Semyon rocked back from the force of the Reaper's words, expecting and yet unprepared for the sheer volume she raised against him. She spared no mercy, certainly, spelling out her issues with biting -if refreshing- clarity. He supposed one couldn't assume everything she said to be truth, and much of what was could likely be exaggerated. Yet one thing came across as very, very clear to the Wight:

The reaper wished he was dead.

Not figuratively, not born of the rage that hung on her words, or spawned from a desire to antagonize him. No, she genuinely believed that he [i]should[/i] be dead. His very existence seemed an affront to her, grouped with the beings who had given her such injuries, even as she had protected them all. It was a painful message for anyone to hear, him being no exception, and yet something about her speech, her demeanor muted the effect of her words.

Despite everything she said, despite the look of anger, hurt, hate and [i]disgust[/i] that crossed her features, she had not raised a hand against him. Perhaps because others were around, and a fight would only drag more people into what was essentially a private issue? Perhaps because she was scared, for some reason or another, and felt he held an advantage over her? Perhaps simply because she had enough self-control to rely on words alone, or looked down on him such that she felt anything more would demean her? Whichever the reason, she barked -she howled- but didn't bite.

Part of him sensed weakness in that restraint. An instinctual, predatory urge rose to take advantage, to drive her into a corner, to tear at her throat before she decided to tear at his. Semyon bit it back, shoving it away behind duty and discipline. He didn't need this to grow out of hand, despite centuries of experience screaming to 'neutralize the threat!'. If she wanted to stick with words, he would stick with words. It ended better for everyone that way, and held at least a small chance of accomplishing something.

That last comment of hers, however, did not help.

He understood the pain, couldn't help but wince when she showed him the wounds. Part of him saw her as just another acquaintance, then, someone he happened upon on the street who needed help.

But then she all-but blamed it on him. [i]Then[/i] she told him to die.

Semyon blinked for the first time today, and took a step forwards.

The interruption of Nestor and his friend could not have come at a worse time, good intentions aside. The spectral woman wanted nothing more than to cause trouble it seemed. And Nestor? The Wight could appreciate his desire to try and help. He just didn't want it right now. Semyon's lips curled back, gaze shifting to the gentleman beside him, retort rising in his thoughts.

He broke the rising venom within himself with a sharp clap, hands snapping together between him and the reaper, as much to draw her attention as his own.

"It was about that long, that I was dead." Letting his hands fall loose at his sides, The Wight's pale gaze fixed itself firmly on the reaper's green, his voice hard. "I barely had time to catch a glimpse of the other side before I was back, my village weeping in relief. This was the one answer we found when there seemed no way to survive."

He let his eyes shift briefly to Nestor, who claimed they were alike, then back to the reaper. They traced the memory of those wounds she had shown him, drawing a wince as ancient memories stirred as well. Rancid flavors danced in a mouth that hadn't known taste in centuries, the sudden urge to wretch -though he no longer had a stomach- forcing a short pause as he spoke.

"I won't pretend... it was 'right'. I won't claim it was 'fair'. I don't know what consequences there are, or have been. What I did, what we did, was make a choice. I don't regret that, and I accept what my choice may bring... But..."

Semyon allowed himself to look over to Nestor once more, his gaze then sweeping wide as he spoke.

"Max deserved to come back. That is what you say, and so you helped him." His gaze took in Tamarind nearby, still speaking with the other werewolf. "I don't know him, but I know Tamarind. She deserves to smile, to [i]keep[/i] smiling, and you've helped with that..."

His gaze fell back, the Wight's voice growing soft as his anger faded. The more he thought about it, the less he wanted to fear this Reaper. But the more he spoke and listened to her, the less he knew what to say. It was tiring. Tiring to think about, tiring when she baited him, just full of an exhaustion he had forgotten he could feel.

So he tried just speaking. Saying what he wanted to say, and hoping maybe to sit down somewhere, afterwards.

"Those here... all of them, deserve to live. That is what [i]I[/i] say. So I will [i]not[/i] be leaving."