As he left the gates and crossed the nearest hill, he saw him. Some driving force of nature was pulling the Raven towards the demon, the slight smokey blackness of his eyes made the Berserker's heart pound in his chest. No emotion registered in his mind, but his body was shaking with fear. This was no human, nor was it a kind being. Through and through, whatever this being was, it was demonic in nature. It filled his core with a primal fear, fear of the unknown. The disconnect from his body and his mind was evident when he forced himself forward, he was several paces away from the eastern warrior and his steps were slow and plodding. The leather of his shoes dug into the earth with every step, as though his body was actually trying to resist moving towards the demon.

[color=f7976a]"Y-o-u."[/color] He muttered inaudibly, the word dragged from his lips. Like a nervous child hesitating to speak. Again his lips parted and he roared, the words muffled by his numerous pelts. [color=f7976a]"You!"[/color] Accusingly raising his hand, extending his left index  towards him. Something about this horror made him thirst for blood, this demon was drawing him in. Even with his clouded mind, he was aware that this could all be part of the demon's musings. Maybe it was like the angler, with his bait thrown to water to draw in easy prey. 

Feidlimid didn't care, he wanted blood. [color=f7976a]"Explain. Explain to me."[/color] As he marched he spoke, the hand that was thrust forward so accusingly was now grasping the neck of his bottle. He had used up nearly half of it in the raid, but half a bottle of juice would be more than enough. [color=f7976a]"Why? Why!? Why do I want this!? Explain it to me!"[/color] The words that passed him were nonsense, or at least, very vague and with much too much room for misinterpretation. The demon would have to figure it out on his own, the berserker wasn't going to explain. 

The patience of The Raven had always been thin, and he was already drawing the bottle towards his lips. Even as he was marching towards him, with his blade dragging far behind. There was no playing, there was no respect of standard practice of a duel. Feidlimid was going to kill the demon now, so he could stop feeling again. 

To stop feeling the pull.

So he could stop thinking.