Our Burdens

[Taelian Edevane]

4th of Frost, Year 4621

As the two stepped through the portal to Taelian's Noble Quarter flat, they would be greeted by a foyer surrounded by small rooms on all sides, and an upstairs with two bedrooms side-by-side. The aesthetic of the home was simple; dark wood, elaborate paintings upon the wall, red velvet furniture with black accents across. It was Eloise's old home, or one of them; a remnant of her long history back in the Empire of Rust.

The man did not bother answering Arkash's queries. They would have time to discuss... all of that, later. First, he would prioritize the Rathor's health.

"You need medical treatment," he said, softly. "I'm no expert, but I have a set of Necromancer's tools. If the wounds are merely surface, I can close them." There was little a bit of Sinew Foam couldn't cover, when it came to external wounds. Taelian was a fast learner -- he would practice some, and then work the wounds carefully, if needed. If it proved to be too much of a challenge, he was certain he could find a Necrodoctor somewhere in the city.

"Get some rest," said the man. "Take my bed. I'll... prepare some tea and food for you in the meanwhile, something to make you feel better. And I'll configure my set of tools while you rest."

He led the other man to his room upstairs, taking his hand and ensuring that his other carefully clung to the rail along the stairwell. Once Arkash was to the door, he ushered him inside, leading him to the mattress. He realized it would become rather... filthy, considering the Rathor's condition, but he tried to set aside those thoughts. The condition of his bed mattered little, in comparison to the life of a friend.

The Sil'norai would not leave the room until Arkash's back was planted against the mattress. Once it was, he pulled the covers over him and smiled faintly, before heading to his large bathroom to peer into the mirror for a while, examining his appearance. 'Aesthetic Cohesion', and all. A fundamental in his role as a Thespian.

Once he was satisfied with the exact positioning of his strands of hair, and the way his collar appeared amidst his outfit, he removed his coat and pulled his Necromancer's tools from the drawer beneath the vanity. Opening the metal clasp along the center of the leather-bound kit, he pulled the large, rectangular front of the case open, revealing a set of twelve tools of various quantities.

"Suppose the five thousand farthings I spent on this came in handy..." Taelian muttered. That one kit was worth more than half a galleon -- having it collect dust beneath his vanity hadn't been something he had intended. The man was glad that it would see some use.

He grabbed the gun-like object, loading the foamy material through its back compartment into a cartridge, and setting his Carving Sickle beside it along the edge of his vanity table. It had been a while since he'd used Necromancy at all, but this was the one thing he was relatively familiar with. All he would need to do would be to apply a modicum of foam to the wounds, before carving off excess with the sickle to ensure Arkash kept his shape. It required some precision and artistry, but he was a Resoner; precision was something he was well attuned to.

After preparing the basic set-up of Arkash's treatment, Taelian returned to the bedroom only to find the other man asleep. Smiling softly as he peered down at him, the Knight pulled a stool to linger beside his bed, before grabbing the tools and placing them atop the end table near him. He slowly, gently weaved his hands through his clothes to find the wounds, though the blood traces along his clothes quickly led Taelian to them. Once he'd found them, he cut open holes in Arkash's attire with the Sickle so that he did not need to undress or wake him, leaving gaps wide enough for him to examine and treat each wound.

He was astounded that he had survived four shots -- few other men would. What was stranger was the color of his blood, something Taelian thought to attribute to his nature as a Rathor, though in reality... he only ignored his better judgment. He knew the exact shade well. Confirming his suspicion, though, would only make their relationship... very difficult, so some negligent part of him decided not to.

He pressed the nozzle of the Sinew Foam gun against each wound and filled them in, the white substance flooding into the gaps and quickly catalyzing, reacting with the surrounding organic material to replicate it and repair the missing layers of flesh, skin and tissue. As the foam synthesized new cells, Taelian worked to smooth away at the lingering excess with the sickle. He'd specifically chosen a flat, leaf-like one, scooping the foam from his skin and collecting it, before tossing it into a small bowl he'd prepared.

Minutes became grueling hours, as he'd discovered that the foam continually expanded from the wounds and needed to be shaved off each time. All throughout, he had to be slow and cautious, both to ensure Arkash remained dormant and so that he did not make any mistakes. By the end of it, though, it appeared his work had been successful.

Taelian cleaned his tools and returned them to the kit, which he locked away within the drawer again. Leaving the room, he moved to seat himself within his study, reading books on Necromancy to pass the time, and to ensure he did not make any mistakes that would have lingering effects. Fortunately, Sinew Foam and the Sickle were the most basic of tools, and there was little error that could really be made.

More time passed. Eventually, within the soft fabric of his sofa, Taelian fell asleep within the common area of his home, turning off the lamp beside him before shutting his eyes and allowing darkness to consume his vision. Time passed more still, until he fell away into dreams through the night.

- - -

[Arkash]

Sense was lost in his exhaustion, the product of his injured lung. It was the timeless strain that accompanied a run in the freezing cold, the ache in his lungs, the wear and tear in his muscles. He tried so desperately to recover his energy on his shallow breaths, but it wasn't happening, not while he still walked and talked. The rathor needed rest... And medical treatment, per the doctor's orders.
Without a mind to argue, Arkash walked with Taelian's aid up the stairs, and clasped the railing with loose hands, all the way to the bedroom. "You'a 'omes lovely," he spoke in reference to the room Taelian had been staying at. "I missed 'ew, Taelian," the Rien spoke with half a sigh. It was good that he was back in the man's company; a lot had happened and they had much to talk about, but exhaustion steadily worked toward claiming him, and he didn't fight it.
The moment his back met the mattress, perhaps even before his meager weight could compress the fabric, he was down for the count.

He woke softly. Four walls and the roof over his head barred him from the elements, for the first time in a month. His nostrils flared as he drew air as deeply as he could, and found the range of movement in his lungs massively increased. A sigh followed, and at the exhale, the pull of strain in his lungs ached deeply. He was better, but there was still some measure of complication to his injury. Arkash sat up on the bedding and held his chest with one arm as though it would fall apart without his aid.
Wounds... Merely surface... he recalled, then swallowed from his dry mouth. Taelian had operated on him? There was likely some sinew foam involved, and when he moved to inspect his gunshots, he found much more pleasant patches of skin in wake of the craters that were littered over his form. Tar-like blood matted the sheets he laid on; Taelian had worked on him for some time. But in his air-starved state, he didn't seem to have noticed.
Just tensing the meager muscles in the places he'd been shot yielded some soreness and strain, but he could at least function properly again. It was better not to overdo it, he determined, then looked to the door.

Quietly, he turned his body and met the strain in his gunshot thigh, not unlike the burn of a pulled muscle, before he set his bare food to the ground. The rags that made up his clothes were even more torn and tattered; the elf had tried to preserve his dignity.
Carefully, he lifted himself to his feet, and tested his breathing with care. It really was a lot better, but still sore. One hand covered his eye while the other cast sway on the blood that matted the sheets and his clothes both. In one pull of his wrist, he fashioned a blackened band of blood, which wrapped his forearm and sealed tight. There was not so much as a drop of the stuff to indicate any sort of bleeding had happened there, much less anything on his rags to indicate he'd been the one to bleed. A roll of his shoulders tested his range of movement, and a muffled pop saw him grunt in relief before he loosened and lowered them, and proceeded to the door.
As quiet as he could, the rathor opened the barricade a crack, sniffed at the air, then carefully slid from his hiding place. He still limped, but only barely. He'd adjust to the fresh muscle, he knew, but it would take time to loosen up to be fighting fit. His lungs were another matter; his breathing still felt off, and his stomach churned as corrupted bile stirred within him. He still felt sick, regardless of whether he was freshly shot or not.

Taelian's scent, deeper in the lodging, helped to counteract that. Sure, he smelled of sweat; the wretched stink of humanity Arkash had always dreaded, but Taelian's was different. If anything, he found comfort in the elf's natural smell.
When he found the half-elf asleep on the settee, he too found a gentle smile on his lips. He stood in the hall across the room with one hand to his chest, the other holding the frame for support. It took some work, but he peeled his gaze from the sleeping man, and directed it to an unattended water jug across the room, upon the countertop.
With one hand to the wall, he ushered himself along, then stopped at the counter. His bare feet made well not to make any sound, and even the sway of the blood band around his arm was noiseless. He made a cup, so that his tainted spit wouldn't somehow find its way into Taelian, and poured a glassful of water with the utmost care and delicacy before he drank the cup's contents, reveling in the coppery taste of his own wasted lifeblood. A second glassful passed his greedy lips before he gently set down the pitcher, then wrapped his arm with the black band once more.
In silence, he approached the Sil'Norai.

At first, he sat across from the sleeping elf and compressed the sickly void in his gut. He sat there in silence, watching the rise and fall of Taelian's chest, the subtle widening of his nostrils with each breath. Looking closer, he saw the way the veins of his neck bulged and pumped with every slow beat of his heart. Even though his stomach was full of corruption and his whole being was sickened with his overstepping, he still found his jaws burdened with the urge to bite the elf, but not in a fashion that would break his skin.
An exhale escaped his nostrils while he forced his mind to different avenues, and he found his face warming at the thought of their last meeting, when he'd left Taelian alone in the inn room to rest, after those words had passed his lips. Even so, was it right to do such a thing? Was it intrusive? Forceful?
...Would he even notice if he was asleep?

Quietly, Arkash crept toward the sleeping elf, then gently added his meager weight to the settee. With just as much care and precision, he began to lay on his side with his back to the elf's chest... It was there that he paused. All he had to do to complete the set was pull Taelian's arm around himself, but... Why? What was he doing?
How would he possibly explain himself to the elf? Taelian couldn't possibly buy that he was cold-blooded in his humanoid form, could he? What was more, Arkash was dirty from a month out on the road, and probably stank like it too. Taelian would wake up with ease if he remained where he was, so he quickly removed his weight from the settee and claimed it with his own two feet. His strained thigh buckled for a moment after the release, but he caught himself nonetheless.
Quickly and quietly, he swept in for the chair he'd sat on before, and brought his hands together while he looked at the elf. Worry lined his features while he considered his decisions, then cursed his cowardice and foolishness both.

Image source.

[Taelian Edevane]

He did not dream much, those hours spent alone. For a time, all his mind wandered to was the ticking of the clock; the grandfather, wooden construct sitting on the edge of the room, constructed beautifully with ornate edges and the carefully made image of Ulen's menagerie along the helm of the object. When sleep finally did truly set in, it was a peaceful one. Maybe he was glad to have Arkash back, too -- maybe he missed him, too. Maybe he was trying not to think about all of it, because there was so much on his mind and he had no concept of where to begin.

He had something of a nightmare, but it wasn't a very terrifying one, and it wasn't particularly long-lived. He dreamt he was at the edge of a great rift, a black pool that stretched down into a chasm-like hole, descending deep into the earth. Within was everything he wanted, but he had to plunge deep in order to acquire them; to cover himself in all the black muck, the ebony nightmare that was the reality below. It was grimy, and thick with a mortifying scent. Worst of all, the very sight of the tar-like gel that clogged the edges of the pool made him wonder: was this who he was? If acquiring all the things he'd ever wanted meant surrendering the base nature of who he was - his own morality - was it worth it all?

He felt a sudden warmth, bearing into his mind. It was like the sun was drawing closer, though not enough to sear him. Just... a little bit nearer. Or maybe it was only glowing brighter, or maybe the cool winds had simply carried on, further away. In the waking world, he wrapped himself more gently around the mass of heat, without realizing what - or who - it was. Until... it pulled away.

His eyes fluttered open, slowly, but once they could perceive the dim, surrounding light he quickly lifted his body to face it. Rubbing along the side of his face, he coughed suddenly, a result of the pace at which he rose from the sofa -- suddenly, forcefully. Looking towards Arkash, his gaze lingered for a moment, quiet and observing. No words.

The man leaned forward. Of course, he noticed the smell, but... he had treated the other for hours, diligently tending to his wounds, when the scent was far worse. It hadn't bothered him then, and it did not now. Taelian wrapped his arm around his neck, pulling him into his chest and draping his other arm over his back. Holding the other man closely, he sighed out from his nostrils, breathing gently over his cool skin.

"You don't need to be afraid," he said, quietly. "I missed you, too. And I don't care if you're wounded, or unclean. That doesn't matter to me. Remember what I told you, in Rainier?" he reminisced for a moment, smiling faintly. Maybe he wouldn't remember -- that was fine. He did not need to.

Taelian sighed out again, stilling his breathing. He bit his lip, and turned slightly away. "Are you a Dranoch?" the mage put forward, bluntly. "I... need to know. Just so... the truth is out there. Okay?"

[Arkash]

Though Arkash had let his self-consciousness get the better of him toward the end of his imposed cuddling, Taelian didn't seem to feel the same way about his flaws and scuffed edges. Arkash was held... By the neck. Uncertainty laced the tension in his muscles, woven with hesitation. He was utterly still in the hold, bating his breath and pressing his jaw uncomfortably. His heart raced as he pushed his head as far back as he could, and lifted both hands to hold the elf's arm at a gap from his jugular.
Though his mind tried to drag him to all the other times he'd found arms and hands wrapped around his neck, he fought such notions and suppressed those thoughts. Taelian wouldn't strangle him, he assured himself as he began to breathe raggedly. As his heart steadied just a beat or two, he realized the key; he had to remind himself where he was, who he was with. None of their faces matched Taelian's visage, his smell was different and the setting wasn't the same. It wasn't the same.

When the elf next spoke, it helped to ground him, to pull him further from the images that raced through his mind. It wasn't the same, he was with Taelian. You don't need to be afraid, he said. Was he? Was that how he felt? Terror better described the sensation of his racing heart, the strangling pressure in his throat despite not making any skin-to-skin contact between his neck and Taelian's arm.
The images in his head ran in a continuous loop, unending. Though he tried to interject with reality, to force the fact that it was Taelian, and not the baker, his progenitor, his first kiss, his initiator nor his master, the task became exhausting. It was easier to give in, to cry and beg for mercy... But he did not. He weathered the storm in his mind, and fought for the seconds that felt to span hours.
"Tae-lian..." he choked, voice frail. His jaws pressed so hard that his head began to ache. Those words, those five little words. "How could I forget...?" How could he? Taelian was the only one to accept him for who he was as he was. Did none of that matter to him? No, it did. Why else would he still be there? If anyone but Taelian had taken his neck, he would have fought tooth and claw to escape.
Instead, he pulled gently on the larger, stronger male's arm and extended his legs to drag his feet over the fabric of the sofa. "Please..." He pleaded at last. "It hurts- It hurts to breathe-."

Then the arm came free, and his pursed lips parted to exhale all his held breath and draw a fresh, deep lungful. The tension in his form receded, though he reached for his own neck and tested the skin there. He was fine, no soreness or tenderness at all, but his breathing behaved as though he was being strangled.
His heart still raced against his sternum, but it began to unwind in his freedom. He laid there for a moment or two and swallowed hard against the burn in his throat before he wordlessly sat up, then climbed over the elf. His chest tensed at the pain in his lower ribs at the motion, but he didn't care. When at last he'd clambered over, he squeezed himself behind the Sil'Norai, and wrapped his upper man around the larger male's chest while he sandwiched the other between Taelian's back and his chest. His chin rested on Taelian's shoulder for a moment, then lowered to hide behind his head.
A shaky exhale escaped him, and he pressed his forehead against the back of the elf's neck, tucking his features. "....Sorry," he started without explanation as he gradually relaxed. "I'm better now," he assured and resolved to be the cuddler in place of the cuddled from then on.

Only then did it strike him; he was cuddling Taelian. What had been a moment of abandon for his inhibition had resulted in Taelian reaching around him... And he choked up? In hindsight, he thought himself a fool and dismissed past scars as his own weakness, but the euphoric realization that he shared that intimacy with the elf only drowned his self-deprecation.
The hand that laid between his chest and Taelian's reached for his damp cheeks, and found tears. Confused, his brow furrowed above reddened eyes; when had he started crying? "...Tell me if this is uncomfy, okay?" He spoke quietly with his lips just inches from Taelian's ear. He didn't want to bring about the same feelings he'd experienced to the larger male.

Then came the question of his Blight. Arkash paused. Taelian might have even been able to hear the Rathor's breathing stop at the question. His fingers tensed just a little where they rested on his chest, and then relaxed as he resumed breathing. "...I am," he answered against his better judgment. "It happened after you gave me my arm and eye back... After our day in Rainier..." He recounted, thinking back to the day "almost a year ago, now..." Another long silence followed, and Arkash again pressed his forehead against the back of Taelian's neck.
"...Sorry," he began, heavy in his heart. "...I know you're an ebonknight, too... So..." How was he supposed to ask? It was such a bizarre predicament; the hunter and the hunted in a moment of peace. How did it get resolved? "I'm a botchling," he added. "I've never turned anyone and never will; I've always had to be careful of accidentally poisoning people with my drool as a Rathor, and my Progenitor is crazy about keeping me on the straight and narrow; she hates the Court of Dusk and all other dranoch."
Words ran like water from his lips as he began to explain, divulging everything to the elf. "She's from Sil'Elaine, got infected against her will. She's never made another progeny and I believe her when she says she never will... I got caught up in the massacre in Lower Nivenhain last frost, and I just about died from my wounds..." he extended the truth a little. "...She wasn't ready to let me die, I guess... So after I clocked out in her arms, she bled in my wounds an' I woke up like this."

"...I'd saved so many nameless in the butchering, dozens under my care and protection. So many were broken..." His fingers tightened around Taelian's chest, "can you imagine fightin' starvation, sickness, an' decay faw years to support you an' your own, only t' have some prick in arma' gun down your 'ole fuckin' family?!" He shook, tears welled in his eyes while he recalled those days, holed up in the sewers while gunshots boomed above.
"We was fumin'... All of us ou' faw blood," he continued, teeth on edge until he began to breathe deeply. "...When we went to 'er estate, we were there for Cailan. Either 'e got away or 'e wasn't there to start with... But he weren't there when we was... When she was... They didn't care. I'd promised 'em revenge, and she was close enough in their eyes... So I shot 'er and mounted 'er head in 'is courtyard."
Arkash exhaled deeply against the elf, lidding his eyes while he thought. "I realized that was a mistake afterward... Hiding in this form, being a civilian, yeah, I fucked up big time. The nameless suffer even more now, the hate towards us is even more intense, and I've caught more than a few Savant who go down there in drunken possies just to beat... sometimes kill... whoever they can get their hands on. It wasn't that bad before."
Arkash shook his head against the elf. "I bet all that Martyr talk caused problems for you too, huh?" he spoke in reference to Catherine. "...Sorry doesn't even start to make it right, I know. But I joined your rebellion, did some sharpshooting an' gunning for them," he added. "...But that was mostly just because I was lookin' for you. Never did run into you though... So I've still got some redeeming to do."

Image source.

[Taelian Edevane]

Taelian had little idea where to begin. It was undeniable that Arkash was a Dranoch, now; he had admitted as much. Those words -- and of course, the thought -- made his heart sink in his chest.

A Dranoch. He had never met one that he hadn't been tasked to kill. He had never met a 'good' Dranoch, an empathetic Dranoch, a Dranoch who saw some wrongdoing in their actions. Instead, they had been the source of dead comrades-in-arms, of tears and wounds, endless grieving. Dranoch were the source of Sil-Elaine's oppression. But was it really all of them? Arkash claimed to be separate from the greater hierarchy. Taelian had never met one that was not somehow affiliated with the Court, but perhaps that only made sense. Those unaffiliated ones... what reason would they have to involve themselves with the Remedy? He would never need to collide with them, to find them, to hunt them.

Maybe he had met ones like that, before, back when he was stationed in Radenor. He remembered seeking out and hunting a few, distant Botchlings, who always seemed so... confused. They did not understand how he knew what they were, or what his magic was. They had been made the way they were, only to quickly be abandoned.

He sighed. "...That means you kill people, though, doesn't it?" Taelian asked. "You eat them; to survive. To evolve."

The question was -- what did that mean? Did it really matter? To some degree, they were all murderers. How many men and women did Taelian need to kill to survive? He remembered, long ago, that he and Renfier had culled a camp of inoffensive Badlanders just to take their water, and some of their rations. All just so they could live.

His feelings were mixed and uncertain. He was confused; he did not know how to feel, and he wasn't sure he would for some time. Could all of Arkash's feedings be attributed to the cycle of life, of predation, or were they evil actions that needed to be managed and dealt with? Could one 'cure' a Dranoch, now that he did not need that condition in order to survive?

And... did this mean he was vulnerable to infection, himself? What would happen if he became infected -- would his Beacon sear him from within, ending his life?

He shook his head.

"You don't need to be sorry," Taelian said, settling on an answer... for now. "It's not your fault. You didn't choose this, and... even if you had, I wouldn't blame you. I, too, would choose Blight over death. There's so much more you and I can accomplish -- dying to some arbitrary act of vengeance isn't how things should end for anyone."

Arkash went on to explain all of that; the action that had incited the Butchering, the way it played out. It sounded gruesome, but then, he knew that. Taelian had felt enraged, for a long time, just pondering on the actions taken those few nights. They were all a part of a different cycle -- the cycle of hatred, of revenge. It was funny; Vengeance was one of Taelian's domains as a Draedan, but he felt no affinity to it. It had been assigned to him by his Divinity, by his Divine Spark. Maybe, if he ever rekindled that facet of himself, he would change to find some virtue in it. As a mortal, though, it only left a sourness in him.

Still, Arkash was partially at fault, but he seemed aware of that. Taelian wanted to tell him what a thoughtless fool he had been; he had killed a Revenlow, Lorien's beloved, royal house. Even the revolutionaries still had sympathies for House Revenlow; that was why Franz's dissertation had been so powerful, and why he had been such a boon for the resistance. By killing Catherine, Franz had soured, and the sympathies across the realm had greatly changed. That single action had thrown the tide of the rebellion from impending victory to a slow, stagnant defeat.

...And yet, still, he could not yell at him, nor lash out. All he could do was simply rest within his grasp, sighing every now and then, breathing somewhat unevenly. He felt weak. This affection he had for him had given Taelian a blinding sympathy. Deserved anger had been dulled to little more than a lingering frown. Arkash knew what he had done, though. There was no point in... rubbing it all in. He had gone through enough, too.

"I was mostly hunting Kindred," he said back, licking at the corners of his drying lips. "In the air. We have a... blimp, that I would fire Glares from. I didn't participate much in open combat, after a while. My ability to harm Kindred was seen as too invaluable to 'waste' me on the field. So -- that's probably why we never encountered one another," Taelian explained. Moving his arms, he gripped the hands that wrapped around him, sighing and leaning forward slightly. He couldn't just ignore everything Arkash had said -- the silence would be as bad as a rejection. He had to say... something, for him to absorb, to ponder on.

"You made the wrong choice with Catherine, but that's alright. I've made many wrong choices in my life, and... I like to think that the reason I'm still here is that I've been given the opportunity to do right, make amends for them. I understand your anger, too. There's... so much injustice in this world. The Nameless -- they remind me of my own people, down in the Pyred Bedlam. That's where I was raised. We were really treated like shit, expendable, worthless. Growing up, I remember so much anger brewing in me, always reminded of how little value I had to the people in the heart of Veranor. I--I want that lot to change. But..."

He shook his head. "It can't change through irrational violence. It needs to change through wisdom, and tact. There's a reason these oppressive hierarchies have existed for thousands of years, long before us. They've refined their every function down to the letter; it is a system of power and balances, cultural myths, reverence for those at the top. In Lorien, we need to become a force that can withstand that tide. That's why I'm here; to gain the aide of Brilan Ald. And... when Lorien is no longer ruled by the Omen, I will make sure the Nameless are made to be equal. I promise you that, Arkash."

[Arkash]

...That means you kill people, though, doesn't it? Taelian started, the stark reality of it all. You eat them; to survive. To evolve. Taleian wasn't wrong, of course. He did kill people, sometimes just for the sake of eating them. "...They usually start it, the others have it coming," he offered in contrast. It wasn't as though he was eating saints; the world didn't miss a lot of the people Arkash had eaten. he knew taelian had killed people too; it was doubtful Arkash was the first to be fired upon with glare, but he could almost wager he was the first to evade it; taelian had scrambled to try and finish him off when the first blast failed, as if he wasn't ready for it... Like no one had before.
"My Progenitor is... Really strict. She taught me to hold back, to starve myself for days at a time. She took me out into crowds during the protest and kept me on a short leash... I kept going longer and longer in the noise, the smells, just... Dying to sink my teeth in." He admitted, recalling those days in the cold well. "...Whenever I couldn't bear the sickness anymore, she'd give me some of her blood. It eased me... but didn't fill me at all. The hunger really is just... Endless. Eating just satisfies you for a few seconds, then it's gone. She made me live like that, constantly starving, rarely finding relief. Today, I'm still hungry, still starving... But I'm comfortable with it."

Arkash looked over then and lifted his head to get a better look at the elf. He was quiet, pensive in thought. He gauged there was some sort of moral debate happening within the elf's head, but couldn't understand why. He didn't know the evils in Sil'Elaine, what the court of dusk had done, what Dranoch were truly like. "...Besides," he added, "I guarantee they've all outlived every cut of beef, mutton, and venison they've ever eaten." He continued with a few other points he thought better explained his morality.
"I don't kill good people, Taelian. I kill violent oppressors; people that use their strength to subjugate; brutes; tyrants." What he didn't mention was that he saw every facet of a monarchy under that light, guards and even some peasants to an extent. "I killed those kinds of people before I became like this... Maybe even more than I did before Fayeth taught me self-control. If anything, I don't feel as bad for taking a life, but only because I know it's not wasted. With blood magic... I never waste a drop."
As a demonstration, Arkash lifted his arm, and cast sway on the band of his own blood to make it crawl down his arm like some sort of semi-solid blood snake, then drop in a spatter on the settee. Black bile matted the fabric for a few seconds, then Arkash pulled on his fingers like claws, and drew all the blood from the fabric into the palm of his hand, solidified into the same mass that it had been before, then returned his hold to the elf's chest when he re-applied the band. Not so much as a mark was left on the fabric of the sofa; every molecule was returned to him.
Blood magic was something he normally sought to conceal, but Taelian had already somehow discovered his mark, he believed. The elf knew every facet of his being; he was perhaps the only person in the world who knew all his deepest secrets.

Dying to some arbitrary act of vengeance isn't how things should end for anyone, the elf declared after sympathizing with Arkash. He hadn't chosen that life, and it was better than dying in the manner Taelian had described... The manner in which Catherine Florent had died. Arkash squinted a little, then shook his head against the elf. "I'd argue that's how most people are murdered... Some arbitrary act of vengeance." From the common peasant caught in a love affair to the prestigious noble in a house war, all murders were born of some form of vengeance. Enforced by the law or not, that death was dictated by one man's will. "But people die every day, it's just some people matter more than others." And it was only okay for people to die if the nobility and monarchy dictated it so.
Arkash disagreed with his last sentence, but saying it aloud brought attention to how unfair it was that hundreds of innocent nameless were slaughtered by her house, and when one of them was slain in turn, the nameless were the villains. It sickened him, but he didn't say so.

There was some silence between what he'd said, the story of how he came to slay Catherine Florent, and his involvement in the Breven uprisings, but Arkash didn't mind. He was still processing the events of those weeks himself, no doubt Taelian already had a lot to think about.
"A blimp?" He asked inquisitively. "Like one of 'em giant balloons?" Taelian was special ops, then. He couldn't argue with that, his laser really was impressive. "Makes sense," he agreed. "I bet they'd be strugglin' if not for you." He exhaled against the elf, pressing his features between Taelian's shoulder blades before he drew another breath. "Sounds kinda borin', though," he admitted. "Had lots of time for powderin' you'a wig up there, huh?"
As the Sil'Norai leaned forward, Arkash paused, then mirrored the movement. "Bad joke, sorry." It wasn't really the time for banter, he recognized after the fact.

It then came back that he'd made the wrong choice in killing the noble. But it was alright, per the elf. Arkash only saw the small picture and didn't understand the scope of what killing Catherine Florent had done. He saw only the struggle of the nameless, and how much worse they were treated in recent days.
As it was revealed, Taelian had... Experienced a lot of what Arkash had. The elf didn't come from power or prestige; he was lowborn, like him. After just a moment of silence, he parted his lips to speak, but let Taelian continue first. It sounded similar, in that his people were expendable, treated like shit. The nameless were more emancipated from society's boons. The law did not protect them but punished them if they stepped out of line. He supposed they were worthless, rejected by the world they were born to... Taelian had suffered that life once, too?
What was more, Taelian spoke of the system. Arkash's heart began to race; Taelian recognized the cycle of oppression, the method in which the nobility and monarchy perpetuated power among their own bloodlines, and kept the rest of the world below them. It was almost unbelievable; everyone he'd talked about it with thought he was mad, they rejected the reality he offered like they didn't want to acknowledge the lives they lived, and continued on their ways. The butchering had changed that briefly but... No one truly grasped it, not like Taelian had explained.
There was some mention of someone called Brilan... Something, but he tunnel-visioned on the elf's talk of 'a system of power and balances', the promise that the nameless would someday be equal. His hand tightened around the man's chest while Talelan held it.

With such a revelation, he didn't know where to begin. "No- No one's ever said that before," he began. "Every time I've talked about th' system of power, how the nobles keep it in their houses and use it on everyone else to fund their nice lives... Everyone's shrugged me off." Taelian put it in a way that felt so matter of fact though. Hearing himself, he did feel like something of a lunatic in contrast. Maybe he was?
"I wish I was as smart as you," he confessed after a pause, and moved his hand just a touch. After a pause, he realized Taelian's hand was still on his, and his cheeks darkened a little while he remained hidden behind the elf. Quietly, he entwined his fingers with Taelian's... If he was allowed.
"...I," he started. "I never would'a thought you were like me at some point. You act like you've always been fancy," he continued. "Sorry you 'ad it rough, I'da stuck up for 'ew if we was on the same street." he grinned a little uncomfortably as he lied, and made himself out to have always been some rough-type badass on the streets.
"I wan' it t' change too, but... I dunno, Taelian. All I can do is fight. I'm not good at talkin' t' people, an' no one's listenin' anyway." He continued, then exhaled deeply against him. "I wish I'd just stayed with you instead of going back to Nivenhain. I could'a learned to think like you, couldn't have done stupid shit in Breven... or become a dranoch."

He smiled a little despite the weight in his chest. It was nice to imagine a world where he'd taken the brighter path, and it was relieving to speak about those things. There really was no one else in the world that Arkash could confide in so deeply, no one he could share those thoughts with.
To know Taelian thought similarly to him on some level, and that they wanted the same things, returned the pleasant anxiety he'd once experienced in Rainier with the man, but it was warmer, more soothing and comforting. His heart didn't race as hard and it didn't disturb his breathing. It did burn his throat to some degree, but not in the fashion it often did when he was about to cry. He shed no tears, he was happy, euphoric.
"Hey," he started after a long pause, and pulled a little tighter on the elf as he lifted his head. "I..." he left his lips parted while he tried to put the words together. He didn't know why, but he wanted Taelian to know. "...I really like you, Taelian," he spoke at last, choking a little. "You're my favorite person; you're always so nice to me even though I fuck up, even when I was just some crippled Rath stealing your egg out in the middle of nowhere, you were nice to me." He continued and gave a brief pause while his mind ran in circles. "I've never had this with anyone before... I've never felt so understood or cared about."
Even more than Cojack and Liu to some extent. Cojack didn't understand him, and Liu's moral compass didn't often align with his. Taelian sympathized with him in a way no one else ever could. He sniffled a little while he considered that, and drew a shaky breath while he hugged himself as close as he could be. "Sometimes, I think it was all worth it... Just because I got to meet you."

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[Taelian Edevane]

He almost wished he hadn't raised the fact that Arkash ate others, to 'survive and evolve'. Mostly, raising the topic meant he needed to confront that truth, and when Arkash took on his words with his justification, the Sil'norai found his response less than satisfactory. He struggled to rationalize much of what he said; so much of it appeared suspect to him, implausible.

He believed that his 'maker' had forced him to endure the brunt of the hunger, and that was terrible. Taelian understood better than most just how extreme the hunger of a Dranoch was -- he remembered having a chained, starving Dranoch held before him, exhibited as a specimen to loathe. He remembered seeing Dranoch feed pointlessly mid-battle, making themselves vulnerable to death merely because they had lost their ability to resist the urge. They needed to feed.

For that reason, it was difficult to imagine Arkash only feeding on this very select group of people; 'tyrants' and the like. As well-trained as he had been, there was no reality in which a Botchling could always fight that compulsion. They would have moments of fallibility, where that wall would be penetrated; where they would succumb. And Taelian knew 'tyrants' were not a very accessible class -- and how was Arkash a perfect arbiter of what a tyrant was, anyhow?

No. He had to be either lying, obscuring the truth, or believing in a lie. As willing as Taelian was to look the other way in regards to his affliction, he could find no morality in it. It was something better cured, if at all possible. He wondered if there was... some way. The Remedy never tried -- their cure was the flame. The 'Black Remedy', after all, meant the cure that was the Black Sigil. The cure that was burning all of the 'rot' away.

He was a Draedan, though... somewhere inside of him. If anyone could perform such a feat... maybe it was him. Maybe that was why he was made.

His thoughts subsided as Arkash mentioned another prospect that the mage was... relatively uncomfortable with. Blood Magic. He hadn't actually been certain that Arkash was a Vandikar until he had confirmed it; before then, all he knew was that he had given him a tome of the magic, which Taelian brought to Eloise for study. The book had been something that fascinated her -- compelled her, even.

The remnants of her that were Entente still lingered, her eyes twinkling at the prospect of becoming a Blood Mage herself. Ultimately, the woman wagered that the risks were far too high; the leader of a global organization meant to seek rights and privileges for magi, being ousted as a Blood Mage? The damage to their position, globally, would be unrecoverable. It would tarnish the meaning of the Covenant -- who they were, what the organization was.

Taelian, though, held a very muted form of the same gripes. He instinctively feared Blood Magic, but largely by its association to the Dranoch. He had seen it, before; it was legal in Sil-Elaine, and some Dranoch had used it against him in combat, another terrifying arm of theirs, wielded against the Remedy. Aldrin had stated that when Sil-Elaine was 'restored', he would make the magic punishable by death, treated in the same general vein of scorn as being a Dranoch.

Taelian wasn't so sure. A part of him felt the two could be divorced, even if they were made by the same God. Did Blood Magic need to be evil? He knew so little of it. Natural curiosity rose as a component of that, and yet given all of their topics, he decided to say nothing at all. Instead, he listened.

Taelian only spoke up at the other man's joke, raising a brow before cracking a wry smile, pinching the other slightly. "No one's worn powdered wigs in Lorien for at least, like... a hundred years. You lot down in Lower Nivenhain really haven't had much interaction with the rest of society, huh?" he smirked. He supposed it was a sore point, but making light of those things - sometimes - was a good thing to do. Taelian remembered all of the strange assertions people would make about the Court of Dusk from within the Bedlam; that Gratiana Sil'Elan had six eyes, that she rode a drago-- actually, that one was true. Sometimes.

Whatever the case, they were from two very similar worlds, and in many ways they understood one another's pain. Taelian had been taken from the Bedlam before his eighth birthday, but he still remembered those years vividly. They were a beacon of color, shrouded in the years of emptiness that followed, once the Black Sigil had been placed upon him and had been made to repress much of the splendor of his life.

Now, he understood that the reason Aldrin had failed to make him a Famished was his Divine Spark; the Sigil could not intercept his physical connection to his soul, because his soul was in some way divine. Back then, though, he believed he was Famished, and many of the symptoms still applied. It was not until his 'awakening' as a Draedan that all of those remnants went away.

He supposed, for that reason, his time looking back on all of that - and the things that came before - were skewed. Taelian did not look to his years in the Bedlam as 'years oppressed', but years surrounded by community. Sadly, he was certain it wasn't the same for Arkash. There was no solidarity for him in Lower Nivenhain -- he was a Rathor, and a lizard at that, forced to toil in the cold and be cast off as some serpentine beast. There really had been no spot of light in his life, only so much pain. Thinking on all of that more, and flexing some of the empathy that he still only barely knew how to use, he nearly wept for him. As Arkash told him of how he was the only one who had spoken of oppression, of power hierarchies, and how he wished he had stayed with him in Essen, the man momentarily shut his eyes.

"I wish you had stayed, too," he said softly. The other man shifted, turning to face the Rathor so that their eyes met and pulled more tightly on him. Taelian wrapped his arms around his chest, cradling him into his form and squeezing him gently. I really like you, Taelian. Warmth followed those words; he felt himself become strangely fuzzy, like how Riven used to make him feel. It was a feeling that Wendell had tried and failed to invoke... and yet now, with Arkash, he felt that sensation's full force.

With a Dranoch... with a Vandikar. A killer, a rebel, a mad-man. It was strange to imagine that it was him who brought this out in him, but it was. He could not deny that, especially not now.

Just because I got to meet you.

Taelian kissed him. Quickly, passionately, and filled with patience and affection. He pulled his lips to his own and locked with them, gently exchanging in the smooth motions, and cradling his chest ever more tightly. When those sudden, numerous kisses subsided, the man sunk his head into Arkash's shoulder and breathed.

"I think I'm in love with you, Arkash," the man admitted. Now, his eyes were glistening with the beginning of tears. He was happy -- but also, confused. About... so many things. All of his training as an Ebon Knight told him that this was very wrong, but he did not feel that way. Instead, he was guided to Arkash again and again, and each time they collided he felt closer to him, no matter how far apart they had been or how much time had passed.

He felt guided to him by the hand of fate. And... he didn't mind that. There were so many things he liked about Arkash, even despite his troubled story -- maybe even because of that. He was endeared to him, in a way that no one else could be. There was a place in his heart for Arkash alone, a space that had been occupied since they'd met, that had reshaped around him.

And in some small part, that space had reformed to fill the void that Riven had left. The grief between them had changed, and again he had been opened to love. And that was okay.

"You're my favorite person, too, you know," he muttered, one hand clutching the back of Arkash's head, gently running through his hair. "Ever since I became a Thespian, I've been surrounded by people that... I feel I could never trust. But not you. I feel safe with you -- we can share anything, and it won't matter. There's no judgment, pain. I see the real you, and though some parts of him are still muted, and forming his own identity... you see me, too."

He sighed. There was still so much of his own being that he knew little of. Taelian was a fresh mind, escaping years of that pseudo-Famished state. In the wake of all of that, he needed to become the man he would eventually be. He needed to become a whole person, still, rather than the unfinished puzzle that he was.

Arkash was helping him figure that out, though. He learned that he was not a vengeful man, from him. That he was not guided by rage or reactionary hate. Even though he was a Dranoch, Taelian could love him. Taelian did love him.

"You said you wished you would have just stayed with me in Essen, instead of going back to Nivenhain, and doing what you did in Breven. Well, Arkash... stay with me now," he asked of him. "We don't need to separate again. We... can -- we can..."

He paused, shutting his eyes and turning away for a moment, discarding all of his prejudices together in one swing of his head. When he turned back, he offered the man a soft, reserved smile.

"We can be together, Arkash. You and me."

[Arkash]

Taelian was quiet for some time; it was hard to tell whether or not he accepted Arkash's reasonings and explanations. Arkash wasn't bound by the dictation of laws; the force of another man's will. His morality, though skewed in comparison to the average civilian, was based on his own truth, his own reality, and the world he'd experienced. He didn't reserve mercy for the humans that would give him none in return, especially those that lived comfortably and knew no struggle nor strife.
The people he fed on to prolong his own life weren't people at all in his eyes. For most of his life, they were the monsters that could brave the harsh conditions of the world beyond the warmth of his ramshackle shed's hearth; alien creatures that pursued, robbed, and beat him for his differences. Why would he feel remorse for devouring that which had brought him such torment, that which had taken everything from him? Pennies that paled to the wealth they already carried.
He betrayed no society nor community, he waged war against that which had alienated him from birth. If he ate some of the waste, what did it matter?

Of course, he couldn't expect Taelian to fully understand. He was an ebonknight, a soldier committed to hunting and killing the likes of him. The elf didn't see afflicted individuals, he saw a single beast, a monster of his own with fangs and claws that cut down and tore his brethren asunder. Arkash couldn't understand that, either. Though he knew of the Court of Dusk and the structure of Sil-Elaine, he couldn't begin to imagine just what that looked like in practice.
They had similar starts, but opposing views on the blight. To Arkash, who'd experienced the brutality of neither the dranoch beneath the Court nor the searing wroth of the Sigil, he saw no reason for them to overcome their differences. His blight did not define him in his eyes, just as the Sigil Taelian bore didn't confine him to that worldview.

So, he opened his heart to the elf with ease. There was no one alive he could share such an experience with otherwise. Their differences didn't define them, they were an accent, a flavor of the bigger picture. That alone couldn't change the burn in his chest or the twisting sensation in his stomach.
Of course, with the opening of his heart, his regret was revealed too. If he could have gone back and stayed with Taelian... before the butchering, before he let himself die, he would have. Taelian wished he'd stayed as well. That admission, coupled with the fact that the elf turned over to face him made his heart beat faster. Some spike of anxiety stirred in his chest while eye-to-eye with the larger elf, and he resolved to breathe only through his nose so that his bad breath couldn't offend. Wide eyes gazed upon the Sil'Norai while Arkash rested with his back to the rest of the sofa.
As memories stirred, and he recounted everything that had led to his encounter with the egg in the frozen field of snow, he found no regret up until the day he left to return to Nivenhain. Early life confined to the hearth, childhood in labor, Cojack's sudden illness, Liu's sudden death, his long struggle to provide and survive, his torment, his breaking point, his return of violence, his fall, his loss. He didn't think he would have wanted to die in the first place if he'd stayed with Taelian in Rainier.

In his own words, through a burn in his throat and teary eyes, he shared that with the elf. Meeting him was worth everything. All he'd known was the turbulence of life in poverty, but that was alright because he'd been fortunate enough to know a soul as kind Taelian, a beacon of light in the unending darkness, a warm embrace in the endless cold. The catalyst, he that roused tenderness and care within him... And when their lips met, he knew that he'd do it all over again to share that moment with the elf.
But even that moment carried the weight of doubt and uncertainty. Arkash's spit had always been a dangerous thing that made others sick and, in his head, carried his blight too. His lips remained closed, and his open hand pressed gently on the Sil'Norai''s chest. When the kiss broke, he tucked his head a little and wrapped his arms around the larger male to hold the back of his head against his shoulder.
His heart raced, his breathing was irregular. He could feel it almost synchronize with Taelian's in their embrace, and Arkash stared wide-eyed in thought, and Taelian shared a piece of his own heart in turn, a proclamation of love. Arkash parted his lips to breathe while his lips pointed away from the elf. His mind raced as quickly as his heart did, and the rational thinker in him was lost in a sea of emotion.

"I do love you," he spoke through a burn in his throat while the hand on the back of his head guided his lips to the crook of Taelian's neck. "I've never felt this way before... I don't..." He paused as Taeliant spoke his heart, and shared all the comforts Arkash brought him. To know he could do something like that for Taelian made his chest flutter, and his eyes lidded while he held himself close. Chest to chest, he tenderly kissed the Sili'Norai's skin, and exhaled a brief breath of hot air against him.
"...Taelian," he began at the offer. To stay with him that time around, to remain at Taelian's side and work together from then on. He rode the storm of passion a few moments longer before he began to consider what that meant. The revolution, Dorn, Sheki, Fayeth, Raphael... So many commitments. What would become of them if he was to leave and run away with the elf?
A deep exhale saw him sigh, and press his eyes against the elf's neck after a few moments of silence. "...I wish I'd stayed with you before because I would'a gotten t' be with you longer, 'cause I wouldn't've been caught in the massacre... And because I don't have that option anymore."
He pulled back from the elf's neck to watch his eyes while he continued. "I love you... I really do love you, Taelian. My perfect world would be at your side, working with you to make the world a better place... But I'm a fuck up. I've fucked up so much more than just Catherine... I'm wiser now, I've seen so much shit that I need to put right 'cause no one else will... I'm on the chain, captive to a Veir north of 'ere, and I'm lookin' for someone dangerous."

He made an attempt for Taelian's lips, and briefly broke eye contact with the elf to look away in shame. "...And let's face it, there's no place for me in your mage order. I couldn' do what you do, I'm not cut out for it." The life of a Thespian, surrounded by the untrustworthy. What place was there for him in Taelian's life?
"...But I wanna help. I wanna make it right for you, but I dunno how." His eyes remained locked on the Sil'Norai's while he waited for some sort of response. The glisten of tears shined between his eyelids while he pursed his lips. "...I don't wanna go another year without speakin' to you though, an' if you weren't doin' so much important shit like talkin' to that alt' lady I'd ask you to come with me... And I can't read or write so I can' even send 'ew a letta'..."
He sniffled a little, and swallowed hard in his dry mouth while his misty eyes continued watering. How could it work between them? As much as he wanted it to, he couldn't see a way. His eyes watched the elf with a mixture of desperation and hope while he anxiously waited for the larger male's response.

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[Taelian Edevane]

Somehow, when Arkash began to speak... Taelian just knew. Maybe it was within his words; the tone, the ramp-up towards rejection or... something else that he would never find himself wholly satisfied with. Maybe it was the look in his eyes. Maybe it was just the way he felt in his heart; some unknown cadence that he, as a Resoner, understood. He did not know entirely, but the man narrowed and eventually closed his eyes as he listened to the other, his words rebounding off of him individually. With his eyes closed, he could feel every motion around him... every hint of warmth in every breath, every sliding movement that mutually grazed their skins.

And because I don't have that option anymore.

Those were the words he was looking for; the ones he knew were coming. So much of what followed didn't entirely make sense, though he supposed it was easy enough for him to just... deny Arkash his perceived duties. To pretend that they could disregard the tasks they needed to perform, the things they had to do.

Maybe they could. Maybe... in another life, or far into this one. Maybe none of that would matter.

"On the chain..." he repeated. His eyes opened, and slowly he shook his head. "I can kill them -- your master. Why do you always seem to underestimate me, Arkash? You never acknowledge the things that I can do -- the way I can help you. I..."

Arkash loved him back. He almost glazed over that fact, so caught up in everything else. Those words sunk in, now, though... and bit by bit, he felt his chest welling up and his throat straining, as his eyes watered as if primed for tears. He did not let them fall. He could not.

Arkash was right; he had things he needed to do. He could not abandon Lorien to follow love -- he needed to stay in Amoren until Brilan's interest had been acquired, and beyond that until negotiations were complete. There was no space in his world for the whimsical vices of love, following the Rathor to the ends of the earth. Somehow, they continued to find one another... but they wouldn't be able to rely on the strange ties of fate forever. Taelian nodded, rubbing his eyes before slowly freeing himself. He stood from the sofa and approached a table along the window, which was now being struck by rain. Lowering his hand to grab the object, he raised it towards Arkash -- it was a brass box, with a faint blue light glowing from within. A 'Transmission' device, or as some Resoners called it, a radio.

"Take this," he whispered. "With this, you can always speak to me, Arkash. All you need to do is talk clearly enough, leaning so that your voice carries into the Resonator -- the blue crystal within. If you ever need me, or if I ever need you... we can communicate through this." The man laid it on Arkash's lap, bending down to do so. Then, as he felt his throat grip onto those vestiges of sadness... he let go. Arkash was still here, and they were still close. Everything that had happened, happened. That wouldn't change.

They loved each other. That was what mattered.

"No matter where I am, I will still love you, Arkash," he said, smiling warmly. "I'm going to Bel soon. I... it's a long story, but I lost my connection to Venadak; to my father. I chose to -- a decision I now regret. I need to rekindle my connection to him, and... I don't want you to come. Valteran is down there -- I fear of what influence he might be able to wield over you."

He bit his lower lip, and shook his head.

"When I am a Draedan again, I will become immune to Blight; there will be no fear that I might become a Dranoch. When that happens, Arkash... I would like--" Taelian paused, blushing faintly. "...To make love to you. I want to -- okay?"

[Arkash]

Taelian didn't understand. How could he? Everything was so complicated. The simple solution of 'Killing Raphael', Arkash was certain that even he could, but that wouldn't mean he was free. If anything, that would damn him. He couldn't explain it all without delving into the entire story either, what was he supposed to say? What could he do? "Taelian..." he started, and promptly held his tongue. There was no need to add to the futility of it all. The sobering recognition Arkash carried reached Taelian too, it was in his own contemplative silence, the way in which he thought and the linger of his gaze.
They seemed destined to meet, and Arkash destined to be saved by the Elf whenever the outlook became grim, but their own destinies pulled them apart. They were from different worlds, both of them carried an astronomical amount of weight on their shoulders, ties that dragged them back into the fray.
They weren't the fortunate few with the luxury to abandon their commitments, and as Taelian stood, Arkash believed that the elf realized that. Without Taelian, what would the rebellion be? Without Arkash, what would become of Dorn, Sheki, and the others?

His lips remained pursed as the elf wandered to the table, and though it strained his lower ribs, he brought himself to lean on his arm, then shakily pushed himself upright and sat properly. A small box was offered, and Arkash accepted it with a softness to his brow. A resonator, a means of talking. Arkash widened his eyes.
Taelian continued his explanation, but Arkash tunnel-visioned on the box, or rather, the gesture. A means of talking to Taelian from across the world, a method of always reaching one another? To think that the elf was so certain that he wished to be with him, certain enough to grant him a method of reaching him wherever they might be, left him teary-eyed. No doubt such a thing was hard to come by? Arkash had never seen such a thing before, it must have been rare.
He affirmed again that he loved him, and Arkash wiped at his eyes with a ragged burlap sleeve. Why couldn't he have the life Taelian had proposed? He'd never known what he was missing before, and with so many different thoughts and longings weighing on his heart and mind, it was no surprise that he almost missed what Taelian next said.

"...Bel?" he asked and shook his head, swallowed, and wiped the wetness from his cheeks. "Wait... Wait wait wait. Why are you going to Bel? That's where..." he paused, recounting the memories. Was that Taelian's supposed Father? The one that made him a Godling? Valteran? His connection to his father? Did that mean...? "...You're not a Draedan anymore?" he asked, praying he recounted the correct word. Lorien and Daravin were both devoid of the Adac, he had no mind for them and no space in his memory or focus.

Arkash closed his hand around the brass box, and if the mutation in the color of his blood had never been obvious before, it certainly showed when his cheeks flushed violet. He swallowed hard through his dry mouth while he composed himself in wake of the proposition. Taelian wanted to... What? He'd doubt his own hearing if it wasn't for the dusting of red in Taelian's own cheeks. He could feel his own heart beating hard in his chest, loud even in his ears.
"You..." he started, and swallowed again. "...I don't ...I mean, I..." he paused again. "I've... I've never done that before, Taelian. Are- ...you sure?" It felt as though his ribs were holding his lungs hostage as it became hard to breathe, and his mouth ran ever dry, but he swallowed again. "To be honest... I don't even know how to- I'm... I'm all gangly and skinny, I've got some real ugly scars and- and-!" The burning warmth in his cheeks had spread to his entire face as he acknowledged things about himself he'd never thought to before. "And ... I freakin' stink, you know I do."
His lips pursed hard while his throat burned. Raphael had done well remaking his face, but the rest of him was far from attractive. "...I'm ...A freak, Taelian... Why?" he asked with teary eyes, both hands clasped around the brass box with his arms before his body, and legs pressed together.
His body had never been a concern of his before, he'd never thought himself even applicable for the sorts that the elf asked. Perhaps his confidence in walking about as a lizard was just that; a lack of care for how he was perceived? He wasn't attractive and never would be, so what did matter how anyone saw him, or how well he looked after himself? All of a sudden, his flaws were bared to the light, and the thought of his body and all the things he hated about it filled his mind. The scalie stump of his lost arm, the slashed, blind eye that had filled his socket when Taelian first found him. How could Taelian have seen all of that and still wanted what he proposed?
For the same reason that Taelian had offered him the resonator, he thought.

As his sleeve-veiled hands came up to dry his eyes, he licked his dry lips and swallowed again. He drew a deep breath that caught on his healing surgery and saw him jolt with a flash of pain before he exhaled. "...When are you going?" he asked once he released the captive air in his lungs and lowered his hands to wrap them around himself. "I want to... But I need to get ready before then. I'll need like... A pound of soap, and five pounds of toothpaste..."
He began to formulate a plan in his head. There were no doubt a lot of stores in the city, he'd have to find every general store in the day and hit them all under the cover of night. Every single store in the city would be deprived of their soap and toothpaste by the next day, the great hygiene heist. What was more? He was still hungry, he'd have to get all his eating done beforehand, maybe eat a bit extra to keep himself sated? His breath always smelled bad after feeding, like death.
"...Some sorta sandpaper sponge..." he continued the list aloud, then refocused his eyes on Taelian before he stood. Something for his oily skin? His scars? Well... He shook his head.

"And don't jus' leave me hangin'," he started and began to close the gap with the elf, some remnant of a limp in his step. "What the heck happened? Why aren't 'ew a Draedone no maw?" He started, almost combative. "Dun' jus' lemme run my mouf when ew've been up to stuff too, dick'ead!" He declared, throwing a baby weight punch at Taelian's bicep. "I wanna know wha's up!"
It felt better to move swiftly on from the prior topic, and bury it in the back of his mind. He did have a lot of work to do in the next two weeks; it seemed he would not be leaving Amoren for some time. If there was at all an opening, he'd wrap his arms around the elf again, and sigh with lidded eyes. "Be careful, alright?"

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