Fire and Shade (Dor, Elhaym)

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Patience, his father had told him. That was how you endured amongst the sunborn. There would be chimes when you had to swallow the venom and fold your hands when you wanted to press claws into pink flesh. The race meant more than one spot of vengeance, than one wound, than one desire. So Duvalyon had learned to curl his claws and purr his apologies. Duvalyon tilted his head down at the interloper. Small, female, maimed, but adequately trained. He wondered how well the scarred arms could move. Her deformed skin would not be supple for seasons. Motions would hitch and flesh could split with sharp gestures. She had flung herself between them aflame with self-righteousness. A moment's effort on Dor's behalf and Elhaym could sneer at the spider who raised the Kelvic. Hatred filled him, though his body did nothing in response to its presence. Nothing Elhaym could sense. Duvalyon raised a hand in the periphery of Elhaym's ruined eye, toying with her capabilities as he expressed surrender. Dor's protests were compressed; his perception placing them amidst the winking buzz of light and city sounds as he evaluated the situation. One painfully contorted word shot up from the suppressed sounds. It hooked his spine, yanking him to the border of realization. Want. Was there longing in the sound, or was it merely a frustrated trill meant for the woman who interrupted the bird's questions? It had been years, more than years for Dor. Could he still discern the colors of her voice and the warbled meanings she would slip between syllables? "Be understanding, Doryn," he said placidly, "She is trying to comprehend despite limitations." Courtesy pricked the final word, sharpening its offense with a layer of insincere pity. He made his own answer then. "Your vigilance on her behalf is appreciated, but unnecessary. I mean no harm." No further harm at least, he had his fill of being compelled to tear the Kelvic into wild pieces. "If she asks," he said with a sudden gravity directed only towards Dor, "I will leave her company." The permanence of the command was implied. Knowledge would slate his dread. The welling hatred around her old wounds would either pour out and scald him, or she would show a measure of forgiveness. Either reaction would make him feel as monstrous as they thought him. His pride could still snarl, even when its head was bowed.

[Elhaym]

The young woman's bleating irritated her, mostly because she seemed all to knowing of what this man was and the dangers he posed. Her eye could not see her, but she felt the pressure of her fingers pecking at her sleeve like a claw. Instinct took over and Elhaym shook her arm sharply to force the woman to relinquish her grip, but the movement was too fast. A thin line of fiery pain rushed from her elbow where the fragile scar tissue had yet again separated, and no doubt a dark pool of crimson would blot the bandages concealed by her sleeve in only a few seconds.

"If the sun poses such a threat to him, maybe he should crawl back to his hole. Don't touch me again."

The words were spoken as her lone eye locked on Duvalyon, but they were clearly meant for Dor. Some people were too ignorant to protect themselves; that is why groups of people like the Shinya and the Syliran Knights existed. It was her duty to protect her, but it was not her duty to coddle her like a baby whining for its mother's teat. She obviously knew him though, and he took this chance to speak his mind.

His words made her blood boil.

Elhaym was ignorant of many things, but a slight was never lost on her. His hand danced playfully to her left and forced her to turn her head in order to catch it in her restricted peripheral vision, and his monotone declaration that she had 'limitations' was inconceivable.

"You don't seem to understand, spider. This is not Kalinor; you do not presume to tell me what is necessary and what is not. You will leave, whether she asks or not, because I am telling you to. Do you understand?"

Her body moved forward, quick steps that brought her close enough to smell his breath. Maimed or not, there was nothing restricting her legs. When she moved, it was with a casual grace that seemed directly at odds with her attitude and aesthetic. Diplomacy was not her way. Elhaym was skilled in only one thing; the art of killing.

"And I will tell you what else, spider. I only have one limitation… and that being I can't rip that shit spewing head right off your shoulders, and leave it for the crows. Slight me again, and I will break you."

She paused for a moment, her one eye lazily dancing around his body. It might have made her look confused, but in reality she was watching his entire form for signs of movement. His bearing was one of neutrality, but there was no way anybody could have something like that said to them without feeling something. Elhaym at least, would have already struck a dozen blows had someone made a similar threat to her. Oh, and it was a threat. There was nothing discernible in her voice that may hint that she was exaggerating.

"Do you think this is a game, spider? Would I receive a warmer welcome in your shithole of a city? I thought not."

Duvalyon's messages to Dor was lost on her. All that she saw was a predator and its prey. It was unfortunate for them that whatever meaning their reunion may have had was being interrupted by what equated to a snarling dog, but Elhaym was not in the know. Her stance was insurmountable both physically and mentally, firmly lodging itself between them.

[Dor]

"You smell of blood," the skin shifter murmured, hands having fallen away, empty and untaloned. They jammed into her pockets, the round of shoulders hunkering up once more while she peered, head tilted to the side, around Elhaym's arm at Duvalyon's achingly familiar face. A calm had come over her in the light, with the tail whip of the wind ruffling feathers of hair against her cheeks. Lips pursed and pitch colored eyes kept vigil on the Symenestra. "Are you hurt?" She wanted to know of the Shinya, her Common awkward in her mouth, not malleable to her tongue. "Shinya," she said and shifted her weight from foot to foot, the result being her bobbing a bit. It should have been adorable. "I want to stay with him. Duv?" She thrust up to tip-toe, blinking widely over Elhaym's shoulder; and she smiled at the doctor, an accidentally magnetic expression to turn heads. "I don't want you to leave my company," a beat, "But Shinya are like mountain lions," fierce and strong.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

The woman moved with power and purpose, using her body to subtract territory from Duvalyon. She snapped and shook fury between her teeth; her words revolting as entrails in a wild dog's maw. As Elhaym watched for some sign of fury to manifest, she was rewarded with the downward tilt of the Symenestra's head. He was boldly looking at her scarred face, courtesy forgotten. His features grew more angular, yet a predatory amusement curled around his eyes. Perhaps he was thinking of what they would do to break the Shinya in Kalinor, and the idea warmed him. Beyond her, Dor began to speak the first verdict of years. It was too simple for any profound satisfaction, uttered without grace and inhabiting the perpetual "now" of the Kelvic's understanding. But she had not cast him out. Disappointment swelled, bringing new questions on its tide: Could Dor even comprehended all that he wanted to know? What kind of answer could she really give that would absolve him? Such things were never fair; that articulation was likely beyond her talents and his acceptance. She smiled for him, and even Duvalyon's thoughts could not remain upright. The cruel cast slipped from his eyes and purpose took its post. "This is my Kelvic," he said plainly. True in all the ways save the one that mattered to Dor. "I am beholden to her wishes before I am to yours, lady Shinya." He held his hand out to Dor, palm upward and clawed fingers carefully arranged. "If you please," a familiar phrase in the Symenos he spoke. If you please, Dor, off the table. If you please, out of my trunk. If you please, no more dead salamanders. More often than not, the phrase was a command to please him. Now the request hovered somewhere between her want and his hope. His eyes were slightly downcast, dimming any aura of command. Hypocritical fool, his good sense roared, your forgiveness was never a part of the plan.

[Dor]

Dor stood there with lips moving but no sound escaping, breath taken by the wind as she mouthed with careful deliberation "beholden" over and over and over again. It was a word in Symenos she knew, but he had uttered it in Common for the sake of the Shinya between them; and the bird was puzzled by it, the definition and Duvalyon's intent escaping her. It was the if you please that sharpened her senses, stooping her attention free of the clouds to the more reassuring visage of the man who had given her kin. Bopping back flat footed, she executed a slow spin around the well intentioned road block that was the Shinya and placed her hand in the doctor's. Almost immediately, she wove their fingers with accustomed heed of his claws and swung their hands between them, smiling all the while. She tugged and stumbled herself, somehow managing an ultimate landing at Duvalyon's side and resuming their not-so-idle stroll beneath the Up. "What," she whispered in a Symenos so swift and sure it surprised, arm brushing his, a thick tumble of hair drizzling awkward colors against his sleeve, "Does beholden mean?"

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Without hesitation, Duvalyon's hand carefully folded around the warm one placed within in it. Her lead was succumbed to, and they swiftly turned heels towards the Shinya. It was an absurd picture, but presented to the world with such calm certainty it was hard to question. They walked near enough to blur which body directed the other. Duvalyon's smooth gait was a little quicker than normal; innately aware of the danger he had pulled to his side. The rest of his reason was a drunk being tossed between stronger men: instinct and pride. Dor's voice slid up his arm, reminding him he still held her hand. She always had a talent for the wrong question, but it was habit for him to answer when she asked. "It means to be obligated," another shard of common she might not know, "To owe someone." The significance of the gesture had been completed. A hand was offered and taken, and in it was proof to the Shinya of Dor's voluntary acceptance of the widow. When they had made enough distance, Duvalyon thought to shake the Kelvic free. Instead, he adjusted Dor's hand to loop through his arm. It was how a sunborn man would walk with a woman. Clasped hands were for children or lovers, and Dor was neither.