still looking so very comfortable with the situation.

"Michael wants to join us," Zyan chuckles darkly, flat of his hand tapping against Mictian's midsection in condescending pat. His tone darkens, but without losing its joviality entirely: "Naturally with ulterior motives." Abruptly, he lets go of the gekkonid, pushing him forward, making him break the half-fall with his arms. "Be a darling and tell her why you're here, Michael?"

A slow, deliberate huffing escapes Mictian, still on all fours, a submissive posture if there ever was one - were one not looking at his eyes, a bright, lively fire dancing in them. For a moment, he allows himself the luxury of silence, to find out what precisely to speak; then: "You think we're weak, do you? I'm here to prove you wrong."

"Aye-kay-aye he's not here to stay, but he's looking forward to our collective attention," Zyan summarises, following up with a purr. "I must say, I do like that. The man doesn't lie about where his allegiances lie." Then, as if in after-thought, deliberate barb at Mictian: "Oh, he does make me such a proud sire."

The rise of his heartbeat, causing tongue to roll over that sharp incisor beneath pursed lips. She would not show weakness. She would not falter, not again. Not after last time. As he was flung forward, a visible flinch across her features as she resisted the urge to step back. Instead she held her place, her gaze following him slowly.

The flash of imagery in her eyes, Mictian laying in such a posture in the place of Siroccostorm upon her altar, bladed gloves trailing over that beautiful flesh, staining creamy white with stark red flood. Silently she shook away the thought, chiding herself for allowing mind to wander.

Those lips curled upwards, in a smirk quite sadistic and pleased as mirth danced across orbs of onyx chill. "Quite the interesting childe you have there, Zyan. Shall we put him to the test then? Show him how things truly are?" She knelt down before him, sweeping back those long skirts as knees were bent to the side. Nails danced across his cheek, trapezing across flesh to cup his chin, drawing it upwards to face her squarely in the eyes. "Open his eyes to the truth."

It's Mictian that answers, almost immediately, teeth gritting and jaw setting. "Bring it," he prompts, balling his hands to fists, a bitter, resentful expression cast up at Hit. No, he's doing nothing to hide that he's here for a purpose other than to serve. But he is here - and that voluntarily, by the looks of things.

Zyan casually slides from his half-crouch to a stand, light smirk twisting his lips. "By all means," he confirms Hit's implied request, allowing Mictian's statement to go unchallenged.

A low chuckle, darker than one might have thought to emanate from the woman was her response to his reply. Accompanied of course by the driving of those manicured nails into his skin. No longer cupping his chin, instead grasping it with an unforgiving pressure. He would not forget this.

"And in what measure, pray tell, Michael, do you intend to serve? Or are you here because you simply cannot resist the blood call of your master? That you could not break the bonds that hold you hostage, unable to choose for yourself? I broke my own... I have no master. Can you say the same, Michael?"

Slowly she began to rise, half dragging him up in the process, before changing her mind and dropping her hold on him, letting him fall against the floor once more, where he belonged. She fought the urge to strike him in the face with her boot.

As the nails dig into his skin, his face reflexively adopts a grimace, eyes crinkling, his posture spreading itself out slightly, adopting a firmer anchoring to the ground, as to minimise potential vectors of tipping or falling.

And then he's being dragged up, only to be dropped, breaking his fall accordingly and with ease, held alert as he had been. Her barbs, of course, would have done epic damage before his blindness - now they had a transparency that gave him no cause to even flinch. He lets his eyes drift closed.

"Zyan's bloodline has never affected my actions," Mictian states, simply, calmly and sincerely in tone, though one who knew him would know the statement to be factually incorrect; his emotions had been affected, as already implied by that choice of words, and they in turn had affected several actions. It was that level of indirection that passed by without being factored into that response - but it was certainly no conscious lie.

He rests with his eyes closed for a moment, before letting his lips twitch to brief smirk. "Have you ever been extensively blinded by holy water?" he asks, a burning urge to wear his pride openly within him.

"You did not answer my question." This time she did not hesitate, a swift, sure strike against his midsection. "And yet, in what you did speak you spoke a lie did you not? Have you not attempted to break the bond, Michael? Also, you neglected my first question. In what manner do you think to serve, or spend your time with us?"

What could she do to him... - what would break through that barrier? She pondered inwardly, her gaze resting upon the eyes of Zyan, if any would be named her leader, it would be he. And she would not disrespect him, not after the thin ice she had landed herself upon last time. Frankly, she had been surprised to leave intact, if leave at all. What had Zyan intended for him? Was he to become a Dexter? Was she to take him as protégé within her very own Sinister tide?

His body is twisted to the side slightly by the strike, that face twisting to grimace once more, though it dissipates quickly, him holding himself remarkably still.

The moment passes.

A soft huff later, enough normality has returned to Mictian's breathing to allow for speech. "Is she always this pretentious?" Mictian asks, casually, throwing the question back at Zyan, a biting venom in his tone. He wasn't here to be disrespectful by any means, but if he was going to establish himself as a Gehyran pet or footmat, then he might as well make it quite clear that he was - consciously - unafraid; and unwilling to take respectless garbage, such as accusations of lying.

Zyan's response is a curt kick at the inside of Mictian's left knee, knocking it out from under him enough that his balance is torn from him, forcing the young Gehyran recruit to restablish it with some effort. "Respect," Zyan says, with a voice allowing very little leeway, a chilling tone.

"Only if it's mutual, or over my dead body," Mictian hisses through clenched teeth.

"Dead body? We can oblige, Michael, we most certainly can oblige," Zyan remarks, a brow arched, before he shifts his gaze to Hit to take in her opinion, himself quite flexible either way.

Only if it's mutual...? Right. "Well, I certainly don't see Zyan arguing, and he's all the mutual I need." Those lips curled further, a shiver running down her spine as the damage inflicted upon Mictian displayed itself. This, this was the Zyan she... well, that she had come here for, that she had changed because of, for whom she had become who she now was.

Her gaze met his as the implied question, her words echoing his sentiment. "Oh, we most certainly could, indeed. However, you wouldn't happen to have a blade on you, would you? He seems so unwilling to cooperate and I didn't bring my glove... - had I known we would have company I would have come better prepared, darling." Hand brushed over the other, visibly aching for the embrace of her glove upon wanton flesh.

"Would you like to cooperate, or would you like us to teach you that as well, Michael?" Heel rose from the ground, settling upon his mid-lower back with a light, though increasing pressure.

"No," Zyan shakes his head slightly. "But," he announces, raising his left hand's index finger for a moment, before twisting himself around and grabbing a hold of one of the rusty, thick wires of metal. A firm twist of the wrist later and a snap indicates he's detached it from the wall in question; before turning back to face Hit and offering it to her, blunt end first. The part where it snapped off has a crude, lazily serrated edge now, surface not smooth on either side. "If you don't fancy fingernails, m'lady," he offers. "Or we could, of course, head somewhere more comfortable from here."

Meanwhile, Mictian's spine curves down from the heel, if only slightly, a hissed exhale escaping him. "I don't see me fighting you, do you?" he retorts. "I just don't fancy your tone and aspire to return it in kind."

[...]

[Dread]

[#nightchilder, 12th, 13th and 14th of March 2010; participants: Mictian (also as Zyan) and James Reid]

The Dark Shard's light slumber is abruptly disturbed by the barest touch against his scalp, like a large insect settling down between parted hair - and before instinct might bring up a hand to swat the offending creature away, the true source becomes apparent, strands of hair protesting as an elbow grinds down against his spine, attached hand gripping his hair and pulling his head up from its pillow. An equally firm grip locks about his right wrist, though doing nothing of note with it yet. Someone's knee is on the mattress beside him, holding his assailant's weight; the other is suspended somewhere behind the small of his back.

A million questions, and then one more: Swirls of what seems a deeper darkness, like a thick, black mist, hang by the door, leaving of the occupant only vaguest outlines, and at the moment two cyan eyes stabbing a surreal stare toward James, gone an instant later, but spattered against his sight like retinal burn, dragging two lines of colour through the room with the motion of his eyes.

One moment he is sleeping, dreaming, the next eyes snapping open abruptly. A sudden jolt as if tumbling out of a nightmare. While aware, he isn't quite awake, prepared to wait the few seconds it takes for his heart to still and his emotions to fade and to banish those lingering sensations.

Said obliviousness rips free the instant he realises that while this is showing all the signs of a nightmare, he's no longer asleep.

Consciousness barely gets a chance to intrude before he bucks and twists, no idea what that weight on him is but wanting it off now, desperate to make himself for off the bed and find he's just managed to wind himself in the sheets and can laugh at himself. It lasts barely longer than it took to awaken. Pinned. He's well and truly stuck. Body goes limp, unresisting, no point fighting until he knows what is there although that is instinct more than reasoning. Eyes flick frantically about as he searches for a person, an explanation, an escape.

With the grip on his hair forcing him to face away from whoever has him trapped like this, other clues will have to do. (Un)fortunately, one is delivered to him not much later - in the form of a subtly distorted but entirely recognisable voice stabbing into his conscious mind with what is almost a sneering: "James. Long time no see." Speaking past something. If the situation is any indicator, probably a blade - and the last time Mictian, him, and a blade were in the same room was most certainly still a vibrant memory, and that had been on friendly terms. The tone now doesn't suit him at all, not in the least.

The words seemed to snake themselves straight past his ears and deep into his mind, sidestepping the parts that were occupied with instinct and panic and heading for the rational bits. Well, more rational bits. He was a touch preoccupied at the moment.

"Mictian?" he says, a touch shakily. There was some faint possibility this was just a good mimic... one who would then laugh at him, but that wasn't much of a concern. Okay, almost certainly deluding himself. Right, stop panicking, that wasn't going to help. Not as if you can run. Really, really wanting to right now, mind, but being able to move a grand total of feet and sort of one arm isn't the best for fleeing. Especially when one's body and head are the bits pinned. And he wasn't in the habit of keeping a scroll of displacement in his pajama pockets. Yet.

Worse, the conversation with Deimos had given him an idea of just where Mictian had gone... He gulped.

The grip on James' head pulls it further back, until the knuckles of Mictian's left hand rest against his own collar bone. The grip on James' right arm relents, nimble fingers flitting through the air as a blur in James' peripheral vision. A moment later, the cool of what is definitely a blade rests against his neck, even as Mictian's face becomes more visible, peering past James' right shoulder with a look of cold curiosity. "Are you going to raise a fuss, gekkonid, or remember your codex?" he asks, almost conversationally, dragging the nail of his thumb up across the Shard's carotid artery uncomfortably, blade tracing along his skin accordingly, but itself not damaging skin, just grazing across it.

His head yanked up and back, throat bared as if for some ritual sacrifice... correlations he didn't need right now, thank you very much mind. James flicks wide eyes about, straining to see the figure looming behind his shoulder. By this point he's not particularly trying to conceal fear and focusing far, far more on not letting it overwhelm him. A panic attack is possibly the worst thing to have in this situation.

As he feels the blade against his neck he freezes. This was so similar to before and yet so different. Remember the codex? The comparison seems apt. Although last time Mictian was here he hadn't been dragged from sleep, wrenched back and had a sharp knife, or presumably sharp, held at the most important blood vessel in his body. Sever it and he'd bleed out in minutes.

'...and my blood to whoever wishes to spill it.'

Voice almost as far as it is possible to get from steady, he still managed to beat down instinct long enough to echo former words: "Go ahead." Even if he had a feeling he'd regret that almost immediately.

"Oh, I will," that fresh Gehyran promises, and a moment later, the edge of that blade traces up, crossing the edge of James' jaw, but leaving the skin intact still. The upward rise is hardly soothing, though, especially not where the knife comes to rest - side-on, just under the man's left eyelid, hovering threateningly without much pressure against that soft skin, resting for a moment as if waiting for some kind of reaction out of the Shard.

The knife is barely skimming, not even harming, and yet he can't help thinking it's leaving a trail of cold behind it, dispersing slowly across his skin. And then it stops. He wants it to stay frozen and move all at once, to go away and not continue further. Thoughts of begging for such enter his mind but... he's not quite sure how, higher reasoning is down having a cup of tea with his subconscious, but said subconscious is relaying that such a thing would be bad. Especially when nothing had happened. Yet. It was just a curtain of near paralysing fear rising.

Body twitched and tensed as if he was going to make a break for it but settled almost immediately. The whole time his head staying very, very still.

The edge of Mictian's index finger traces across that eyelid, motion almost soothing, lethargic, light, before abruptly clasping back down against that blade, brief moment of tension the only warning the Shard gets. A moment later the orientation of the blade has changed, sharp tip touching where the edge had been a moment ago. An instant later, the world distorts in a short-lived firework of colours, forms exploding and losing their coherence, visual stimuli of that eye replaced with another sensation entirely: A hot, vicious burst of agony lances through that eyeball, as if splitting it in two and driving itself further still, through to the back of his head, subjective though both may be, with the blade instead slid under the eye, splitting only that lower lid.

His mind was playing catch up, uncertain why head had just flinched until the point of the knife was turned inwards, eyes reporting motion approaching until one went offline suddenly, brain left viewing the images as if from a distance, uncaring, until the world crashed in and let James know exactly what had happened in excruciating detail.

Colours burst across his mind as that eye stops sending, whether for a few moments or longer he isn't sure and doesn't care, that fits very firmly into the category of 'to deal with later'. Instead, he screams, a cry as his head thrashes back, fading to a whimper. The uncontrolled motion hasn't done his injury any favours. Ragged, harsh breathing, near hyperventilating is accompanied by his eye watering flowing angrily down to injured flesh in a vain attempt to remove the foreign body as they would a bit of fluff caught in that sensitive area.

Hands clench into bedding tight enough to make his fingers start to numb. No attention is paid to them. None can be, everything he has is being focused on holding himself still, not thrashing, not letting that blade savage him further, not worsening the injury. Even when he knows damned well that knife, the person holding it, is going to keep wielding wounding; indeed, those parts of his mind are in agreement. He can't flee. That would irritate them, and you don't irritate the person who has you helpless.

It's probably a good thing he's currently beyond rational thought, or else he'd be frantically clawing his way loose if he could and be out of the city bounds by midnight. If he made it, of course, which he wouldn't. Not before they'd catch him.

Whether out of act of mercy or simply as not to grant him the sweet release of embracing unconsciousness, the blade plucked out from the membranes and few fibres parted, in equally abrupt motion, though that does nothing, absolutely nothing to allow the pain to abate. It only means the blade's perfectly free to do damage to the other eye, too, or whatever other part of his body he felt like mangling.

Except apparently that's not what's going to happen. Instead, with the agony of his eye left to spread as a veil of dull agony through his head, the grip on his hair relents, letting James fall forward. There's no blade to fall onto, it's been moved - no reason to avoid the soft surface below, really.

The Gehyran shifts, pushing weight into both knees now, crouching near the edge of the bed just beside James, glancing down at that collapsed shape with an analytic glance, far removed from the caring, supportive demeanour that James had come to like in him. It's like someone's thrown a switch in his friend's head, or replaced him with a look-alike entirely.

A choked gasp accompanied the withdrawal, adding a fresh tip to the waves of pain, the whole left side of his face throbbing and driving back into his skull until the bones left they were weeping. He couldn't accurately describe the sensation. He had nothing to compare it to.

Abruptly the hand wrenching his head up and back vanishes, leaving him to fall forward and a sharply gasped breath as his face strikes the pillow and jars, the thin trickle of blood now slowly being wicked into the fabric. He so badly want to curl up and hide, flee and shelter somewhere safe, but he can't and doesn't have anywhere to go. They came in here, after all, where is is - was - safe.

Weight shifting and the mattress with it drag his mind out of... well, his mind, back to the world of his senses. For a moment nothing happens. With a shudder James lets go of the bedclothes clenched in white knuckles, manages to wedge it and his elbow under his chest and partially raise his upper body, turning his head gingerly to face Mictian. The unknown amplified everything, made it worse, he felt he needed to see, to try and put the pieces together and work out what was happening and why he thought a friend would act this way. Or confirm.

Nothing. Nothing in Mictian's demeanour grants a clue. All there is to him is a demeanour devoid of sympathy, delicate fingers of his right hand curled about the knife as if perhaps he cherished that tool more than James, all warmth as if surgically removed. At least he's not smirking, or something equally contrived - but the face is apathetic, dismissive at most. "Well, gekkonid," he says, bringing his other hand up lazily to the knife, briefly letting his gaze toy with the same, as if he had the luxury of being absent-minded, as if there were no risk of his victim suddenly fleeing. "Let's try something else." Tip of index, middle finger and thumb grasp that bloodied, moistened blade, right hand releasing the knife; and a moment later James finds the hilt of it proffered to him several inches removed from his face, and a stern, curt voice commands: "Take it."

The address cuts him almost as badly as the knife had. The whole situation seems... wrong. Disconcerting. He'd almost be tempted to call it a dream if his eyesocket wasn't making it exceptionally clear that yes, he is awake and yes, this is probably going to be just as bad as he dreads. Why wouldn't it be? All his previous measures of scale had just been sent flying off the tallest building in the city.

The weapon approaching him once more was expected. The approach being of the hilt, being told, no ordered to take it was not. Even more alarming for that.

He forced his body upwards, knee sliding against chest and up until half kneeling, ignoring the urge to curl into a foetal position, ignoring the following urge to take advantage of the release and make a dive for the door. What was he going to do, run down the street in fuzzy bunny pajamas?
Gingerly fingers close about the handle of the knife, apprehension in every motion. If he'd still been human he'd been slipping towards shock about now. James wasn't sure at the moment if it was fortunate or not vampires had a greater resilience.

The moment passes and the blade is his. It's a test, of course, it has to be. A gekkonid doesn't attack others for any reasons. This isn't meant for his defence. That leaves only one other option, really - a thought he's had before, back in that more amicable scene, with his hand wrapped about Mictian's wrist. Back when he'd been granted control as a gift - not as a curse. What was Mictian expecting of him? Was he supposed to mirror what had just happened with his other eye, or would any flavour of self-damaging do?

"Use it," that familiar voice twists into a near-hiss, the former Eclipsed Shard's eyes narrowing as if there were some deeper threat behind that command. Death? Certainly that was the only possible thing undeniably worse than the situation so far, permanent as it was. PinkGoth2, PoisonIvy... and now James Reid? Those past deaths seemed far more tangible now.

There was only one thing capable of frightening him worse than he currently was, and he was keenly aware that the vampire before him was able to invoke it. Sunlight. Hours still to dawn, but that left hours to ensure that he could not lift a finger to save himself.

Not that he could not. He'd been asked to remember the codex. A threat, one he could guess the result of. And perhaps a warning. Gehyra weren't trying to destroy the gekkonids or he'd be out in the open already. And even if Mictian was doing more than what Deimos had suggested...

If he lost it, completely lost it, he'd act a cornered animal. Was too close already. Remembered it had happened seeking Stamina and how he'd kicked and bit and clawed at those holding him down, well beyond reason. He couldn't do that, couldn't let himself do that, they'd destroy him for that and it looked like they were so close already and the very thought was combining with the pain and sending him skittering too close to the edge.

Focus! Told to use it. Couldn't use it on another. That meant himself. Which wouldn't... wait. Knife slowly transferred to his left hand, the weaker one. Good. Gripped firmly and brought near the right. Probably looked like he was going to skim a line down the back of his arm or something. Come on, he could do it. He had to. To prove he could. Wasn't that what was being demanded?

The fingers of his right hand crooked and tensed oddly, wrist flipped over as the point of the knife came down, moving in diagonally and backwards so the tip jabbed in some three fingerwidths from the base of his thumb. Right beside the two bundles of tendons pulled taught and up from the skin by the twisting of that hand. The knife dipped low, pivoted at the handle end and drew back, the tip travelling up and under those tendons, cleanly slicing most and badly nicking the rest. All in one swift motion before he could think or flinch or reconsider his actions.

As cuts go it was small, barely a few centimeters deep and only slightly longer. The horrible snapping sound, though, suggested it was more. He yelped at the odd sensations cascading afterwards. Crooked fingers immediately went limp and wrist flopped lifelessly. He'd severed every major tendon leading to that hand, rendered the thing useless for at least a few nights.

It seemed strange that deliberately weakening himself, reducing his ability to resist, would be helpful. James took a moment to close his eyes, the currently working one at least - the other was still unresponsive - and breathe before looking back up and matching that gaze, even as his body shook.

Blood spilt from that fresh wound, trickling lazily from the gash. And something disturbs that perfectly crafted exterior, a twitch of those features, muscles in Mictian's jaw shifting visibly. Lips pale, pressing together, even as he casts his gaze aside, avoiding the stare from the gekkonid for a moment, looking contemplative, before throwing his gaze almost violently across to the shadows. "Zyan, what the hell do you want, this one's fine if you ask me." There's a dismissive arrogance in that tone, his nose skewly wrinkled; and it certainly doesn't acknowledge James' presence, but it's a change, if nothing else.

The shadows abruptly recede, almost as if popping out of existence, revealing the crouched, now far more tangible form of Zerachiel, cyan eyes narrowed, near-skeletal physique doing nothing to give him a less surreal air. "Giving up so soon, protégé?" Zyan asks, rising to a stand.

"He's a young one. How much experience do you think he has?" Mictian asks, tilting his head back slightly, tone conversational, a brow arched, gaze rolling about the ceiling in exasperation. "I think this is phenomenal given his age. I think it's phenomenal given his time in the gekkonids so far."

"Phenomenal," Zyan echoes, lips drawn back from his teeth, revealing his incisors exaggeratedly, giving him a considerably more feral appearance. His right hand swerves through the air in dismissive gesture. "Mictian, we've had this, real life doesn't care how new someone is. Ergo, I'm not impressed."

"Do you want me to have a philosophical debate with you, infront of the gekkonid?" Mictian hisses across to the Altachra, eyes narrowing to slits, his entire shape held tense, as if his authority had been questioned - when it's quite clear from his title of 'protégé' that he has none.

"No." Zyan dismisses, syllable casually delivered as he approaches, only to reach out with his right hand, sliding an oddly friendly smile across at James - but it's that kind of facial expression in Zyan that is, of course, entirely untrustworthy to highest degree. "Give me that."

Zyan. Zyan Quetzal. Founder of the Splinters of Dusk and of Gehyra. He was beginning to regret reading what had been left in Radiance, of remembering it, of not having a simple 'this is scary guy out of the shadows' to fall back on instead of a name with a rather terrifying reputation.

He silently watches the debate volleying back and forth, hope and gnawing doubt alternating with the speakers. It felt as if his chances of survival were plummeting. And there was next to nothing he could do about it. Especially when his vaguely hopeful but knowingly pointless hope of being forgotten about in the debate was canceled. Well, given it had been about him, he would have been far more astonished if he was ignored.

James made a valiant attempt at an even tone. "Yes, sir." Well, he had a healthy respect for things that could hurt him and politeness never hurt. Probably. Was unlikely to hurt more, and he suspected that was about to be quite a lot. Juggling the knife in his left palm, fumbling slightly, he manages to grip the blade and offer it hilt first. And resisted the urge to gulp.

Yank. There goes the blade, off into Zyan's spidery fingers; and the motion somehow fluidly extends, his other hand snapping forward to fist into James' shirt, bringing his arm around as if fully intending to stab that blade into the gekkonid's gut without further ado. The arm manages half a circle through the air, before suddenly ending snagged in Mictian's grip.

Without moving his gaze, the Altachra allows his face to morph into light grimace, continuing to stare at James analytically, though he speaks to the Gehyran protégé with a calm but stern tone: "...I appreciate your level of courage, Michael, but it's quite misplaced here." A brief pause lingers, before he appends: "This is your only warning."

The hand refuses to relent. "He's not ready, back off."

Zyan closes his eyes, fingers in James' shirt flexing. "That is not for you to decide, protégé." As his eyes peel back open, he anchors his stare on Mictian instead, a noticeable streak of venom in his demeanour. In abrupt yank, the arm plucks itself from Mictian's grip, and the blade travels in swift motion down along the rest of that curv-

>Crack<

The grip's gone, the knife elsewhere. The back of Zyan's left hand rests against his jaw, an incredulous, vicious stare stabbing itself into Mictian's very soul. "You've just crossed so many lin-"

"Do you want your gekkonids dead? Do you? Because, hear this - I know this one. I know he'll break the codex if you push him far enough. Not out of disrespect or conscious intent, but simply out of instinct. Do you want to wipe out his clan? Is that what you want to do? Because then, by all means, continue." Tension grips Mictian's form, both his hands balled to fists.

When he's yanked up and into the path of that knife, James was already attempting to drive his nails through the fabric of his rug, anything to impede them a few seconds, a sickening feeling that it wouldn't be just one blow but many.

Mictian interfering was unexpected. Loved, gratefully accepted, but not what he'd been counting on. And not successful apparently. So he was still going to be filleted and maybe, if he was lucky, it would be just a stab and his guts would stay in and there was actually a slim chance that he'd... -
what?!

But... he'd... - but then...

Oh god, Mictian hit him. Broke codex. James had no idea how Zyan would respond but it could not be good. The knife clattered to the floor near the foot of the bed, barely noted as the grip on his shirt vanishes and he slips from that unnatural position, attempts to brace himself on his arm and finds it giving out under him. Yelped as said arm and wrist reminded him he cut a nasty hole in something important to it just a minute ago. Was somewhat preoccupied and mentally sent it a message to come back later.

Astonishment at the occurring actions. Especially at apparently being a trigger, small and worthless to the clan as it was. Fear at the consequences of them. Helplessness at not knowing how to respond to them. Guilt that the other felt the need to defend him. And a general, all encompassing 'Oh crap.' Flicked his good eye up to Mictian, as if hoping he may, just may, have some clue what he was doing. There was most of the night left. Plenty of time to squirm out of this... uhh... somehow?

For Zyan, it was an interesting rut to be in. On the one hand, there was pride to defend and authority to assert, on the other, Mictian had a point given Gehyra's advertised intentions. Advertised intentions.

There was plenty way to have his cake and eat it, too, however. Straightening, the de-facto Gehyran leader glances down at the whereabouts of his wrist, still allowing his knuckles to knead in absent-minded gesture across his jaw. With a freshly assertive but calm tone, he addresses Mictian: "Michael, how I react to the gekkonid is hardly set in stone." His gaze slides across to his childe, perfectly chilled, and he dryly instructs: "I'll deal with you later. For now, leave."

Leave? Leave James at Zyan's mercy? No good could come from that, surely? Though those elaborative words are oddly soothing. Whether Zyan did it only to keep up a facade or if he actually meant it was without consequence - he'd see it through, he'd play that part, so James was a little safer from death, if not from bodily harm.

"Yes, Altachra," Mictian confirms, himself straightening, adopting his trademark posture of straightened spine with his arms folded behind his back, professional, nearly militaristic, expression solemn, even if touched with a hint of anxiety as well as bitterness. "Thank you, Altachra," he appends, blinking slowly across the words for emphasis, before moving to the door, both without haste and without stalling.

James stays as he is, awkwardly propped on three limbs. There didn't seem anything better to do. Other than having a scroll miraculously appear to whisk him out of there. Instead he watched as Mictian was dismissed and departed. Leaving him with not just a Gehyran but an old, experienced and probably annoyed one.

If you'd asked some minutes ago whether this situation could get any worse, bar being dragged outside, he'd have doubted. Now it struck him that that was a completely absurd thought. Especially when one considered how much a vampire could physically survive. Pity about the mental.

And then Mictian closed the door behind him almost as though with caution, completing the cage that snapped shut around the hapless Shard, sans a look back at the scene he was responsible for. Out of his hands now.

The knife still lay on the ground as if discarded, neither in particularly good reach of either party. Zyan's white hair, thick strands with black base, frames a light smirk - something a mere observer might criticise as bland and unimaginative, but helped James naught, caught in that mental battle with himself. His left hand flips lazily, fingers half-curled in casual gesture, palm upturned, outstretched, non-verbally asking for that blade to be returned to him, a finger twitching to make the request unmistakable. And then, across all that, a different question entirely, tone entirely ambiguous: "Tell me, James. Are you scared of me?"

Given that he was scrambled in bedclothes, borderline hyperventilating, staring wide eyed and skittish... to answer anything other than honestly would be pointless. "Yes." With good reason, he felt.

That hand gestures again, a thin brow arching upwards as if to ask if perhaps James hadn't forgotten something in his scramble for an answer. "I want you to ask yourself why. And by all means, share the answer, I'm curious," Zyan prompts. There's no change in demeanour or tone to communicate it, but without a doubt he's thoroughly amused by the elaborate taunt - either that or he's considerably less unreal even than advertised.

Why was he... - oh. A quick glance down to the floor, darting about, latching at last onto a glint of reddened metal. He felt like a dog being told to fetch. That was still better than having to untangle his thoughts enough to answer; only a delay though since answer he would have to. It had the air of a trick question, like a particular answer was wanted.

Slowly he moved down towards the end of the bed, freeing his last leg from the rugs as he went, grateful he didn't have a footboard so nothing prevented him dropping off the end in an undignified thump. The further away he could keep, his instincts screamed, the better.

That wasn't going to work though. While his body was moving his mind was turning over. What was it with these people and forcing him to stare into himself? Elaborate mindgames were just a touch beyond him at the moment, running on nearly empty as he was. Which left a combination of honesty and luck.

"Because you can do absolutely anything to me and there isn't a thing I can do about it." Simple and to the point. Hopefully not the completely wrong answer. A shaky breath. "And I think you would." Please, please, please don't take that as an invitation...

Grasping the knife in his left hand he rises, limbs forced into obeying when all they want to do is take advantage of the fact he is upright and there is a absolutely minimal encumbrance between them and send him diving for the door. Possibly lashing out with the weapon he now has as he gets his back to a corner and some pitiful hope of defending himself. Either would be suicide and so he instead manages to somehow take a step forward, and a second, and that puts him in range to return the knife that could well have belonged to Zyan in the first place.

Even if handing such a thing back felt like the most foolish act in the world.

Digits reach forward and grasp the blade, bridging that final distance, his aid acknowledged with a nod that could be either one of fondness or mocking - Zyan's not exactly transparent right now. "Reputation," he summarises James' words, putting his own perceivedly valid spin on them, emphasising the word with a slow blink. "Certainly appealing in its own way, but I loathe relying on it," he says, a light, conversational smile on his lips. A moment later, the hilt of the knife rests more firmly gripped in his right hand, same curled into a fist around it, silver blade jutting out past his pinky finger like some wicked, straight thorn. "And I'd like you to know that I practise what I preach," he nods once, curtly, a skew grin on that face.

For a moment, that's all that's between them, hovering like some bizarrely worded threat, the edge of that knife in Zyan's possession looking as if perhaps it had a life of its own, as if laced with some dark energy and vicious intent, certainly more than a tool. Though that was silly, of course. Zyan probably didn't need a blade to be utterly terrifying.

An abrupt motion breaks the silence, almost impossibly swift, even for a vampire - and an instant later a very familiar picture dawns on James. His palm. Zyan had simply driven the knife through the palm of his own left hand, with at most a twitch that went under in the rest of that motion. Sure, there's tension in that arm, in the tendons of the hand, the blood is there, the signs of damage, the signs of the wound signaling pain up to Zyan's brain, but...

Yank.

The blade tears up between middle and ring finger, hiss surfacing from the Altachra, fingers of the hand curling in tremble against his palm, the digits immediately around the gash considerably less well coordinated. But he's still standing, still smirking, despite the light tremble quite firmly gripping his left shoulder.

His breath only dips to level of a pant for one exhale, before he takes a single step toward James, straightening in the process, like some growing demon. "Do you like that?" he hisses, oddly saccharine, eyes narrowed, but expression full of what might as well be some childish yet sadistic glee. "That control? I can teach you."

A study in scarlet. Three very different reactions. And the last... that was sheer mangling of flesh, some act of medieval torture, and barely batting an eyelid in the process. On some level he could help but be impressed, perhaps even admiring. On others it just made him more dangerous than before. Made it perfectly clear that there wasn't anything James could do that would cause even a moment pause. Wasn't anything any of them could do.

The other ensnared him, something of his expression freezing him enough not to take a matching step backwards, or many until confined only by the wall. 'Would I actually survive?' is the first biting comment that comes to mind and doesn't even come close to being verbalised; a few helpful survival instincts are still kicking in at least. Didn't save him from the need of a response. 'Sorry, I'm at my limits now,' was probably a bad idea, 'Can I come back to that in a few decades once I've got the basics down?' hardly better.

He was near frantic, desperate, so close to succumbing to instincts and he couldn't. Given how Zyan was acting, in itself enough to send James quaking, the response that slipped to one side and out in the throbbing beats across his face was likely to only make things worse, purely verbal snap as it was. "Why can't the gekkonids?" But then, likely everything would.

The expression distorts further, adopting a predatory air, tension distributing through that body as if he were coiling himself to leap. Another step forward, backing James against that wall, nose wrinkled in silent snarl, feral, but yet perfectly under control, further evidenced by that the conversation continues despite the barb, despite the tension, despite all that fear no doubt egging the Gehyran on like an aphrodisiac.

"Have you seen how different he is?" Zyan narrows his eyes. He doesn't need to gesture - the subject is clear. Mictian. A wolfish grin distorts his lips as he continues: "And we are the ones that shaped him. The ones from then, who deserve the name your clan carries so arrogantly, 'Splinters of Dusk'; all in Gehyra now. And those with us now, Andriel, Hitomi, Siroccostorm... - and he's stronger for it." The blade whips around to nudge against James' chin, pushing his head into a slight rise. "The gekkonids now would take a hundred years to get him to that point."

The Gehyran was stalking forwards now, forcing James to step back, eyes darting constantly between face and blade and abruptly coming to a stop when he feels bare feet touch the wall. Only realises he's been paying too much attention to the immediate danger and not the prolonged, not the surroundings when he notices the foot of the bed to one side. Which means... - he turns his head, that part of the room is on his current blind side, and the back of the couch forms the other half of the gap he's been channeled in to. Trapped on all sides.

The knife flashes out and he flinches violently at the sudden motion, a swifter breath than normal marking the pause against his skin. Head dips back slightly, blade once more uncomfortably close to those blood vessels, although at this precise moment blessed unconsciousness from exsanguination isn't sounding like such a terrible thing.

A hundred year raincheck didn't seem such a bad idea currently. And if this 'new' Mictian was the result, he didn't want to cash it in even then. All James had seen was evidence of cruelty, not strength; not that he'd actually had a chance to make an honest judgement. And the cruelty bit seemed partially feigned. Hopefully. Or was it just a different facet brought to light? He didn't know, his mind was too busy spinning and whirling and churning to pluck forth more than a handful of coherent thoughts at once.

Left hand pressed back against the wall, flattened, teeth for the moment clamped together. Fight or flight, his body was saying. And you're pinned. You can't flee. So fight your way free. He couldn't. It wouldn't work. He tried latching onto another tack, to freeze and play dead. Not real dead. He was quite sure that real dead could be arranged if he asked and quite possibly if he didn't, but since that was the thing that scared him more than Zyan - or was it Zyan scared him because it would be so easy for the vampire to cause it? - he'd do nearly anything to avoid it.

"I don't know any of them," he whispered, not to Zyan nor to himself but more some unseen reflection lurking behind his eyes, not meant for ears and barely noticing it had escaped him, as if it was from another being entirely. "Anyone." Not even himself.

There was a trickle of blood running down his right wrist and across the palm and he could feel every quiver as his own nervous tremours sent vibrations down that limb. He couldn't properly move that hand, only twitch fingers spasmodically and wiggle his thumb a bit, but he'd gone for the tendons and not the nerves and the non-reaction confused the part of his brain meant to be controlling that bit of him and only served to make it more sensitive, it seemed. The entire left side of his face ached, the eyeball burned, the muscles directing it protesting every time they tried to move and had to contest with the ruined fibers around the lowest point and behind and above and overwhelming it all was the sharp agony stretching into the depths of his skull. A migrane migrated, a biting aching penetrating chill that flared into heat with every racing heartbeat.

It was a wonder he was still on his feet. It seemed to be all he could manage, his grip slipping.

"That's all right, I can introduce you at another date," Zyan remarks, almost idly, letting his gaze spiral lazily down to his left hand, right keeping the knife to James' chin. Another date? Well, that at least implied that death wasn't on the menu yet, but the concept was still unnerving. Meanwhile, Zerachiel continues letting his gaze touch his left hand, twisting the same as if analysing some foreign body. Blood dripping lazily from that tear.

"I'd like to show you two other tricks," he says, conversationally, before bringing that hand up, palm turned toward the gekkonid's face, torn skin and red flesh visible between the tremble caused by what cannot possibly be a pleasant sensation.

A moment later, in gentle, curving motion, the base of the hand twists toward James' nose, his elbow rising to match that now nearly horizontally held hand's posture, and fingers, skin bordering the space between in part slightly crusted with dried specks of his own blood, slide into James' hair to about an inch's depth and that palm comes to rest loosely against that aching eye, that sphere of fire.

Strange how the promise of future pain - such a thing was a given considering the clans, a considered gift in their own twisted way - could both fill and ease dread. Fill for the incredibly obvious 'these are Gehyrans and I'm a gekkonid and being in the same place will hurt' and ease for the 'at least I'll be alive until that point and I can panic about that one later'.

Neither of which helped the very immediate now. Every word spoken by Zyan was ominous. Two tricks? What classified as a trick?

The urge to snap at the approaching hand was strong, even with a knife discouraging him from moving his head. Went as far as lips pulling back to briefly expose the clenched teeth before being swiftly dragged back down, the impression given then not of a threat but of bracing for whatever was to come. As that hand came to rest the young shard stayed very, very still.

He had no clue what was happening. He suspected he wasn't going to like it. He couldn't do a thing about it but wait. And hope. Without knowing the future it was hard to tell exactly what for.

For a moment, nothing happens, slightest tremble in that lifted arm a reminder of that self-inflicted wound; then without warning, a different sensation entirely carves into that eye, at first threatening to flower into the world's worst itch. The hint of a heavier breath is the only audibly noise from Zerachiel as that more pleasant non-corporeal sliver traces across the underside of his eyeball as if there were something physically stroking against it.

There was no way that was caused solely by the few drops of blood from that wound finding their way against the cut eyelid and that damaged orb. It ran too deep, its effects too swift, more like a conscious attempt at knitting the cuts together at a level of detail of nearly sub-cellular granularity.

Healing. Of all things.

And then that hand withdraws, uneclipsing a blurred but greatly improved image of the world.

His hand's still torn as before, still dripping blood, now with a slightly more persistent but hardly inhibitive twitching of that middle finger's top two segments, probably due to some damage motoric nerve finally having snapped from those motions.

"Number one," he announces, withdrawing the blade from James' chin, nearly absent-mindedly settling the hilt of it between his left hand's thumb and palm, trapping it there in loosest grip for now, in no mood to force the rest of his hand to comply to the command to take that item. He's staring at James with an ambiguous grin, perhaps waiting for some kind of reaction, be it verbal or non-verbal.

At first he isn't sure what the sensation is, thinking it is some response from his own body, anticipation of a sort. And then it intensifies, a rasping feeling down the wound as if something is licking his eyeball, the pain spiking for a brief moment before beginning to ebb.

Wait, ebb?

The thought is enough to throw a serious boot into his conscious mind, help wrestle down a few of the most frantic instincts. He's no where near calm, not even approaching the point he wouldn't bolt at the first possible opportunity, but at least slightly less likely to have his knees collapse under him. Every little bit counted.

Some of the pain seems to be drawing outwards, back into his skin, and there is a hiss of surprised worked between his teeth when he realises that the wound is closing. Closing. Still sore and aching and feeling like he'd have an incredible shiner but not the sharp searing pain of before.

But... that...

A trace of astonishment leaked over into his expression. He hadn't even known that was possible. If he had he wouldn't have suspected Zyan knew it. Even more astounded that it would be used on him.

Blinking furiously, left eye still watering and horribly blurred but actually sending information he managed to get both eyes somewhat focused on the person in front of him. How did one respond to that? What came out was a very cautious, uncertain: "Thank you sir," picture of doubt, as if wondering what would be the price to pay for such a thing.

Well, James looked somewhat less likely to go plummeting over the edge, now. Still incredibly nervous. There was a knife in the hands of a vampire who had just proven himself even more powerful than before, who was grinning at him and still planning on some undescribed 'trick'. Then whatever else he planned to do afterwards. The gekkonid was just waiting for the other boot to drop.

Zyan's right hand flicks as if to rid itself of some stray drops of invisible liquid clung to those tips, held just beside his hip. Something's changed. Lips peeling back from his fangs, his left arm slams up against the wall and James' neck, hand curled to a fist, holding that knife still, albeit somewhat awkwardly, and now not to threaten, arm doing the pinning, with not nearly enough force to choke, just enough to make it clear to James that movement and struggling in particular were not advisable. And then that right hand rises, revealing that what had previously been the glossy sparkle of black nail polish had become something duller, adopted a shape, extending those already spiny fingers by another inch of thorny darkness.

A brief swirl of talons, well in James' scope of vision; then the hand dips again, Zyan's gaze still locked on the gekkonid's face, and the claw-like tip of his index finger hooks in just under the edge of that pyjama shirt, fabric folding as it's nudged up and the tip of that digit comes to rest against James' belly-button.

"Number two," Zyan announces, voice dipping into a feral darkness, before that finger stabs forward, sharp tip effortlessly sinking into skin and into the depths of the gekkonid's gut, all the way up to the second joint.

The blow across his throat slams his head back against the wall, only the short distance covered mitigating the impact, a faintly voiced gasp in response. Pressure kept steady. A non-verbal warning.

Then that hand came up. Whole body tensed as every fleeing instinct attempted to invoke itself at once, the sheer unnaturalness of those digits and the person they belonged to screeching danger. If it weren't for the pin firmly at his neck he'd likely have ended up on the floor. As it was it was a reminder and encouragement and knees were locked against the wall to keep him vertical.

Talons drifted down to his stomach and a sudden mental flash to where that knife had originally been going fills him with sickening dread. Some instinct, foresight or frantic subconscious boot causes him to stop pressing the fingers of his left hand into the wall, pivot his elbow and hastily trap his hand behind his back just before Zyan speaks.

The words barely have time to trickle into his brain before that claw impales him, puncturing the skin and the tensed muscle below seemingly without pause, continuing as they please into his flesh. A strangled howl of pain tears out of him as his lower body attempts to press back further into the wall away from that intrusion, stymied by being mostly flat against it before. His right arm slams back too as limp fingers refuse to respond to frantic calls to protect the body. The only limb capable of lashing out is pinned long enough for him to get a slim measure of control back, fingers instead clenching convulsively in the fabric of his shirt.

Pain blossoms across his stomach, increasing as every frantic halting breath pulls against that wound, his attempts at steadying them seeming to be have little effect, provoking the occasional faint sound. Long shudders pass down him as he manages to prise eyelids open enough to look at Zyan, knowing he'd hardly be satisfied with a single small hole no matter how painful.

Slightly angled as it is, the finger twists in the inflicted wound, texture of his skin dragging across those torn fibres, grating pain up along the desperately complaining nerves as well as spawning a sense of light nausea in the gekkonid, until the palm of the associated hand faces the ceiling. For a moment, the digit rests as it is; then in casual, slow motion drives itself further into that coiled interior, until its descent into flesh is stopped by its knuckle. Another pause leads up to yet another motion - the curling of that finger, wicked, thorn-like tip stabbing up through his innards in slow shred. And all the while that stare lingers on his face, latched onto it as if itself burying through those outer layers and into the depths of a, by now, deeply troubled soul.

It scrapes and twists and just when it stills and just when he thinks it's paused it drives in deeper, forcing aside or piercing whatever it encounters. The gekkonid might no very little about anatomy but does know that bits inside the skin and meant to be important and shouldn't be poked even if they want kill a vampire if they are. The pain shooting through his body suggests it very strongly agrees.

It's partially the thought of what that taloned finger would do if he fell and it ripped free that stops his knees buckling. His right arm awkwardly braced to the side, support from the wall the only thing stopping him from collapsing entirely.

Through it all Zyan kept staring intently. Examining him like a bug on a pin.

Deep shuddering breaths provoke whimpers as the finger was slowly crooked, trapping him even further, no possible way of removing it without starting to disembowel himself. He was ready to stop breathing altogether if he thought he was able to. Every motion of his chest send muscles scraping against that claw, slowly sawing against it as they parted fiber by fiber. He tries to predict that, move with it, at least anticipate it so he knows how the fresh waves will come and hopefully stand a better chance coping with it because at this rate he was likely to pass out if he was very lucky and try to tear himself free if not. The latter would fail. And likely be suicide.

Eyes alternately squeezing shut and rapidly blinking as he struggles to cope mean he intermittently matches that gaze, a few seconds at most. Wonders what is being seen. Fears what may next come.

"Now, gekkonid, what do you say?" Zerachiel asks, twitch touching the digit, but it's a mostly subtle motion, only just barely refreshing what is a spreading, fiery but dull pain. His expression's still twisted into something slightly more animal than cultured, those unreal, cyan eyes and lazy-bleached black hair helping naught to reduce the effect.

Another gasp at that flick, ripples of pain whispering outwards. He didn't understand the question. Too open-ended, it sounded a trap and he couldn't recall being asked something prior. Had he? Clear thoughts weren't the easiest to grasp right now.

What had been said? Zyan had talked of tricks... of Gehyrans... of how the gekkonids were inferior to the Gehyrans... of control...

Thoughts running wild in his head, swirling, too much energy spent on his quaking body to swat them all, sure that any and all of them were terrible things to say but no idea what wa right and thinking that something was likely better than nothing. And that if a specific answer was wanted the question might need to be rephrased.

Gekkonid. That was what he'd been called, what he now was... one of the stray skeins of thought bubbled out of him. "That if the gekkonids and Mictian could help me survive this far by your words Gehyra must be much more impressive," he managed to somehow gasp out, urge to fight sneaking out his words. Let Zyan decide if that was a compliment or a doubt on how much better he claimed they were.

Hidden from view, a wire of rage jolts up the Altachra's spine. Teeth settle against each other in light grit, muscles of his jaw tensing ever so subtly, only barely able to be made out. Nothing. He didn't understand anything, did he? Zyan drew in a slow breath, letting the emotion dissolve into the fibres of his body, travelling across his skin with a sensation like static electricity.

It was a far less forgiving variant of the 'thank you' his kind sought, but had the exact same implications. It was a pass, by rights - there was no physical fight in this one, he'd humbly done as instructed, and even now, in pain, there was still coherence. But he wouldn't yield, not like Shadowvein allegedly had, if Siroccostorm was to be believed.

That thorn-clawed digit yanks out from the puncture-wound in James' gut.

What else could this be booked as other than defeat? With Michael outside, the damage was minimal, and chances were the gekkonid had no grasp of the implications. "Be that way," Zyan remarks, voice terse, but controlled. Control, that one precious asset. He would not allow his instincts to take over. Rage had no place here, it would only ruin long-term plans with his childe.

That blackened finger was wrenched free, enflamed everything, ripped new groves along the sides as it withdraw, wringing a fresh cry from him and briefly buckling one knee. Weight caught on the other and shaking muscles forced back into place.

What he'd said had had an impact, it seemed by that response. And equally clear that it was wrong. It seemed a very good time to keep his mouth shut. And possibly pray. He wasn't at the end of his rope as much as a leap beyond it and wasn't sure how long until he crumpled completely.

Withdrawal. The Gehyran steps back, leaving James to collapse he pleases, arm finally removed. The solidified darkness retracts back into his fingers, only part reminiscent of those thorns the black nail polish once more, regarded briefly as if after a manicure, before the hand drops and his gaze grazes across his mangled hand instead, skimming the blade.

'Wasted. Effort,' Zyan chides himself inwardly, directing his rage at himself with practised ease. It does, however, flicker like a light in his eyes, swirling across those irides like an unspoken threat as he smiles across faux-jovially at the gekkonid. His right hand dips down to take the knife from that hand that's increasingly demanding attention, the sharp pain from the act of inflicting the wound faded, replaced by now by the ache that's far less easy to ignore. He could deal with it, of course, but it did make the hand useless until he healed it.

"Have a souvenir," he comments, cynical humour warping the words, even as he turns to the door, walking toward it in a curve, depositing the bloodied knife on the nearest flat surface.

Danger. His mind was still shouting it as Zyan stepped away, As if at any moment he'd drop the facade and strike again, that sadistic glee glinting once more. Or worse.

That was why he didn't move, not just yet. The wall could hold him up a few minutes longer until he was relatively sure he was properly alone. Doubted he'd ever feel certain again and that thought crashes into him, a wave across his conscious mind that his safe haven apparently isn't.

The knife dumped on the bench was unexpected, a hunch that it might be a retort to his previous words. All of that for later. At moment it seemed he just needed to last a few more minutes. Just a few. Just until that deadbolt locked.

The form doesn't turn anew. No abrupt leap at his throat. No transformation into some monstrosity out to reveal this all to be some elaborate nightmare, either. Instead, there's the door, opened almost cautiously, as if perhaps it were more delicate than could withstand a regular grip at this time, and the scrawny vampire slips out.

Gone.

Evidence of the reality, beyond the wound in his gut, beyond that aching, self-inflicted slash on his wrist, are spatters of foreign blood on the ground... and that blade, sitting there like a small trophy.

So much for a sanctuary.

Click.

He takes a step forwards and staggers, left hand clutching the back of the couch the only reason he ends up half on one knee and not sprawled face first. The adrenaline is wearing off now that the immediate danger has passed. Muscles feel like cloth as he reaches over and grabs the already blood-spotted sheet off the bed and uses his right forearm to press a rough bundle of it against his stomach, wadded against both injuries.

Shoulders shaking, breathing irregular, several short but impossibly long steps lurch him around the couch to the bookshelf, sheet trailing behind him. A rolled sheet of paper snatched and tucked under his arm. A scroll of displacement. So close, he could see it from the moment Mictian moved off his bed, less than two metres away when forced to the wall by Zyan, and yet couldn't even risk lunging for it. Probably wouldn't have helped. They could chase. They could chase anywhere. They chased to here...

Thoughts were to aim back for somewhere comfortable but at that point the last of his crumbling defenses breaks and he crumples, slow motion, to the floor. Barely enough awareness to crawl to the corner and shelter behind the furniture as the sobs start, curling into a tight ball and dragging the trailing ends of the sheet up to block out the world as the emotions completely overwhelm him at last.

[Dread]

[solo started as a #nightchilder session; coloured bits are by James Reid]

His spine held straight, Mictian stood beside the door to James' small apartment like a guard, arms folded behind him, a numb, stolid stare cast out front, replaying the scene in his head. That split-second decision to curl that hand, to lash out, like a manifestation of a far deeper desire.

He'd nearly jeopardised his mission. He'd nearly jeopardised it for the life of one gekkonid. He couldn't allow himself another slip like that, no matter how expertly he played the card. Zyan was a serpent known fortunately for his patience, but it was bound to be worn thin. Frustratingly, blind servitude was not an option; it was too obviously fake given their past interaction. The line had to be walked.

His fingers flexed behind him, grimace playing across his face, those subtle motions the only indicator that he wasn't some statue.

A cry muffled by the door behind him tensed his eyes to close. His gut rebelled. This was an abhorable practise; and a sick 'test' of his allegiances. A test that was no doubt insufficient for Zerachiel to accept him.

There would be more.

But that was the long-term - and right now, Mictian felt, instead, a morbid curiosity burning like a slow fire inside him. What would Zyan do to him? What words would be spoken? What punishment would he suffer for his transgression, if any?

The door opened at last, just wide enough for one person to exit. Alone. No broken form being dragged out behind him. No requests to re-enter that apartment and help transfer the gekkonid to some roof. Only the sound of the door closing and the lock clicking shut behind him.

It seemed a positive sign.

Tension wound down Mictian's shape like a self-persisting ripple as that demon entered his perception, a subjective darkness rolling over him almost as if to smother and choke. He allowed himself the luxury of a moment of silence and rigidity, eyes closed, before exhaling calmly and peeling his eyes back open, tipping his head down, but in same motion turning it to the side to glance at Zyan.

"Altachra," he uttered that title once more, this time in greeting. To add anything else seemed contrived at this point. 'I presume the gekkonid has been taken care of' sounded like an attempt at acquiring authority he didn't have, and 'How may I serve you' was the just as ineffective polar opposite, leaving him mute instead, staring at Zyan with anxiety only barely bleeding into his professional exterior.

The addressed vampire's gaze turned to the one waiting for him. "Tell me." A terse tone carried those words. "Just what were you hoping to achieve, Michael?"

A drawn out inhale acted as emotional buffer. It took some strength not to let his breath jitter from him as it left him again. Again those eyes closed, a brief motion, but longer than a blink. It felt like a trap, like Zyan's presence sought to slowly poison him. "Altachra, I apologise. Past Gehyran actions have clouded my judgement," he said, fighting the urge to sass, as well to be more specific. If Zyan thought he had to be confronted with another gekkonid death to finally get a grip on himself in the matter, no good could come of that.

A guttural snarl lashed out as if with physical weight toward the younger vampire, an almost impossible tension holding the Gehyran Altachra still. "Those kind of misconceptions are precisely what's stalling the clan you so desperately protect," Zyan hissed, each word wielded like a weapon. "'Oh, don't, he's not ready yet,'" mockery was spat at Mictian's feet, and the vampire's left hand rose as if he were entirely tempted to strike at the protégé with the back of that hand, instinctual punishment for that transgression. It's reined in, of course; a backhand was the last thing that bothered a gekkonid, much less a promising young Gehyran such as Mictian d'Avarice.

'You already view him as that?' Zyan thought to himself with inward sneer, analysing his own perception, criticising. 'He's too close to you. Be careful, remember, he's a clever one. He'll make use of that.'

"I apologise, Altachra," Mictian closed his eyes, tipping his head forward and down slightly in posture much like a scolded child, though forcing himself into that demeanour. "I clearly misjudged him."

"And you'll misjudge again and again and again," Zyan's raised hand flexed into a fist, before being almost violently cast to the side. "You are not your victims, Michael. You don't know their limits. Whether you like it or not, there's only one way to find them - and that's to push past them."

In his silence, Mictian's jaw worked, resisting the urge to escalate an already dangerous situation further. There was likely much he could get away with, but if Zyan already deemed it fit to lecture him now, objecting with 'There are more respectful ways to push someone's limits' would get him nowhere. He had a mission. As long as he repeated that mantra to himself, he could take the rant and accept the subtle untruths. And subtle they were, which was the problem with Gehyra as a whole - Zyan seemed quite sensible until you started asking precisely the right questions.

Silence.

"I'll have another assignment for you in the coming days," Zyan snorted, derisively and dismissively. "Until then, I want you to think about this evening. And learn from it."

What he wanted to say, what boiled just beneath his skin, was: 'By all means, Zyan, I'll think about it. Nothing easier than that. But learn? What do you want me to learn from this? That you're a serpentine, manipulative freak?' But he was a little low on options right now. Grimace barely contained, Mictian struggled words forth, finding it in him to craft them from sincere parts, making them genuine in tone: "As you wish, Altachra."

An uncomfortable silence lingered between them for a moment longer, before Zyan finally let his hand drop, face adopting a more casual expression, less like an animal wishing to rend the flesh from Mictian's very bones. A twitch of the brow was all that remained of demeanour to communicate his distaste, though his tone was still thickly lathered with it as he spoke once more: "Dismissed."

As if physically nudged by the word, Mictian stepped forward, nodded as if to some inner thought; and left.

With Zyan's aura receding, motions carrying further into the young night, one thought finally manifested despite everything, tugging as desperate worry at his gut:

This role was far too comfortable a fit.

[Dread]

A shell much like Holy Water, yet such vastly different contents.

Crimson dragged and swirled lazily across the interior of the vial. Tip of index and middle finger set atop the cap, thumb rested against the bottom, tipping the container in idle curiosity, Zyan regarded the contents with a curiosity as to what lay beyond.

Warlock blood. A quaint thing to carry on oneself in this day and age. Why light a fire on a finger if with far less energy expenditure you could simply flick a lighter, after all? Magic was the weaker of two arts - that was by now widely accepted as true. The stray uses of magic in this day and age were largely medicative and defensive - certainly not combative. Various flavours of bullets had obsoleted that; and it took exceptional skills as a mage to wield higher magic, something he certainly had no access to, both by way of education and since the commodity now so accidentally at his disposal simply hadn't been, before.

Deimos had played his ace and he had played it badly.

Indeed, Zyan was quite curious what Mictian would determine as the young vampire's source of this substance.

Maybe the stray research from years ago hadn't been a waste of his time at all.

[Dread]

The canteen was set in darkness as was typical of the night. Chairs stacked on the tables, reaching up to the hidden skies with scrawny metal legs, effectively crowding into a forest of spines. Deimos had wound himself across the dusty tiles, occasionally disturbing veils of grime, across to the window. Catching his breath, face on the floor, black, curled hair spilt in disarray about his face, he gave another tentative tug at the rope holding him.

If had been less engulfed in anger and that burning edge of a fear for his life, he would have been ashamed of himself.

That spidery companion of warped Mictian, looming over him, glancing down both with a burning loathing and the calm of the world, and a slightly incredulous twitch touching that face, only to say: "Well, that was stupid of you. See? Because now you're fucked."

It was inconceivable that Clarity had failed. Dracowyrm brought death to all it touched, yet the apparition of himself, that spirit-bound soul of his, had helped naught. Death to all it touched. It seemed like such an obvious oversight in retrospect. He should have seen it coming, even as his strength had poured toward the two Gehyrans - only for ethereal teeth to snap shut across the dissipating fine dust of a vampire's outline. Gone. Both of them, gone. Perhaps before the advent of the Scrolls of Summoning, he might have at least culled the traitor, that would have granted him some satisfaction, but Mictian still lived just as his sire did.

The milk-glass door at the far corner of the room screaked ever so slightly, causing the ex-Nachthexe to twist against the floor and crane his neck, trying to lance a glance through either array of metal rods, above or below the table surfaces. Boots, black trousers, nothing that spoke a clear language of identity. His nose wrinkled, a fresh rage bubbling in him, shoulders tense.

Finally passing the gaggle of chair legs was Mictian.

"How much I regret that I missed my shot at you," Deimos hissed, voice subdued, nose wrinkled, tension curving his spine as he twisted himself onto his side as to better control what he was seeing, peering down the length of himself, between the subjective canyon made by his legs and those of the tables not far away, at the end and centre of which that ex-gekkonid stood.

"Oh, you wound me," Mictian remarked, with a tone of greater boredom than was perhaps in-character, dismissing the topic more than mocking the phrase. A light roll of the eyes emphasised his intention not to stick to bickering, accompanied by a sigh. "Cut the crap," he tosses in, encapsulating the thought in a verbal barb. "I'm here for one reason and one reason only. I'm supposed to beat your source out of you." A pause, a curious cant of his head. Then, remembering that it was perhaps courteous to be more specific, even if there was little room for interpretation, he added: "The warlock blood in your rucksack."

An abrupt bout of laughter spilled from Sylvain, his head rolling against the tiles slightly. "I'm not sure whether to make you work for it just for the sake of wasting your pathetic, worthless time or whether to rub in the absurdity of your statement," Sylvain sneered, words framed by malicious chuckles.

"I'm sure both will be rather entertaining. Absurdity, really?" Mictian echoed, hooking his thumbs into his pockets and striding across to the captive with casual pace.

His amusement at Mictian's supposed ignorance lurched, twisted by rage into something with venom. "Dear god, do I have to spell it out to you, where do you think you get warlock blood from?"

Fingers drummed near-silently against the fabric of Mictian's trousers. Conversationally, he offered: "Oh, I'm not all that sure. Warlocks, I imagine."

A bitter, curt cackle jittered from Deimos' shape, barely self-contained. Lips distorted in grimace, he threw a glare up at that new Gehyran, not even bothered to retain enough posture to ooze arrogance, to establish himself as emotionally superior. They were below even being graced with that, this one especially, this false serpent. "Imagine harder, you illiterate dolt."

The insult passed through the Gehyran without even triggering an acknowledgement. Mictian let himself drift without hast down from that militaristic, upright posture and into what first seemed a hint of a crouch, then morphed into that so popular, casual bastardisation of a lotus. Hands, plucked from those pockets now, rested loosely against each other. There was something awkward about Deimos' mannerisms, something that didn't quite suit his general appearance, but Mictian couldn't quite put a finger on it. Perhaps it was nothing but that white-hot rage was something he only knew of women in this city. Perhaps it was also just that Deimos' hair was such degrees of untidy that his usual pretty appearance was almost thoroughly ruined. But that hardly mattered.

"Maybe I wasn't clear enough, Deimos. You have a rucksack full of vials of warlock blood. An entire rucksack. I imagine, and I do imagine well: Warlocks probably dislike having their blood taken from them, as would any other creature - while being considerably more fit to defending themselves. So how, precisely did you manage to get your hands on such a supply? You don't strike me as the cleverly violent predator type. So who is giving or selling you these?" Mictian enquired in perfectly indifferent tone, fingers flexing against each other, tenting lazily.

The urge to keep his answer to himself just to spite the other had risen over the course of that brief monologue, but against all odds a spark of reason tugged at him. There was nothing to gain in letting the Gehyran torture him - if anything, the sick bastard would probably take a liking to that - and there was certainly no need to protect Ciaran. He'd obliterate the entire clan if they so much as stepped on his lawn without a permit. His eyes narrowed, he answered simply: "My grandfather."

If the clock hanging on the opposite wall were still being fed with any sort of current, its ticking would have no doubt been deafening in the silence.

The ex-gekkonid's hand snapped forward, fingers curling in the dark locks and yanking at Deimos' head in disregard for his current posture, pulling the rest of the captive's body along the ground, displacing dust, and bringing that anger-distorted face up to his own. "Listen, Deimos," Mictian began, expression serious. "I can certainly carve your innards out one by one in a manner that'll leave you begging for death - and by golly, if that's not enough, I can call Zyan in who very much does make grown men cry - but we can also have this a lot simpler. Specifically? Don't. Lie. To me."

That tense, strained spine twisted as if Deimos were a fish out of his element, trying somehow to wind his head out of the grip of that hand. Past gritted teeth, an angry huff spilled for words: "I'm not lying."

The Gehyran rolled his eyes. "Deimos, don't be difficult. Magic 101. I listen to what I'm taught before I go off trying to interrogate someone, you know? I have a decent grasp of the cornerstones and am not as easily fooled as you might wish."

"Argh," Deimos spat at the air, eyes squeezing shut in frustration. "I'm not lying."

Mictian remained unimpressed. "If your grandfather had blood talent, so would you."

A hiss petered out into silence, before the attempt of a shake of his head finally culminated in spoken words, a name: "Ciaran Taika-Tessaro."

For a moment, Mictian stared at the captive, own gaze burrowing into that of Sylvain's as if the absolute truth were that easily obtained and assured.

>Thud< Sylvain's form limply fell back against the tiles, no longer held aloft by the grip of his raven locks. The rage and venom still boiling within him demanded another insult be thrown, but he struggled to think of one that would have an effect on the soulless husk of the one who had once been Eventide leader. "...you're a disgrace to your childe."

Mictian had adopted a look of distance and risen to a stand. The timing made it hard to peg whether or not it was result of the barb or simply deep thought about the prior conversation. Perhaps the truth lay somewhere between those two extremes. "I know," he remarked, emotionlessly, before allowing himself a thin huff of a breath, glancing to the side, dragging his gaze in pointless exploration across the cafeteria's aged aluminium ledge, marks of tray upon tray that had dragged across that surface having marred it and given it a distinct texture. Absent-mindedly, he fished in his right pocket; and a moment later, a clatter disturbed the new silence.

"...what is that supposed to mean?" Deimos asked.

But there was no answer, and a drawn out silence carried by fluid motions to the door later, the captive was left to himself amidst that surreal, urban forest once more.

Not much was different to before.

Just the glitter of the returned soulfuser-pendant on the tiles before him.

[Dread]

. . . . . .

Mercurian's fingers drummed against the side of his aged laptop, the soft sound of their tips' impact with the unrelenting surface disregarded.

The sheen of the screen was illuminating his current spot of quiet seclusion up in the third storey of Pyrites and 3rd.

'He doesn't deserve that immunity. He doesn't know to value it. He's forgotten what the sting of the sun's rays feels like, yet he condemns those he is too frightened to deal with to a death by smouldering in the sun while he watches. If I could find a way to reap that from him, that would be vengeance enough - his death is secondary, he failed in his attempts to kill me, and I am not one for vengeance for loved ones. A daywalker. What a concept. We should try to find out what it is that Narayan and Mercurian have shared with Aranel, what they are so reluctant to share with others. It is their best kept secret. If we can steal that, it is far more of a degradation than a death could ever achieve.'

The unreality of the words on his screen came from forced disassociation. There was no shock, no rage - none of this was any news. Of course Gehyra was planning to strike against the Immolators. It was also painfully obvious they were going to wait until the Splinters of Dusk had been conquered before moving on.

No news.

None of it. Not factually.

Still, actually reading those words, tangibly, had a different flavour. Those pixels were the closest he had come to Zyan in the past five years. Certainly too close for comfort, coaxing loathing from him with practised ease. But not right now. Right now, he was too dumbstruck.

Again, he glanced down to that flat, stylised pendant that had come in the mail, and the scratchy engraving at the back of the same.

url=ask iris
u=Mictian
p=kumuguwe

The attached letter had filled in the blank.

Dear Mr. Mercurian Steele,

after careful perusal, it is my assessment that this is meant for you.

The web address is gehyra.thorngale.net/susurration


Sincerely,
- Sylvain Deimos, on behalf of Mictian d'Avarice and Iris Caligo

The access granted wasn't much, two measly boards beyond those publically viewable, but it was enough.

Mictian. In Gehyra. For this. To get him this.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

His kingdom for advice.

Where was Narayan when one needed him?

[Dread]

[#nightchilder, 28th March 2010; participants: Mictian (as Mercurian) and Aranel]

Eager shoulders pushed past a particularly stubborn bubble of people, him weaseling and winding his way to the designated location. He was three minutes early, but at the pace he was seeing himself through the club, trying in most parts not to be pushy, to elbow, to bulldozer through, that still had a very real possibility of adjusting itself to the proper time.

A near-collision with a cocktail glass later saw him hurrying up a far more sparsely populated flight of stairs, leaving pulsing lights behind. His right hand fished out the sketch with directions, gaze dragging across the messy lines, left hand clasped against his jaw as if in contemplation. He was definitely beyond that right now, though, dissolved in his own dark enthusiasm for an overdue hunt, elated simply because he was allowed to.

Allowed to. No more stupid blood truce.

The way was left, apparently. An energetic stride took him down that corridor.

Last door on the right. A rap disturbs the quasi-silence of distance and corner muted club sounds. "Aranel?"

The door swings open at his touch, beckoned from within. Aranel sits, reclining on a small leopard-print sofa, a rather large glass of something brilliantly blue in her hand sporting a small paper umbrella and a wedge of pinapple, half-drank. She herself looks rather less sophisticated than her usual outfit; her skirt is rather short, and her top resembles the hide of an African equine. She smiles as he enters, raising her glass. "Made it alright, I see? No trouble at the door?"

Professionalism is also a matter of atmosphere - and this one wasn't conducive. For a moment, Mercurian's goal is eclipsed, and a tunnel vision of curiosity buries its stare against Aranel. Then the moment passes, motion touching the briefly paralysed form once more, and fingertips nudge against the door to close it behind him without that much heed is paid to them.

"No trouble," he confirms, that forward-momentum dampened slightly, shoulders thusly touched by the hint of a slouch. "How much time do you have?" he asks, nail of his right hand's middle finger scratching almost soundlessly against his thumb, fabric of his trouser's right pocket between the digits. Technically, this shouldn't take long, but buffer was always good to have. Magic was hardly the most predictable of arts.

"Lover," she says, teasingly. "I have all night." She takes a sip of her drink before setting it down, sitting up from her reclining position and adjusting her crossed legs to be less alluring. "But you mentioned something a little more intriguing in your message?"

Somewhere inside Mercurian, the comment about time was met with a joyous response, childish glee seeking to bubble forth something entirely inappropriate. A twitch of his left eyebrow is physical manifestation of his inner smack-down and scolding. Not now. And there went that thought, rudely dismissed anew.

'Oh, the things you do to me,' Mercurian briefly allowed himself the fond thought, before adopting a smile - then an abruptly stern expression. The thumb in his trouser pocket pushes against its contents; and a moment later, a thin pendant looking like a large, fashioned flake of aluminium depicting some kind of creature with wings surfaces from those confines.

Chink. The item's cast onto the sofa next to her.

"I got this in the mail, along with a short letter from the current leader of the Eventide."

Were she to pick it up and take a look, she might see that the less attractive backside of the flat pendant has letters scratched into it. A username, a password, and a reference to some person called 'Iris' for the web address. The username is quite familiar, too. 'Mictian'. Wasn't that the poor sod inflicted with that lovely bloodline locking bone marrow magic trick?

Aranel picks up the amulet with a playful, "A gift for me?" as she examines the backside. "Oh, so the puppy's good for something at least, if he can't keep his nose out of trouble." She doesn't ask about the letter, but glances up at him, waiting for him to elaborate.

"Mictian joined Gehyra," he informs, flatly. "To get me that." He pauses, allowing a stare of his to linger on that glinting object. "Current Eventide leadership sent me it in the mail, along with a short letter with the web address. And it's an interesting read. Not half as interesting as the act itself, mind you." Both his hands slide into his pockets by their thumbs, shoulders tipping back slightly once more, back straightening, a posture of determination returning to him. To go to that effort just to confirm Gehyran intentions?

She raises an eyebrow. "And I'm guessing you found what you were looking for?" she asks, reaching for her drink.

"That part doesn't matter so much, but yes. Zyan has a nice little thread dedicated solely to his delusional rambles. You can imagine their subject, I'm sure. And they're no more creative than that, I promise... which is why I say the act is far more interesting," he elaborates, his arms crossing before him; at least until his right hand raises from that construct and he flexes it into a fist restlessly, kneading at air silently. "I want to help him, Aranel. I want to help Mictian. I want to get him out of there. And I want to end Gehyra. Zyan. Properly this time."

A pleased little smirk settles into Aranel's face. "Now you've really got me all excited," she purrs, setting her drink down once more. "I love a good slaughter."

"It's finding him that'll be a problem, though. While this time we have the good fortune that he's unaware, the coward's hiding behind Locate-dispersing magic, whatever the fancy terminology for that might be. Has been for two decades now." His arms are back to being crossed, his gaze somewhat absent-mindedly preoccupied with watching her set her glass down, unrelated to his train of thought. "Think it's anything you can break through?"

She laughs gaily. "I can break through anything, given enough time and resources. The only question is how. What spell he's using, and what the drawbacks are, and how big a hammer I'll need." She shrugs. "What have you tried already?"

How big a hammer. The metaphor tugs at Mercurian's lips, allowing himself that amusement for a moment. "Locate, naturally," Mercurian nods once, more as if in confirmation to himself. "The skill just fails entirely, though. I've yet to go to the Empaths Guild directly about it - I don't think it's healthy to owe them a favour, even if they can get through it, though I will if all else fails." Briefly, his gaze wanders elsewhere, replaying what he'd all done since getting Deimos' letter. And then his gaze is back on Aranel as he summarises: "I've asked Hailey to brief her proverbial troops on Zyan's appearance so they know to mention him if they come across him." Hailey was a vampiress in charge of the information seeking branch of the clan - keeping track of shop sightings, the motions of other guilds, picking up on gossip as it happened, standard procedure in the city, though quite well organised for the simplicity of the task. "So far, naught."

She nods again. "And I'm presuming you've tried getting ahold of one of his childer and using a Scroll of Succour?"

"The only childe I know Zyan to have is Mictian - and contacting him doesn't seem an option," Mercurian imparts, shaking his head in the process. "Not that it matters - I know from Narayan that Succours don't work for Mictian."

She nods. "I wonder if I can't use the spell he placed on Mictian to trace him?" she muses, aloud. "After all, it imparts his essence... but that's academic if we can't get hold of the kid."

"Tracing Mictian is no problem," Mercurian muses, letting his gaze drift away again, contemplative. A moment later, he inclines his head and shakes it slightly. "On the other hand, I imagine Gehyra's keeping an eye on him. The last thing we need is sending a signal that we're on to this by 'kidnapping' Mictian from Gehyra."

She nods. "He was an amusing kid anyway..." she muses, before grinning. "And I kept a sample the last time I saw him. If the spell wasn't ruined by my preservation, that might do to trace him down."

Mercurian's attention is instantly gotten, snapping him out of whatever stray musing he had a moment ago. Gaze anchored back on Aranel's face, a light dances in his eyes. "A sample?" he asks, voice full of an almost childish curiosity, but also that predatory anxiety of having a possible path mapped out to his prey soon. He's unaware of the details surrounding Mictian's meeting with Aranel. Most of what he knows comes from a sidenote uttered by Narayan a day ago - including the blood relation between Mictian and Zyan, itself.

She nods. "I took a sample from his arm in order to study the spell more closely. After, I tossed it in a jar, created a magical seal, and forgot about it. It should still be sealed and fresh."

"A sample of what?" Mercurian's voice dips, presuming blood but wanting confirmation, retaining the curiosity but losing that touch of innocence, as if he were tempted to pluck that information from her physically, were there a way to do this without actually harming her. Tunnel vision. This subject is certainly interesting, manifestation of all he's been missing. All that's been kept from him by Narayan and the gekkonids, a second time, in a misguided effort to keep him behaved.

Well, on reflection... probably sane, actually. But still irritating.

"Down, tiger," she says, playfully. "I scraped some marrow from his bone. Silly child wouldn't sit still, but I managed to get a decent sample."

"Bone marrow?" Mercurian echoes, shoulders touched by motion as if he were thinking to roll them, a quirky motion of his head distantly reminiscent of a bird. A thin exhale leads up to his next statement, though not uttered due to impatience, but rather simply the desire to do away with some of the tension in him. "Forgive, I'm... out of the loop, it seems. What does bone marrow have to do with the bloodline link?"

"Oh, it was a clever spell, achored to the marrow - that way, it's constantly re-siring him, making it impossible for him to escape." She grins. "If he wasn't such a bastard, I'd be envious of Zyan. I'd not have thought of it. But then, I suppose it's due to his crooked thinking that he thought of it in the first place."

Bone marrow? Re-siring? He connects the statements. Functioning bone marrow in a vampire? Short of in himself, Narayan and Aranel, that was essentially unhear-

Oh.

He closes his eyes, left hand raised off his right arm, fingers curling, until the back of his index finger rests against his forehead for a moment struggling for calm. Coincidence. Surely. "Aranel, colour me paranoid," Mercurian begins, certain tension in his voice. Of course, 'paranoid' was a naturally prominent personality trait in him, so it took little imagination to picture him with it. "I just had the oddest association, dispell my worries for me, will you? He couldn't be using that kind of trickery as first basis to becoming a daywalker, could he?" Inwardly, he was chiding himself: 'No, no, surely you're just getting ahead of yourself. You know nothing about this substance. It's probably nothing like what you imagine. Relax.'

Aranel blinks, then grins. "Now that would be a neat trick. We'd better hurry our hunt a little, just in case."

The hand against his forehead bunches into a fist, joints dragging across his skin as if perhaps hoping to massage out the forming grimace. No luck. The hand is cast aside almost with irritation. No point harping on it. It wasn't what he'd wanted to hear - but it did serve as excellent additional fuel, barbing him into only barely contained rage at the subject of their conversation. For a moment of silence, struggling with himself, his jaw works; then he nods, casting a freshly hardened gaze at Aranel, allowing his lips to upturn in a smirk of raw loathing at thought of his nemesis, and speaking, back on original topic: "What are our options?"

Aranel counts on her fingers. "One, we really hope the sample's fresh and I can use it to trace his location. If the sample's not fresh enough, we can try to stealthily kidnap your mole back and use his body instead. If the spell's just not conected enough to trace, I'll need more info on what he's using so I can try to overwhelm or short-circuit his spell. Barring that, there's always the old fashioned way of have someone we CAN locate stand near him and point out the direction."

A nod acknowledges the list, him not feeling to add the embarassing final option of 'run to the Empaths Guild hoping their leaders are better at this sort of thing than we are, begging for guidance'. Instead, he stays on track, and curt: "Where is this sample now?"

"Back at my hotel room, in all liklihood. Escort a drunken lady home, would you kindly?" she asks, batting her lashes at him as she reaches for the drink to drain it in preperation to depart.

Much as a part of him still had the merry urge to utter something like 'There are plenty things I would do for this drunken lady', it was in absolute minority in his crowded mind. No, fun and games was over. "Certainly. Though you should probably sober up," he adds. No, no more fun and games; he was evidently wishing it to be contageous.

She laughs. "Not until we get back to the hotel and I brew some coffee. I'm like to be sorely miserable when I do." She winks, draining the last of her drink and setting it down as she stands, smoothing down her skirt.

[Dread]

[#nightchilder, 2nd April 2010; participants: Mictian (as Mercurian) and Gremlin (as Zyan)]

Like a cascade of coloured dust, Erato station coalesced into existence. A fierce nudge against his left shoulder tugged at his perception as sound manifested around him and the last veils of teleportation magic dissipated into the cool night air. His tunnel vision blocked out the exact nature of the uttered apology, briefly dragging his stare like a dagger across the offending bypasser; wide eyes were latched on him in turn as the pedestrian swam through the crowd toward the train for Calliope and away from the creature that had just appeared out of nowhere.

Mercurian Steele, both hands bunched to fists, a white-hot rage freshly barbing at his insides, slashed his gaze across the anonymous crowd.

'Erato, now.' The information burnt along his synapses, the curt way Aranel had delivered them after their days of work having prompted instant action. As vaguely verbal thoughts, barely coherent in the sea of rage, came an echo of her words to himself, and the enquiry: 'Where are you, you bastard child?'

A scent, a glint of bleached hair, two metres from the open doors into that aluminium-wrapped vessel. There. Skipping a breath, the Immolator threw his left fist up across his right shoulder, elbow like a massive thorn out front, and pushed forward with disregard to anyone else.

A syllable of sound, intended as a word, accusation, insult, or something other tangible, strangled itself down into a guttural snarl as that sought shape became more apparent; and an instant later, Mercurian's shape is upon the Gehyran, weight abruptly shoving him like a gust might a leaf with force against the side of the wagon, causing that plastic ersatz of glass to shiver in protest.

With all the purpose of a king among the poor and beggars, Zerachiel weaved through the crowd at the station, as he had places to be and no one was about to keep him from arriving at those destinations on time. No one would wish to see him full fury today, he was feeling particularly restless and that could pose quite the danger to anyone.

Eyes cast over toward the transit with an air of disgust. Public travel. A solitary creature like himself was not one for public appearances and preferred to stay in his circle of darkness. Not that anyone around him would care to know that.

Muscles flex in his hand as his fingers curled up into a fist with impatience. People could truly be a waste of time. None the less, he pushes his way through these 'wastes of space' with no thought to injury or other such things. He didn't make it far, however, before the weight of another crashed against him.

A deep groan that sounded a lot like growl came from his lips, soon twisting into a malicious smirk. "Attacks in public. Lovely."

The weight relents, only for the assailant's left hand to shoot up, tangling into the bleached strands of hair. Fisting. Tugging. Shoving. Zyan's face impacts against that ages and scratches plastic surface, even as a tinkering sound disturbs their local silence. Though, it wasn't really that local anymore. The crowd had drawn back from them, each individual trying to retain the routine of normal life while avoiding the fight.

"Found you," Mercurian growls gutturally, syllables barely tangible as words, considerably more like the utterings of some predatory animal, his face scrunched up in display of that white-hot rage.

An instant later, he brings his right hand up, its fist closed against his ring of keys, with one key each jutting out between his fingers, spiking outward. The grip against Zyan's head relents, leaving him free to move, slip away with that superhuman speed should he wish to. Uncaring of the sliver of potential freedom, Mercurian swings that hand back, coiling to strike the Gehyran in the face, shoulders twisting to follow the motion, the entirety of the daywalker's form focussing itself for that strike.

Eyes narrowed onto the face of the man that was putting up the assault, the smirk never leaving his expression. He wasn't about to allow this daywalker to see any amount of fear as it would give him too much enjoyment. Enjoyment that Zyan would have no joy in giving to him, though it was obvious that this was no joke of a meeting.

As the fingers curled and yanked at the bleach blonde hair, the man set out a growl of murderous intent, since he was growing quite tired of this touching, fighting game that was being played. He could feel the others move away from them as the fight was sure to escalate. Men and the need to retain a sense of normalcy. Pitiful.

As Mercurian's hissed words reached his ears, his rolled upward before returning to his face. "Obviously. If you hadn't found me, we wouldn't be making me a scene, now would we?" he whispered with drops of deadly venom filling his words, completely ignoring the fist with the possible weapons raised at the ready.

>Crack< Like metal spikes, the keys tear across Zyan's cheek, easily breaking skin and adding in an angry burning sensation alongside the furious, if dull-flavoured pain coming from the punch itself. The hand twists, though not to realign the keys, and an instant later snaps back against Zyan's face in the other direction, with just as much force, seeming almost enough to snap the spine at his frail neck. Back in its drawn back position, the hand flexes, uncurling from the keys for only an instant, then snapping back into a fist against them, even as the daywalker reaches forward with his left hand to grab Zyan by the collar, to twist fingers into that fabric and hold him pinned against that side of the train, to keep him upright for another strike.

He's not very talkative, it seems.

There was the moment from the start of the strike to the moment it happened for him to simply close his eyes. He was aware that there would be more than one and so braced himself for each, whether he see it or not. Naturally, each of the hits was taken without as much as a sound. Not a wince, whimper. Just the backlash of the hit.

As the hits continued, he let his mind drift away, ignoring the pain shooting from his newest wounds. Zerachiel was strong and this would be taken in stride. He was not about to go down without some sort of a fight. Whether it be by words or physical violence. However, currently, words were a better option.

When the hits stopped, he allowed his gaze to return to Mercurian's face and his eye brows raise in an obnoxious way of saying: 'That's it?', but he kept those words to himself, noting that he was at the disadvantage in this point in time. Sad, really. He would have loved to put up more of a fight.

It takes Mercurian all of five strikes to tire of that particular flavour of assault - three punches with the keys, two backhand strikes more or less without them. Angry red marks marr the bony face of Gehyran, and a deep tear has slashed itself all the way through his left cheek, parting the fibres of his cheek almost all the way to his lips, leaving only a narrow bridge of flesh preventing that particular tear from becoming an extension of his by now more tired smirk.

For a moment of silence, blood lazily drips off two of the keys, still held ready for another strike back across that face. Instead, the hand drops, carelessly pocketing the keys once more, before the hand shoots back up, grabbing a hold of Zyan's hair, fingers dragging in curve across his scalp, nails leaving behind a burning sensation in their wake, applied with such pressure. It seems Mercurian's calmed down enough to allow himself some rational thought. What delight!

Left hand fisted in that shirt, right in his hair, Mercurian plucks Zerachiel's hapless shape away from the train, taking a step back, before raising his entire form off the ground by those two grips alone. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't destroy you," he growls up at the Gehyran, persistant twitch in the right-hand-side wrinkles of his nose, as if perhaps he were undecided whether to use his fangs to tear Zerachiel apart or not.

Of course 'destroy' hardly pertained to their little dance now. No, this was trivial, this was casual conversation, so to speak. 'Destroy' was sunlight, of course. Sunlight, all over again, that terrible foe, the adversary Zyan had spent decades recovering from and further decades trying to permanently escape from, like those more fortunate. Mercurian. Narayan. Aranel. Mocking him, daywalkers as they were.

'Being destroyed' was far removed from anything Zyan wanted.

The whole scene begged the question what line he had crossed, of course. The truce was clearly broken, Mercurian was a reckless animal about to escalate this scene into something terrifying, but that hardly answered why they were locked in this physical - if one-sided - battle. Narayan had been so adamant five years ago, mediator between these two parties. They were to avoid each other. Zyan had kept his end of the deal, even if he had no intention of doing so in future, so what had changed?

It was impossible to keep the murderous glint from returning into his eyes as the last strike was done and the keys dropped. This was getting beyond ridiculous, and it had to end at some point. The useless torturing would not get Mercurian any more satisfaction than seeing him dead would. Zerachiel would be sure of that.

A sigh escaped the man at the question and he somehow managed to maintain some amount of composure to answer in an offhand manner. "If you hadn't intended to 'destroy' me to being with, we wouldn't be here and you wouldn't be holding me so nicely suspended in the air. Which, I must tell you, is getting to be quite uncomfortable." He said, waving his hand in dismissive manner, almost expecting Mercurian to release him at once. There was no need to really hold him there, it's not like he was about to run out of the station like this. It would be mortifying.

In any case, he raises the hand that was used for emphasis to his words and touched his now ripped open cheek. The blood slid slowly down his fingers as he pulled it away and eyed the blood as if it was traitor to him. Then his gaze moved to lower onto his attacker's face. Without another second wasted, he reached down and with as equal force of the keys, swiped his nails down the man's cheek, allowing the blood on his fingers to mix with Mercurian's through the cut. As much as the idea of sunlight sent fear spiralling through him, he would not show it. "Can I ask why you are here to threaten me with the sun?"

A hiss surfaces from the daywalker, nose wrinkling further in unvoiced snarl. An instant later, both hands snap to the side and down without relenting their grip, tearing Zyan's shape down from his suspension in the air and slamming him down against the ground, impact rattling against his spine. "No, you worm," he responds past gritted teeth, words full of venom, not at all eager to reveal the information granted to him by Mictian. Not yet. Once Zyan was irreversibly doomed, perhaps, but until then, he could keep guessing.

Said, his right hand leaves Zyan's hair, only for its thumb to warp into a hook, nail driving itself between the torn flesh of that cheek. An instant later, the hand tears back, shredding the cheek by severing that last hold, jolting pain up Zyan's senses. Before he can get fully accustomed to that, index finger and thumb of the hand come back down against his face, sliding down against the sides of his nose very near his brows, threatening to sink with familiar force into his eye-sockets like fleshy daggers.

A heavy sigh was all that he managed before being thrown to the ground and his spine hitting with a brutal force that left him close to motionless. He ground his teeth together to keep any sounds of pain at bay and to remain in a position of power. Even if not the physical sense of power, but the power by staying quiet and not begging for mercy or any such thing.

Being unable to make a move with possibility of making any injury worse, he stared up at Mercurian with the purest hatred radiating from his being. Where had all this gone wrong that now he was being ripped apart? Quite literally. However, it was long before the next act of pain was committed, making it impossible for him to speak without spewing blood everywhere. Lovely.

Naturally, his eyes crossed as the tips of the fingers threatened to slide into his eye sockets before his raised his look to the look upon Mercurian's face and he knew from that point, he was practically helpless. He couldn't speak without beyond piercing pain and if he could not see, there would no help to stop any imminent torture that was to take place.

There's no pause to the motion; the fingers stab down, pushing past the white of Zyan's eyes, pads of Mercurian's fingers dragging across the crimson membrane lining the interior of those sockets. The pressure threatens to entirely dislodge his eyes, cause them to spill forth - but before they can, the fingers jerk back out, leaving furious pain in their wake, but no permanent damage. Not that any damage on a vampire was ever permanent, really, short of that dreaded kiss of sunlight.

An instant later, those fingers are back in Zerachiel's hair, twisting into it and against his shape as the towering form of the Immolator shifts. A brutal kick sliding under Zerachiel and effectively striking him against the small of his back tips him around. The moment passes, leaving Mercurian with his right leg's knee pushed against Zyan's spine, crushing that abused face against the dirty ground of the transit station. Left hand having uncoiled from the fabric of his shirt by now, by necessity, Mercurian brings it around to lock around Zerachiel's left wrist, only to shove it so far up his spine that the respective shoulder nearly dislodges from the force, muscles straining to keep the bone in its socket. Weight pushes against Zyan's head, grinding his left cheek bone down against the ground.

To anyone, the act of remaining calm in this situation would be something to be admired. Well, people had better start their admiring, because there was once again, not a single sound or cry that was heard from Zerachiel. As it should be, since Mercurian did not deserve any amount of response for the actions that were taking place.

He had kept up his end of the deal, so until he learned the reason for this ruthless vengeance, his attacker would be left with little satisfaction. So, he took every hit with as much dignity left in his body. However, with each hit that he took, his eyes grow heavy. The brink of passing out was coming fast.

It was not from pain that he could feel the loss on consciousness, but more the lack of being unable to fight and left completely at the hands of Mercurian. Sure, he had gotten in that one swipe on his cheek and the man was still bleeding, but it was not enough. He wanted to see him bleed and witness his broken form, just like him.

Snap. There went that shoulder.

But something was wrong. Something seemed off. For a moment, Mercurian holds himself still, letting the silence from around them, excepting hastened footsteps from those who still hadn't left the vicinity entirely, or who'd newly entered into it.

Limp. That was the problem. The bastard had given up on him, just like that. A venomous, resentful chuckle spilled forth from the Immolator, petering out into that uncomfortable silence.

Publicity. Something he'd overlooked in his rage.

Jaw set, he glances up, away from the sagged Gehyran beneath him, dragging his gaze through his environment as if it had a tangible form, weight that needed to be moved and had momentum. Not too far from his left stood three onlookers, petrified, staring at the two men as if they were perhaps witness to the first sign of a dawning apocalypse. He grimaces lightly, letting a glance of apology briefly touch his features, but sans elaboration, before sweeping his gaze across to his right. There are more people, but only those crossing to the train itself, hurrying and concentratedly minding their own business.

That had been entirely uncalled for. While Zyan certainly deserved what he'd gotten plus much more, the others were innocent bystanders in the truest sense of the word. There was no need to subject others to this personal vendetta. Certainly not now. He let his eyes close, allowing himself the luxury of a moment's calm.

This could easily continue elsewhere.

Expression hardening, Mercurian slides from his perch against Zerachiel to a stand, a fluid motion, keeping his hand fisted in the Gehyran's hair and pulling him up like a ragdoll. A moment later, he's slung the form across his shoulders, and with bitterness lining his entire shape, he begins a saunter from the station, out into the night, refusing to glance back, stolidly willing the thought of discomfort away.