He's standing in a dark alleyway, trying to figure out if the youma down the street is something he can take on by himself or not.

Thrymr hasn't been awakened for all that long. It's been maybe a month, but even so, he hasn't really had the guidance to know what's reasonable and what's not, only that there are things he's meant to fight against, things he's meant to get rid of. He knows full well how frightening these creatures are - from personal experience, after all - but at the same time, he doesn't truly grasp just how dangerous they can be.

He's never been taught, after all. Both about life and about this.

Raised with a silver spoon in his mouth, is how the phrase goes, isn't it? Auguste de Saint-Meran has always had a privileged lifestyle, from his private schools and tutors, to his excessive money and lavish allowance. His parents are good people, but they are wealthy and do not understand not being wealthy. To them, money is simply something that exists, and when Auguste asks them why they have certain things, out of curiosity, he is given a blank look because it just is. They aren't arrogant or greedy with how much they have, but they also just know that it's there, do not really grasp the fact that there are lives outside of this cushy one.

Auguste wants to know, though. It's why he's in Destiny City in the first place, why he decided to leave his inheritance and his family - and his name - behind, at least a part of it. He wants to experience life as someone else, wants to be able to do things on his own. Auguste has had nannies and butlers and cooks and chefs all his life - far from being childish, he has no idea, really, how to do anything much on his own.

And secretly, he wallows in this knowledge. He may be ignorant and naive in certain respects, but Auguste is surprisingly aware of how little he knows of the world outside of his four walls. He tries to act as though he isn't a sheltered, spoiled brat, but apparently this act is rather transparent, and Auguste is quite certain that that's all he's defined as. He knows how it must look, this pampered child from France trying to act as though he doesn't know how to do things, always expecting handouts, always expecting things just to be given to him, because that's how his life has always been. People giving him things.

Auguste doesn't want to be given things. He wants to be able to fend for himself, to handle everything for himself, to be able to do things without having to rely on others constantly. But this is proving difficult; he can't just gain knowledge that he doesn't have, not without experience first. And experience is not something that Auguste has a lot of, especially in terms of Thrymr.

The youma is something large and hulking, black goo oozing from its body and spattering on the ground. Thrymr has already been slapped across the face by an oily tentacle, his pale skin easily showing the reddened skin and the tiny cut beneath his eye. He doesn't stop to take care of it, however, instead diving forward, and his hands are pressed together as though in prayer, palms pressed together.

"Heart of Light!" he shouts, and opens his hands, a myriad of color bursting from his palms - tiny hearts, all cascading towards the youma like an aurora wave of oranges and pinks and purples. It's really rather beautiful, but unfortunately doesn't do much to the youma, who shrieks and groans in the most unpleasant, creaky sort of way as it's bombarded by the hearts.

Thrymr takes a hasty step back - at the very least, the secret dance lessons he's been taking, as well as the ones he's already had in the past, make it so he's quick footed and agile. Not, however, agile enough apparently for the next strike, because a tentacle forms in the side of the youma and lashes out, whiplike, at his side. It catches him against the ribs and sends him staggering sideways, momentarily winded as he knocks against the alley wall.

He could call for backup, or something. Maybe retreat. But Thrymr has no intention of doing either, doesn't even have that option in his mind. Instead he just leaps forward again, and this time swings his leg out and slams a kick to the youma's front. It's no where near powerful enough to get rid of it, but it's enough to temporarily make it shrink back and curl in on itself, yowling.

And that's enough.

Ten minutes later, the youma is disintegrated, thankfully. Thrymr stands there, breathing heavily, a cut on his forehead making scarlet blood slide wet and hot down his face, tasting of copper as he licks dry lips. It shouldn't be this hard, or this violent, to just take out a simple youma. He saw Aegir do it much more quickly and efficiently, and he knows what the argument will be - you're just starting out, I - we - have more experience than you do, hang in there.

But that's so much easier said than done. Thrymr is frustrated at his lack of ability and his lack of intelligence. He doesn't want to be coddled or treated like a child, because he's not a child, even if he doesn't know how to do anything. All he wants is to belong, and he can't even seem to do that.

When he staggers back, finally, and opens the door to his apartment as Auguste, the lights are off and all is dark. No one is home.

Auguste falls asleep that night curled up into a ball on his side, his dog at his feet - the only steady thing that he knows, and even then, he doesn't actually have any experience in taking care of animals, least of all a pet dog that requires a lot of attention.


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