[PRP] Long Shadows (Verath & Ophelia)

[Kyaishi]

While Verath had never been a particularly patient sort, it was interesting to note that even despite the residual soreness and pronounced limping that remained of his injuries, he found himself not leaping to annoyance and irritation at every turn as he would have before, even at the news that their journey was involving more detours than expected. It had been nearly a week since their harrowing brush with death and subsequent (begrudging) rescue by a traveling healer, and while Ophelia seemed as reluctant as he to broach the subject of their traumatic experience, the silence between them was comfortable rather than forced and sharp. Though he had carried her those first few days, finding them a deserted hideaway in order to rest and lick their remaining wounds in peace (him moreso than her, as he had refused the blue menace's help), they were both steady on their feet now, if not moving a little slower than usual.

He would deny the occasional flitting of his gaze down to check on the occasionally stumbling little filly then, even as he admitted to himself that he had slowed his pace on more than one occasion when he noticed her starting to fall behind.

It had, of course, been years since he'd had to care for anyone but himself, and he'd have ventured to say that most would have guessed that he'd never cared for anyone else, given his nature. Whether that was true or not remained a secret he'd vowed to take to his grave, but the familiarity of a calming presence was slowly starting to dull those rough, dark edges that he'd always made sure to keep razor sharp... and he found that he didn't seem to mind as much as he should. Ophelia was quiet, unassuming, perhaps tentative around him at times in some of his blacker moods, but she wasn't weak. The fact that she hadn't cried, complained or even asked to rest since their brush with death was proof enough of her character, even if she was small and as delicately-boned as a bird.

He snorted. Little bird, indeed.

The telltale twinge of his scarcely-healed shoulder wound and the increasing scuffing of the dirt behind him brought Verath back to the present and reminded him that they needed to stop for the night, even if he was sure his little charge wouldn't say a word until she dropped. And if stopping for the night was less from annoyance at the prospect of carrying her again and more of a want to actually make sure she rested, no one had to know. He was good at keeping secrets, even if he suspected that he wasn't holding this little 'attachment' as close to the chest as he probably should be.

Spotting a decently-shielded clearing with enough surrounding thick brush to alert them to other creatures, he slowed to a halt and allowed his sunset gaze to drop towards the small mare with a softer mutter than usual. "We'll stop here for the night." He punctuated the statement with a gentle push of her flank with a ragged leathery wing, turning to start his nightly ritual of scouting the area for any signs of possible threats or lingering nuisances before settling down. Compromised though he might have been, letting it interfere with his vigilance he was not.  

[Lady_Ourania]

Night had started to extend its reach across the sky, the sun's warmth leaching slowly out of the baked earth underfoot. Ophelia found herself grateful for the respite, the coolness of the underbrush pattering against her sides. After the storm that knocked her from the sky, the days had turned bright and hot. It'd proven a boon and a curse, giving them leave to rest anywhere, to move freely while kicking up dust with every step. Her white coat had taken on a dingy tint as a result, dirt gathered freckle-like on her face. Just as well that she wasn't predisposed to vanity. Verath certainly didn't appear to notice, his mottled hide impervious to such indignities.

Ophelia watched him now in silence, uncanny gaze taking in how his wings drooped slightly, the muscles along his throat working as the wounds latched there announced themselves anew. It'd been not quite a week since Arcadius parted ways with them, taking his genial personality and healing expertise with him. Difficult to fault the unicorn his eagerness to find other travel companions, particularly when the majority of Verath's conversational skills consisted of growls and non-committal grunts.

She wished they might have borne each other's company long enough to close the unsettling rifts in Verath's skin, the ones she knew plagued him, no matter his staunch refusal to admit even the perception of weakness. Neither her pleading nor her exasperation could scale the height of his ego in that regard. So if at the end of a day of travel, Ophelia let herself stumble more than was necessary - demonstrating just enough exhaustion that she trusted Verath would pick up on it - she couldn't bring herself to feel ashamed. As decisions went, it was purely tactical in nature: without frequent stops, he'd never heal.

As if on cue, he turned to her. Ophelia permitted a flicker of satisfaction to kindle in her belly, head dipping in concession. She failed to startle as his wing touched her, the guidance it offered familiar, welcome. Still, the extent of the damage on display made her ache, called to mind an echo of her panic in the forest when she realized he was earthbound. More than once, she'd caught herself wanting to ask about the scarring, some childish, prying impulse to know him better, to sound out his depths. He seemed accustomed to it in a way that implied the injuries weren't fresh. At some point, he'd learned to adjust without resenting every flightless second.

Yet he hadn't seemed to begrudge Ophelia her wings the handful of instances she'd drawn them out in his presence. Not that they were worthy of much envy in their current state. Between her fall and the wolf's maw, the pinions were bedraggled, riddled with gaps. It strengthened her resolve to keep her own council on the matter, to ignore the maddening itch of pin feathers starting to grow. In the past, her family groomed what she couldn't reach, and she'd relied on her father's meticulous attention, her mother's dreamy gentleness. Thoughts of them curled her stomach into a knot, guilt reaching into the spaces between her ribs. They would be frantic with worry after she'd been gone this long. But there was no helping it, no possibility of sending word ahead. If she thought on it too hard, the heaviness in her throat might choke her, and she'd cried herself out in front of Verath one time too many.

Left to her own devices, Ophelia began to chart out sleeping arrangements. She cleared a space, gathering foliage in a neat little nest that Verath generally spurned on principle. But she persisted nonetheless, the task of collecting the softest specimens in a limited area strangely soothing, even if it nettled her to prove that the nickname he'd bequeathed her wasn't without basis. Her wings shifted while she worked, free to reshuffle and flap without his eyes on her. It temporarily relieved the prickling irritation spreading into her shoulders, and she allowed a soft sigh to escape, the dense, surrounding shrubbery swallowing the noise.

Kyaishi

 

[Kyaishi]

It wasn't difficult to see through the fading light of the forest, even with long shadows already stretching across their chosen campsite as Verath's pupils contracted and slitted into a predatory visage, glowing slightly in the darkness. His improved vision, while emblematic of his heritage and not simply the basis of being a predator, was something he held closely to himself these days- he might insist it was tactical or personal not to share, but there were other reasons he found himself considering. He felt strangely resistant to reverting back to his predatory nature in front of the little bird, even though he was certain she already knew he subsisted on meat instead of plants, but the notion of frightening her wasn't so strong as to override his basic needs.

Patrol complete, he turned to find her scrounging up a small nest in the center of the clearing, and something that might be considered fondness lightened his gaze as the glow of his eyes faded somewhat. "Wait here," he commanded, turning with a sweep of his long scaled tail and disappearing into the brush with nary a sound.

He wondered, at times, what she thought of his nature. Not just of his carnivorous needs, but of his scaled hide, tattered wings and the multitude of scars littering his body. Surely she was curious, but she hadn't asked, and he wasn't exactly leaping to volunteer that information- it was a story he'd held closely to himself in the years since his exile, learning to live with the notion of being alone and taking his bitterness to the grave with him. He was angry, he'd been angry nearly every day since the day that...it had happened, he would likely always be angry, but it was something he'd learned to live with, and for a short while, Ophelia's presence seemed to dull the ever-present embers of resentment and rage that continuously boiled beneath the surface.

It was quick work to catch a small hare and devour its carcass; he was far more hungry than he had initially realized, and took a moment to snort at himself for allowing sentimentality to override logic in considering her comfort over his needs. Sentimentality is weakness- it was a line he had repeated to himself, over and over with increasing vehemence in the years since his exile, but he found himself slightly less inclined to rage over the ridiculousness of allowing himself to become complacent about it, rather, just acknowledging the faux paus with a roll of his eyes and a quiet mutter to himself.

Hunger satiated, he returned to the clearing, maybe with a slight twinge of defiance towards his original thoughts to spare her the view of his predatory nature as his muzzle was still bloodied from his dinner. Unblinking, he looked towards where she had settled down for the night, unconsciously glancing here and there to verify where the most tactical point would be to defend the both of them should the need arise, he stepped over her chosen space and began pawing at the dirt to clear a small space of stones, not bothering with grace as he laid down a few feet away.

The uncomfortable shuffling of her feathers didn't escape his notice, however, and his mouth spoke before his brain had processed the words. "Those will need to be preened soon. Can you not reach them?"  

[Lady_Ourania]

An ear tipped in Verath's direction when he spoke, and she peered at him sidelong, black brows curved in question. But he'd already vanished into the undergrowth, the tapering tip of his tail twitching once before it was gone. Humming a sour note under her breath, Ophelia returned her scrutiny to the nest, making a few minute, unnecessary adjustments as she settled into the foliage, testing to see if any unseen pieces jabbed her. She didn't truly know where Verath went when he slipped off on his own, but she could make an educated guess. He never partook of anything she ate, the tender, sweet grasses or the rare-won fruits, and she'd long since stopped offering to share. Maybe he thought it discreet, to station her somewhere beyond reach while operating under cover of darkness. Or the likelier possibility: he didn't want her presence to interfere with his meals.

She turned her eyes out into the heavy shadows of the forest, listening with her ears perked, alert and ready to heave herself upright again at any time. It wasn't long until she heard Verath returning, tread lighter than it had any right to be, given the sheer size of him. Absently, she noted the stains on his face, a wet gleam at the seam of his mouth, like he'd eaten in a hurry. More evidence than he'd allowed her to glean in the past, the copper smell undiluted. Perhaps it should have bothered her, to recognize that a life had ended between his coming and going while she'd done as he asked and waited. Ophelia wasn't a hunter, but she understood the mechanics behind it, the necessity of a quick, clean kill.

It made it easier to offer him a small smile by way of welcome, the tense, vigilant lines of her body relaxing. She watched him situate his own sleeping space, a hint of humor suffusing the corners of her lips as he flopped down, the ground trembling faintly beneath his bulk. They didn't talk much between the two of them, relying on body language over actual language; and she liked it, the moods and ideas that could be conveyed in a glance, with a raised brow.

Which was why she hadn't been expecting the question he posed, no lead up or warning to it at all. She stiffened, and her wings picked that moment to shiver before she could tuck them in tight along her sides. "I - yes. Thank you," she said, stilted and trying to hide a wince at her knee jerk response. Thank you? she repeated incredulously, warm mortification creeping over otherwise pale cheeks. Of all the embarrassing things for Verath to pick up on, he'd chosen the one she couldn't defend against, had no hope of concealing.

A beat, and she cleared her throat. "I'll take care of it," she offered in what passed for normal tones, sparing a look over her shoulder to eye the plumage with a rueful air. The feathers at the very tip of her wingspan would be the most difficult, but she might be able to pinch them open on a scraggly section of brush. It would hold until morning, however, when there was light enough to see by, not just weak starlight and the banked, bonfire glow of Verath's gaze. Her attention roved toward him again, taking in the scabbed mess along his throat, the angle of his injured leg at rest. "Are you in pain?" she asked, gentle with it, aware he wouldn't appreciate such softness in the slightest.  

[Kyaishi]

Verath settled himself onto the ground with barely a twinge of his healing injuries, although he allowed himself no outward signs of discomfort. He was sure she noticed anyway, but he could at least preserve a semblance of his pride, even though there was little doubt she would speak up about it. The small smile the little bird offered him in welcome didn't escape his notice, and if his brow perked in a subtle gesture of amusement and fondness, no one need know... he had accepted, at some point, that she was somewhat of an enigma in the reactions she provoked in him.

His tail curled around his bulk as he folded his legs beneath him, and orange pupils, still glowing faintly in the dim light, focused on her small feathered form. The relaxing of her posture provoked an unconscious release of tension in his shoulders, though he could sense her embarrassment at his line of questioning. His brow raised in question, perhaps slightly mocking of her discomfort- feeling good-natured amusement despite himself. He had spoken without thinking, but her reaction quelled his desire to backtrack on it, even though her deflection made it clear she preferred that they drop it. He would allow no such thing, of course, but she could try all she wanted to divert his attention; he could be as stubborn as she.

The intonation after his own injuries brought him no surprise, this time- he liked to think he was familiar enough with her by now to anticipate her selfless nature, still resisting the urge to tell her it was foolish to put his health over her own as some remnant of his personal mantra. It was odd, sometimes, how much and how little he wanted to instill lessons into her for her own well-being; simultaneously wishing that she would value her own life a little more and refusing to consider the idea of turning her into someone like himself. He wouldn't have hesitated- didn't hesitate- to rebuke her for it barely a week ago, but try as he might, he felt himself unwilling to pressure her to change, for good or ill.

"I'm fine, little bird." The statement was made pointedly, without room for argument, but not as defiant or harsh as it would have been previously. He found himself feeling slightly more... open, more patient as of late, although a part of him still scorned the idea as weakness. Shaking off the thought, his eyes narrowed as he watched the feathers of her wings ruffle again in itchiness or pain, and he snorted loudly as he reached out with a tattered wing to beckon her towards him. "Come here."  

[Lady_Ourania]

She heard the dismissal in his response, the set to his shoulders like granite, impassable, immovable. Her lips thinned faintly, quiet and thoughtful as she studied Verath for a few seconds longer before letting her gaze cut away. "Of course," she said, mild with a hint of reproach. "I suppose you're always fine." Even when his blood steamed the air, coated the ground in a bright slick, he'd insisted he was fine, more concerned with carting her around than his continued existence. It surprised her still to consider the lengths he'd gone to on her behalf, especially when abandoning her would've suited him better. What was she to him, at the end of the day? Trouble borrowed, a complication in what she suspected to be an already overcomplicated life.

The snort echoed loud in the enclosed space, calling her back to the present with a jolt. Another order followed it, and she lifted her chin fractionally, clinging to that split second of exasperation before she noticed his wing held aloft. Ophelia blinked at it, features furrowed to hide her surprise. Something about the gesture - its coaxing, unguarded nature - softened the command into an invitation. If Verath sensed a threat, he wouldn't have asked, would have moved. Instead he seemed relaxed, the craggy lines carved into his face diminished, bullwhip tail slack where it snaked around him. Only his eyes remained watchful, expectant on her.

Puzzled, she hesitated a scant heartbeat before standing, hopping carefully around the boundaries of her nest to approach. A niggling suspicion started in the back of her mind from one step to the next, and she monitored his expression for a change, an inkling of what he wanted. She guessed on some level that he was making fun of her, enjoying himself at her expense. It didn't stop her from folding down beside him, head tilting to pin him with a steady look.

At this range, the heat of his body swamped her, the wildfire smell he carried filling her senses. Beneath that lay the sharper tang of blood, both old and new. The latter had her resisting the urge to worry her lip with flat, unremarkable teeth, aware of how he dwarfed her, how neatly she fit in the shadow he cast. Strange, then, that she wasn't afraid, hadn't been since he'd ambushed her in the woods and spat directions at her like venom. "If you're planning to tell me a morally uplifting bedtime story, I expect you to do the voices," she said, deadpan if not for the quiver of nervous energy below the surface.  

[Kyaishi]

The admonition in the little bird's voice prompted a raised brow, amused by her gall, although he said nothing. Little could be done to dissuade her from making acerbic remarks, at the very least, and if he were honest with himself, she did have a point. He was, perhaps, too proud to admit to weakness at times, but he understood his limitations and would never go so far as to put her in harm's way in his disregard of them. His pride was tempered by his failings, by realistic expectations of himself- it was the only reason he had survived this long, but he could occasionally allow himself the vanity of brushing off his injuries so long as it didn't hurt anyone.

Watching her carefully with sunset eyes as she crept towards him on slightly unsteady legs, he rolled his eyes at her trepidation and pulled at her small, wiry body once she was within wing's reach,maybe a bit less gentle than he should have been as he motioned for her to lay down where he could reach. Once settled, he allowed himself a moment of hesitation before he flexed the talons on the joint his tattered wing, eyeing her briefly for unspoken approval before he began to comb it through her haggard feathers, far gentler than he would have on his own scales.

Her comment, wry and deadpan, drew another snort from him, this time in humor as a touch of a grin graced his maw before he continued his work through the stubborn pinfeathers that were causing her discomfort. "Tempting as that may be, I don't know any morally uplifting stories, only ones of monsters and darkness that children would do well to stay away from." A glimpse, in his mind's eye, of the only story he knew by heart darkened his expression- he could remember little of his father's wisdom and kindness, and the clan that formed his origins felt no need for sentimental stories to tell their young, only the bloody history that contributed to their uprise.

He wondered, sometimes, what it was like now. Whether his story was told right alongside those tales of monsters and fear.  

[Lady_Ourania]

She felt him radiating amusement at her, but there was no disagreement, no counter jab forthcoming. Nothing he could say in his defense, or a typical refusal to take her seriously? The latter option prickled in her chest, something stung and agitated snarled into an emotional knotwork. Ophelia consciously untangled it, brow smoothing out. Losing her temper wouldn't advance her cause to be viewed as more than some ridiculous little filly, prone to trouble and a puffed up sense of import. But it infuriated her, the cavalier manner with which he treated his body, his life, like it somehow mattered less than hers. For all that he preached a selfish creed, Verath was the worst kind of adherent, acting in a manner that ran counter to his own ideals at the least provocation.

As if he suspected the mutinous slant to her musings, Verath's wing folded to corral her, talons gripping at her shoulder with alarming dexterity. It wasn't that he'd never touched her before; half of their acquaintance had involved him handling her in one form or another, using his size and strength to position her as he wished. Even if she'd wanted to dig her hooves in this round, there was no opportunity to do anything but brace as he hauled her nearer. Ophelia shot a baleful glance in his direction, mouth drawn into a bloodless line. "You might've asked," she started to say, tone prim. Except Verath had extended his wing again, this time toward her. Then he -

Ophelia repressed a soft, shocked sound, betrayed when it emerged as an involuntary shiver. Their surprising nimbleness on display, the talons carded lightly through the mess of her wings, straightening and separating as they went. The contact ached the way grooming new feathers always did, a pinprick of discomfort followed by spine-melting relief. Her posture softened in kind, pinions pushing receptively up against his clever claws almost without her consent. Between the grooming and the overwhelming warmth of him, it was impossible not to feel safe, drowsy with it down to her bones. And where had he learned to care for feathered wings in the first place? No, focus, some part of her insisted, trying to shake off the pleasant haze. She... she should tell him to stop, twist back and address it herself, as Ophelia had told him she would. He didn't need to baby her, demean them both. If she phrased it in terms of coddling, he might back off without further argument.

But the obvious, careful way Verath proceeded made her throat tighten until she couldn't get the words out. It was... nice, an unexpected kindness after a journey that had shown itself to be the opposite. The thought of turning him away in some laughable effort to save face made less sense the longer it went on. She'd nearly forgotten the quip about storytelling, his voice bringing her back to the possibility. When she lifted her stare, she saw the lightness in his face altered, curdled, though his touch remained gentle. "Perhaps you could tell me one of those instead," she murmured, quiet despite how her tiredness had evaporated. A different kind of tension sprouted in its place, keen, alert, unsettling in its hunger. No telling whether she'd imagined the subtle offer in it, but if Verath felt compelled to speak, she was willing to listen.  

[Kyaishi]

He felt the flinch and tension, heard the sharp intake of breath that betrayed her and the uneasiness that flooded the air beneath the gentle rake of his claws, but before he could withdraw, the heaviness seemed to melt away all at once, and her posture deflated into something accepting. Verath, admittedly, had not thought this all the way through before proceeding, but the vague memory of gentle claws loosening molting scales prompted an urge to soothe the itch he knew was there, some distant echo of caring and warmth carrying through to his movements. He was bitter, sometimes, that she reminded him of his failings, of loss... but she was also a reminder of compassion that he had long forgotten, and it stirred an answering feeling from his cold heart, and he was unable to suppress the instinctive urge to reach out in kind.

It was telling, that she would bring out this side of him... maybe he wasn't as learned as he had thought, hadn't truly absorbed the lessons his exile had taught him, but... the longer he guided her, the less inclined he was to maintain the distance his head told him was necessary.

When she spoke, jolting him out of his introspection, his claws came to a sudden halt in her feathers, an unspoken heaviness rising in the air again. It was an innocent request, but the story he'd been thinking of... she could never truly understand it, never grasp the reasons that he maintained his fury the way he did, would never look at him the same again afterward. Condescension, disappointment, even anger he was perfectly fine with, but the idea of something like pity stayed his hand. Ophelia might have been soft, kind, and seemed to genuinely care for his well-being, foolish as it was, and he knew better than to think she'd scorn him for it, but... if he were honest, he didn't want to be understood. He wanted the pain, the validation of remaining the embittered, angry enigma that could continue his lonely existence to fume over the loss of a life that he no longer deserved.

His eyes dropped to the ground beneath them, the dirt shifting beneath his weight. It was this thought that spurred him to open his mouth again to reject her request... but something else spilled forth, the beginnings of a vague tale she could interpret as literally or as vaguely as she desired.

"There was a... kingdom. A long time ago, on the outskirts of a dead forest, near the lip of an active volcano." His words were stilted and halting, still completely unused to sharing this personal a story, or any story, but each word seemed to bring him just a hair closer to an odd, magnetic feeling of catharsis, and only a moment later, his gaze was miles away, unfocused, untethered. "The people were proud, strong, ruthless. They spurned weakness and celebrated bloody glory, rooted themselves in tradition." A pause, and he swallowed. "They were ruled by a King. He wasn't born to it, but fought his way to power tirelessly, mercilessly, and proved himself the strongest of them all. Tradition valued bloodlines, but no one could deny his power or savagery, and they honored him for it." Throat suddenly dry, he paused, urging his limbs to resume the gentle grooming of the little bird's wings as he forced himself back into the present. He was tempted to shut down and drop the story entirely, but now that he'd started... that alluring draw of cathartic release kept the words flowing.

"But as years went by... time and family began to change him, and the King started to feel value in compassion. He broke with tradition often, and while it angered the people, and they chafed under kindness, none rose up to challenge him. He was still the strongest of them, and they knew it."