Moonface met Fangs in the Deep.

[Albireo]

And it's peaceful in the deep, Cathedral where you can not breathe, No need to pray, no need to speak Now I am under. Never Let Me Go by Florence + the Machine Summer 56, 512 AV Shinyama Peak The Temple of the Moon became the Ethaefal’s second home. She didn’t pray, didn’t speak, only sat by the pond, a disc of still water resembling His full face like a perfect mirror. With horns bowed and tips of black hair nearly touching the fragile surface, she sat and stared into His face. This was the closest to Him. After remaining so for several hours, she started feeling a faint sense of peace deep, deep down. Beyond the ruins and scattered remnants, something rose and grew like a stubborn and proud plant. It didn’t bloom, but it also wasn’t meant to. Another early morning had passed and the water had seen another transformation from otherworldly to mortal before the Chandra on dawn duty had driven her out with grumpy words. Words were precious, but they had shaken Albireo out of her serene lethargy and into a nervous state of annoyance with everything and anything. In front of the temple, Syna’s rays blinded her rainbow eyes and touched glossy hair with their heat. It didn’t suit the storyteller to mutter curses under her breath, not yet. However, she was pacing back and forth on the alleyway, avoiding the sight of the temple, yet glaring at passers-by. Confused glances all around. The age-old question plagued her restless mind. Why? Why why why wh… And her right foot protested, stumbling over a protruding cobblestone at the corner. Dark fabric rustled, slender limbs swayed, fell, hit stone. She silently counted. Third fall. A lucky number by mortal standards, yes? With an annoyed “humph” she rose, not as elegant as intended, and staggered. Knees were devoid of blood or stains, but her right elbow had hit the ground hard. A dark stain on the cobblestone confirmed it. Then a stab of pain. Hissing, she stared at the open wound. My Lord, where are you? All because of you… because you… Couldn’t even think. What to do with blood and dirt? Eyes like a summer storm, her gaze wandered searching for an answer written on the passing faces. They looked all the more hostile, mirroring her expression of white anger with… herself.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"I remember you." It was a sedate voice textured like suede. It fell from the top of a slim shade looming over the crumpled Vantha. The silhouette shifted and cruel Syna illuminated all he was: a Symenestra, gray and strange with every insectile accoutrement of his loathed race on full display. Tucked under his arm was a kit of some sort. He had been the only one to stop, thus far. "The frightened storyteller." The memory made Duvalyon's mouth hint at a smile. After a day or so's distance the event had entertained him vastly more than it had ever offended him. He never really blamed Azo for their initial reaction to him. On some days, he enjoyed it. The ability to inspire fear brought its own power with its own savor. There was something passingly cruel in his smirk, but it quickly subsumed to a cool pragmatism. He had spotted Albireo's injury, and it provoked a different side of his personality to action. The attentive medic of Lhavit was in prominence, instead of the harvester of years past. Ethaefal weren't the only race to shift with the seasons. "Come along." He beckoned upward with a clawed hand. "I'll fix that at the Shinyama Pavilion," he indicated her elbow. Expecting hesitation or worse, he added, "It's broad daylight and there's a sea of people. I'd be a fool to try anything. Especially since I work at the Pavilion." A macabre sense of humor inserted itself, bringing little consolation, "And I never kill where I eat."

[Albireo]

Only when her head shot up at the sound did Suria realize that her knees were still resting on stone, or again. Time was toying with impressions and memories, or so it seemed. Once again the slender Vantha rose. And jumped back from a familiar sight. Fangs and claws had returned, with his voice of silk and bloody gaze. How he addressed her! Cheeks were burning with red covered by olive tan, yet probably shimmering through it. All the more embarrassing. Out of narrow eyes she was observing him, with orange and red illuminating the storm in her irises now. Then she blinked. Something had tugged at her, instinct to hide, run away, anything… like prey. But the expression faded from his grey features, replaced by something bordering on… no. No acceptance for that. Her gaze flickered to the kit under his arm, to the clawed hand. Another blink. Work at the Pavilion? Claws and fangs among injuries and blood and pain. Imagination meddled with truth, but all she got was dirt. Could it be…? Eyes widened as the last sentence reverberated inside her. How does he kill what he eats then? However, throbbing pain distracted her. One hand found the other and grabbed it as if her arm had to be carried. She took a step full of rusting dark fabric, then another. The Symenestra grew taller. She followed his lead while ignoring the outstretched hand. “It doesn’t suit a predator to preach innocence”, she hissed, looking at sandaled feet, biting her tongue. Whether it reached his ears or not… Well, he seemed like a sleepy predator, or not? For the time being?

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

OOCSorry for being a dunce and misreading what you wrote. You're a good sport to roll with it. A glint of sinister humor touched Duvalyon when Albireo leapt backward. His thoughts warred in the air between his outstretched hand and her. Ought he indulge the rare influence over her, or conduct himself as the medic he purported to be? Viratas would have him aid where it did not diminish his blood. This command was enough to bind Duvalyon's will to better instincts. His decision was made in the same moment he closed his fingers and withdrew his hand. Ignoring the offense, the medic led on. Not the first time a sunborn was loathe to touch him. They never considered he wasn't keen on handling them either. Albireo's hiss was caught in pieces before it broke entirely on the ground. The Symenestra's replies were based on what he thought he heard. "No one past ten can claim perfect innocence," he scoffed with a chuckle. Duvalyon cast a look back over his shoulder, showing an unperturbed expression. Worse things than reasonable fears had been thrown at him. The storyteller's persistant dislike was met lightly. "I am many things beyond a 'predator'. Does one facet of your life make you?" He continued into the Pavilion. There was recognition from the Shinya, but no overtures of friendship as he passed. It was a brief walk to the room that kept the herbal stores and tools of his trade. In the center of the space was an examination table that roughly resembled a bed. Duvalyon set his kit on a different table filled with bowls, bandages and tools in jars. It looked more a kitchen than a place for healing. "Have a seat," he directed Albireo towards the table in the room's center. "And press this on your elbow." A folded bit of linen was set beside her instead of handed to her. He wasn't going to touch her until absolutely necessary. "Did you hit your head at all when you fell?" he asked while cleansing his hands in a basin.

[Albireo]

Silent, she followed in his wake, knowing better than to answer. What did he know of perfect? And what did she? Only that it was beyond reach. Had it ever been different, even for a child of Leth? My Lord, this one isn’t worthy anymore. His words did touch her, albeit lightly. “Unless the tales speak true… What are you then?” she wondered, half talking to herself. Who expected others to know their place? Certainly not her, who had been dragged from eternal home to live with what she had considered past. Or was it? Ten, hah. More years had to pass before her fall claimed that age. What did that make her? Silent musings, never uttered to the enemy. The Pavilion was graced with curious looks from a child’s mind. Despite regular clumsiness, she had never been inside, never asked help of others before. She bit her lip. Now what tended to her injury wasn’t even human… Oh horrible mistake. And all the way pale flesh was trembling with distant wariness. Bones remembered, and trust was given in that. She refused to be grateful for the lack of touch. Obeying orders came easier, so she pressed the linen on blood and dirt. “No. Why are you doing this?” The same question, it felt old and bored on her tongue. Yet what else remained for her to guard herself with? Stripped of the clever stories she wore like armor, what was left? But then Laszlo’s words sprang to her out of the blue and… something stuck.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"Why not?" he offered blandly. It only cost him time and all he had to endure were her suspicions. He'd experienced worse than her few insults, flung like a fistful of pebbles. A half full jug and empty basin were set on the observation table beside Albireo with a small leather roll. It was likely bundled around tools that were best covered to keep squeamish patients calm. The water had a sharp, herbal smell. The product of small doses of witch hazel and calendula. Duvalyon had become enamored of the Shinya's stores. In Kalinor, selection could be limited, and when traveling, he was frequently constrained to a combination of vinegar and salt to clean wounds. Now, he could mix distillations with abandon, and few would ask what he was up to as long as he looked busy. "There's two ways we can go about this," he explained, "You can either see to that yourself with the materials I provide. It will take longer and be sloppier. Or you can let me work and set you free in mere chimes." He shrugged. "Your choice." His indifferent tone was momentarily cut through. "But be sure in it. I'm in mood to have you flinch while I'm trying to work on your elbow."

[Albireo]

“Because some won’t be as kind in return”, she offered, watching out of sharp eyes. No move, no flick of fingers went unseen. Others were Lhavitian, human, other races, but only the Symenestra were the ones rumored about. Even the stories bore a grain of truth. It’s what they taught children, and younger than ten-year-old too. Presented with a choice, the Vantha was stripped of all the clever words she wielded like weapons. Where, no, how to grab the root and pull the weed out in its entirety? It was too monstrous to be dealt with in the blink of an eye, like he was expecting. Time came to a stop and started anew. The sun rose and fell, the moon rose and fell. Like that, Suria carried fear with her wherever she turned. “It’s never as easy as that”, she whispered, breaking the silence of her cowardly mouth. Speaking of others, never of herself… was what she chose to earn bread and butter with. Suddenly the path stretched out as clear as skyglass in front of rainbow eyes. They plunged into sunset orange, her features a grim mask. “I will take your materials and do as you say.” A pause. “Precisely because it takes longer.” Torturing oneself: the only solution there was! No sharp words, no sullen complaints would come from her lips anymore. Let the Symenestra be Symenestra, then see what it does to you. A short prayer silently sealed her decision.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Indifferent to her crisis of fear, Duvalyon shrugged at Albireo's answer. Before continuing his hasty abandonment, he repeated her phrases in his head. A dry drawl slipped under his words, "I do have an irresistible quality." He poured some of the medicinal smelling water into the shallow basin and stepped back from the cot-like table Albireo was perched on. Leaning against the opposite wall with loosely folded arms he began to give instructions. The pose exposed the alien length of limb; his hands didn't rest where a human's would of, but stretched further out. "Start by washing the area in the water. If there's still debris after you soak it a little, you'll be using tools to pluck out the dirt." To demonstrate, he clicked the ends of his claws together like pincers. "The water will sting a bit. Don't be startled." Duvalyon exhaled silently, trying to keep patient while he was forced to walk Albireo through simple minutia because she had to cut some mysterious notch in the chart of her personal growth. "What kind of stories were you told about Symenestra?" he asked with a faint show of curiosity. "They must have been especially descriptive."

[Albireo]

“Can't hide claws and fangs”, she muttered under her breath. The words slipped out too fast. Even biting her lip didn’t take back what was said. Lazy ears were the only hope. Water could smell. It was a novelty, so she leaned forward once the Symenestra had stepped back to examine it further. A bitter, yet clean smell. It threatened to drown her in old memories, but a cold voice yanked her back into present. Limbs of grotesque length reflected another glance, sent eyes of sunset orange back where they belonged: to the funny-smelling water. Oh, memories of sweat and running and mere moments between life and death. Breathing deeply, she dipped the wound in the water and flinched at the sting. No progress made. Concentrating on the words, not the voice delivering them, made interaction easier. “Wash it… with what?” Once given instruction, she followed it meticulously and carefully. To the dot, to forget the rest of her surroundings and that particular person. A disembodied voice would be better, no? Yet a strange sense of politeness, bothering her out of nowhere, didn’t leave the question unanswered. “Rumors, tales. You steal women off of Lhavitian streets and they never come back. You leave trade caravans in chaos.” The latter wasn’t talk, but she wasn’t ready to release that bit yet. And in a mere whisper: “It’s not the tales, but experience that constitutes the worse kind of fear.” A grey-skinned, clawed being couldn’t be trusted even though he spoke and acted like a reasonable person. Human? No, that morbid quality still remained in everything. Surprised, Suria found herself analyzing while her hands worked of their own accord. Still shaky, just a little shaky. No dirt was visible afterwards and the water misty, so she raised the elbow to show it.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"Ah." A dry syllable of understanding, given without particular color or weight. Duvalyon wasn't going to pull at that thread so she could unravel on his table. The medic was drawn into an expressive state again by Albireo's presentation of her elbow. Arms still folded, he leaned in to inspect the wound a little better. "Good. Just an abrasion. Nothing serious." His brows crooked with a question. "Unless you feel something beyond the usual pains?" Dashing past the possibility for now, he returned to his place on the wall and explained the rest of her minor treatment. "You can use the bandage there," he indicated a neat pile of cut strips of linen folded at the end of the table, "To cover the gash and keep it protected. It will be a bit hard to bind the joint, so you'll have to keep the bandage in place by circling your arm above and below the cut a bit." He continued easily despite the bulky fears Albireo had brought into the room. "Not too tight when you tie it off. Don't want to hinder the blood." It was going to be mildly entertaining to watch her perform the trick one-handed. If she got frustrated enough, she might deign to ask him to finish it. He wasn't going to hold his breath. Turning away from Albireo, Duvalyon reviewed the open shelves of herbs and concoctions. Disregarding them all, he chose to snap off a portion of a sprawling aloe plant potted in the corner. "Have you managed that?" he called over his shoulder as he stuck the chunk of aloe into a jar for the woman's later use. Duvalyon smoothly closed the distance again to resume his idle perch. As she followed his instructions, he threw out glinting bits of information. What motivated him to do so was mysterious. Perhaps the desire to show his race was not comprised of base monsters like the Zith. "I liked the tale you told at the Basilika, though I didn't get to hear the end. With Laszlo's predilection for Syna, his interest was expected... I worship two deities actively. Viratas, foremost then Leth." Duvalyon barely smirked. "Something for each of us there."