[center]There are three types of men in this world. The heroes, who rise to fight monsters against their will. The monsters, heroes who lost themselves to evil. And monsters who were redeemed, to become human again. But it is impossible to be certain which you are, until it is already too late.[/center] --- Falling. [I]move…have to…move…need…friend…need to…[/I] Chaos. Thoughts, swirling in an abyss. [I]Have to move…gotta…need to save…now…move now…don’t stop-[/I] Diving. Wind rushing through feathers, through fur, drowning out the noise. [I]Diving…have to…move…have to move…have to move now HAVE TO MOVE NOW GO![/I] Landing. The ground rushed upwards, slowing to a halt as wings beat furiously. Dust flying, settling. [I]Breathe……[/I] In front, the firing squad. Behind, a Daeva. Between them, a Pegasus. [I]Now gotta…escape![/I] Flying again. Muscles struggling against added weight. Gunfire. Then nothing. =-=-=-=-= Aldris woke with a start, the nightmare still fresh in the front of his mind. For a moment, he had trouble getting his bearings, before realizing he had woken in the makeshift infirmary of Shade’s home. Of the multiple beds, his was the only one with a resident, although one of the beds had the look of recent occupation. Hours, maybe even minutes recent. He sat up ever so slowly, his muscles still remembering the multi-day flight, even after healing magic and more than a full day of rest. Very little would quickly repair the amount of wear and damage he had sustained. The only reason he even knew where he was, was the pain keeping him awake through the exhaustion in the initial hours of his arrival. Setting his elongated jaw in preparation, he stood up… …And promptly fell flat on his face as his legs gave way. With an effort, he forced himself to his feet again, this time much more slowly. He remained standing this time, but there was certainly a lot less strength in his legs than there was before. It was obvious visually, too; the intense exertion of the flight had begun eating away at muscles not being used at the time, leaving his legs and arms both thinner than before. Some heavy therapy, maybe some magic, would fix that in relatively short order, butit would be an arduous process. He was dimly aware of the fact that he wore nothing but undergarments, but this was no surprise. He had often needed to shed clothing quickly to transform, or lose whatever he had been wearing. In this case, he had lost what he had been wearing when the boat had been attacked. He tried not to think about how the undergarments had arrived on his body. For the time being, he took stock of the rest of his physical situation, and mulled over his options. Apart from being a little weaker in limbs, he was otherwise apparently unharmed. The healing magic had done that plenty well. His wings felt just as sturdy as before – a fact he was extremely glad of. A few days of physical therapy could not equate to a lifetime of practice and strengthening. He also still had the issue of a lack of clothes, as well as the more pressing issue of being entirely alone, and having no money whatsoever. The part of him that remembered the Dumont underground made him wish for a means of defense, as well, and he suddenly longed for the familiar weight of a taught bow in his hand. With little other option, he found a servant, and was able to borrow a simple tunic and leggings. How he knew there were servants around was beyond him, but that didn’t matter any more. What mattered was finding somebody who knew what was going on, and could help fill in the blanks. The servant had mentioned some inventor’s games – that was as good a place to try as any. With that in mind, he took wing and leapt to the skies. --- Business. Why was it always business? Was there no time for pleasure in a world such as this? Sel mused such thoughts to himself as he walked towards the office of a high councilman. The council member Macto, Keeper of Foreign Matters, to be precise. A letter had been sent ahead informing the seraphim of the current situation, now was the time for follow-up. Now that an entire illegal crime ring had been taken out, and almost killed three party members in the process. Sel was, in fact, still recovering from that, although he showed little sign of it as he walked. Physically, he was fine, although there was a cut in his left shoulder that had not taken well to healing magics. Mentally speaking…well, trying to cast complex magic the morning after had been a huge mistake, and the cause of an hour-long migraine. He was almost completely drained right now, after casting the same high-level spell twice in a matter of days. Once to fight a kraken, the next to take out a terrifyingly powerful elemental Daeva not one day before. His hand was still bandaged from where the backwash of energy had burned it, although healing had left it a soft, tender red for now. He grunted, annoyed that he could not have been healed further, but forced to be satisfied with what he had. The poor Daeva in the bed beside him – [I]I need to ask his name![/I] – had it far worse, from the looks of things. Outwardly fine, but clearly beyond exhausted. If there had ever been a reason to be satisfied with less, that was it. The kid had still been sleeping when Sel left, somehow. It was incredible that someone [I]could[/I] sleep that long. He arrived at the front gates of the embassy, and squared his shoulders, making his imposing figure even moreso. He rapped the knocker three times, before crossing his arms to wait for the servant who would no doubt arrive shortly. He expressed a hint of annoyance upon finding out that the councilman was otherwise tied up, but it was to be expected, seeing as how he had not set up an appointment. The servant, however, showed him to a seat and sent word ahead to Macto that an old acquaintance had arrived. Whether the councilman liked it or not, he would at least hear of the downfall of Halden. If all went well, perhaps he might even be able to elaborate on the details of his letter – if all went well. --- [I]Hunger. I’m Hungry. Feed me. FEED ME![/I] The thoughts rose to a shout in Gael’s mind, but they were not his own. Across his back, the broadsword he carried almost seemed to writhe, as it screamed at him. [I]No! There are too many innocents! I will not let you feed today![/I] he shot back at the blade, a silent conversation no one but himself could hear. Squall, that living blade of his, had not been fed in days, not since the soldiers had attacked him at that godforsaken outpost in the middle of nowhere. It was a terrible experience, carrying this blade. It needed to feed, to stay alive, but he was not sure why it needed to remain so. The blade was evil, in every sense of the word, even Gael, twisted over years by violence and bloodshed, knew how evil the blade was. Yet, he was forced to carry it, to keep it alive, in the hopes that one day it might become a weapon to save everyone. Right now though, it was hungry. It wanted blood. And it sensed violence in the city. Specifically, in the lower regions, where bar fights broke out on a regular basis. There was one happening now, as a matter of fact. Not hours before, a fight had broken out in the middle of the noble’s quarter. When the blade was hungry, he knew. Stubbornly, he moved in to opposite direction of the sense of violence. Right now, He wanted to feed the blade, to be rid of the shouting voice, the whispering screams, but here would not do. This was not the place for it. Suddenly, and without warning, he sensed another wave of violence. A single blow, but seen by hundreds of thousands of people. A public execution? That was the only explanation. A corpse was already dead – there would be no harm in stabbing it further. Such meals were usually refused, but for now it would sate the bloodthirst of the metal on his back for long enough to leave the city and find a proper victim. He headed in the direction of the feeling, of the feeling of anxiety and worry and confusion. He wanted to get eyes on that body, and not let it leave his sight. A manic grin formed on his face, even though he did not realize it.