[h3]Ranch House[/h3]

Bellataire went on, raving about respect and freedom, life and power. Dawn kept an ear open to the man as she helped Drake limp inside, but for the most part, her attentions were more focused on the unsteady body propped up against hers. Her lips pursed into a thin line as she lead him to one of the couches- one that didn’t directly face where Rei sprawled, mangled as she was- and laid him onto the cushions as gently as possible. [color=#2d50ff]“We aren’t going to leave you, Drake. We [i]will[/i] find a way out of this. Alright?”[/color] Dawn rested a hand on Drake’s shoulder, smiling in a way that she hoped would reassure him. Would convince him that everything might come out fine- not perfect, but fine- in the end, like they always did. 

Her smile waned as Drake brought up the prisoner, visibly struggling to get the words out, and her eyes widened with blatant concern as he doubled over, pain etched deep into his face. Dawn didn’t need her Gift to see that Drake was fading fast- the nullification snuffing out whatever it was inside him that kept him moving. She caught Drake’s arm again, holding it fast for a moment. [color=#2d50ff]“I’ll head up and see what I can right now. Don’t push yourself.”[/color] With that, she stepped away, eyes grim as she ascended the steps into the attic.

The smell was vile- just as bad, if not worse, as the one that had been trapped in the cellar. Dawn kept her head down as she entered, but she could still quite easily see the full extent of the damage inflicted on the prisoner from where she stood. The stained, grimy shirt, the way he slumped against his restraints, how…[i]broken[/i] he seemed. Much like his basement counterpart, he was teetering on the edge of death. Unlike her, there was little they could do for him in the short amount of time they had. 

Taking in shallow lungfuls of the attic’s air, Dawn glanced about, looking for a place to conceal the man from the hungry eyes of the slavers. There was little furniture within the room, aside from a few boxes of old knick knacks and worm-eaten chairs that were far too small to feasibly hide a body. There were a few tarps scattered across the floor, too- evidently used for painting years back- but she couldn’t exactly just toss one over the prisoner and call it a day. 

The options were beginning to look slim at best when she caught sight of a distinctly malformed section of the already-unfinished wall. The panel jutted out at the slightest of angles, showing nothing but inky black behind it. Bracing herself, Dawn went over to the prisoner, carefully untying the knot that kept him bound to the attic’s support before winding her arms beneath his. 

[color=#2d50ff]“If you can hear me,”[/color] she began, dragging him to the unfinished wall, [color=#2d50ff]“then I’m sorry about this.”[/color] The wound in his gut probably wouldn’t be closing anytime soon, so she attempted to go as carefully as possible, prying the panel open with her foot before sliding him into the dark. She stopped once he was fully out of sight, loosely binding his hands again before leaving the makeshift compartment. Dawn pushed the gap shut again, and, once finished, stepped back to appraise her work. It wasn’t a perfect job, but unless they knew what to look for, it would be hard to catch. With that done, Dawn turned to leave the attic, wringing her hands as she descended.

She froze in her tracks upon passing one of the windows. Outside was the sight of numerous men prowling about the house, weapons in hand.

How long had they been there without them knowing?

Outside, she could hear a woman- the assistant Hel attacked before the smoke went up. Another quick glance told Dawn that she was still very much wounded from the incident, and that, unlike her companions, she was completely unarmed. That garnered a sort of respect. While her association with the slavers didn’t make her a moral paragon, her apparent attempt to resolve things was admirable. If it wasn’t a trick, that was.

Dawn was about to reply when she caught sight of the other side of the fog. There, the man who was once Fen had pinned Toby down, in a way that seemed less than friendly. Especially given his new apparent loyalty to the slavers. Her teeth clenched, and she moved closer to the window, voice raised to catch the attention of their unwelcome guests.

[color=#2d50ff]“We aren’t looking for a fight,”[/color] she called. [color=#2d50ff]“And I’m sure that we can resolve things without one. Just let our friend go, first. Then we can talk.”[/color]


The head slaver, Bellataire, did have a point about one thing. He had lodged himself securely in a place of power from the very moment he arrived. The chances of a full-out brawl working in their favor were very low. Dawn didn’t want to think about what would happen if he ignored her request, or, even worse, sent his men after them all anyway. 

At the moment, words were the best weapon she had at her disposal.