Posts by Lilias.

Roman stumbles over, eyes flicking from Kimihiro to Percy as he does. With most of his focus on just taking the next step, it's the only acknowledgement he can really give them. He comes to a stop at the right of the former; it's not for any heartfelt liking that he chooses to stand near the ex-Ruiner, only more of an instinctual avoiding of Percy's current state of mind. He's a little too tired to provoke the other, and has no idea what exactly sets off his apparent bloodlust. He gives Joshua a neat little cock of the head. Surely it's enough to imply that he'd like one too; he's conversed with the dark beast once or twice now, yet can only hope he doesn't poke fun at his silence. If he does, well, it wouldn't have been the first time. He's just a little sleepy-grumpy today, that's all.

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Roman has to admit that the mention of his name is a little surprising. He and the pale Shepherd have never been considered "close," though he's sought out her opinion on spiritual matters more than a few times. It's inevitable, he supposed, having had no beliefs in even ghosts before the events of three months ago. Her eyes are a blue quite darker than his; it's with mild intrigue that he watches warmth flash in her eyes at the name after Naim and Lirim (he really can't help wondering where the literal embodiment of the void went after their first appearance, as well as a burning question of why?). Expression unchanged, he just inclines his head. He's a tad bit more concerned about their debts than his own, for some matters are more personal than others. A thought drifts by, hazy through the fog of right leg nerves: he's a little late on his ambassador duties.

A wandering mind stumbles upon the names she next calls out, of enigmatic felines yin and yang, of beasts scarred within and without. None of them seem to be in particular want of outside validation, so he won't give it to them. He only blinks at his award. Blinks again. Stock still as he usually sits, there's no real change in demeanor except for the slightly heavier rise of his chest, the slightly lengthening of his periodic blinks. He quietly leaves as soon as the thanks come from Dandelionfluff's mouth.

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A yawn slips out of his mouth before he can stop it, so he buries his face in his puffier-than-wanted chest fur instead; hair keeps getting caught in his mouth when he least expects it, but at least it can be used to muffle his embarrassment. Last night had been a long one. It isn't as if he usually sleeps too well—gray twisting around his limbs, brushing his face with chilled fingers, reeling at who returned—but lately he's been having dreamless sleeps. He wouldn't complain had it not made the resultant night a lot worse. Who knew abstaining from something would weaken his tolerance to it? As always, Roman wakes with the sun. The dragging tranquility that surrounds him today hasn't been noticed by many, thankfully, though the internal effects of it are still rather pronounced. To his relief, a spot of gold breaks the monotony of the border patrol; he heads towards it in usual, stumbling fashion.

He peers at the figure through worn lenses, cold as the night ocean and just as forbidding; it hovers in a severity that so greatly contrasts the gentleness trying to settle him within. A stray paw would like to rub at his eyes, but he stares as if there's no need to. Instead, he softens them, or at least tries. He lets the unnervingly-slack corners of his eyelids tighten up a little, lets his brow drift the slightest bit upwards. After all, there's no need for it with someone already this giving. "Thanks to you and the Coven for your generosity," he offers in soft tones, gaze flickering downwards for a moment. Medicine, food, cheese...? The bruised mind wanders to Fireghost, then back towards the gifts again: ah, Fireghost is the Coven's ambassador. No wonder there's cheese. A thought blinks in his mind when he lifts his gaze up, back into what seem to be alternating skies and fields, wide in the earnest desire to help. He never mentioned a status as an ambassador, nor did he ever given them his name. Hmm. His eye catches upon the feathers that whisper behind his ear, so bright against the sunny coat that it brings up the image of yet another golden boy. It must be personal, he assumes. No doubt Felix, with all his travels, would make friends with another and introduce to them the art of wearing feathers. "I'm going to assume you all are well then?" I have no idea of what to do with liquid time so the ambassador meeting hasn't happened yet.

He doesn't tilt his head, nor let his stare up any. Just the mildly curious, mildly piercing look between his ruffed cheeks, a taking-in of many attributes of their nameless visitor. Surely there's a reason behind his silence; he certainly isn't the one to press others where he shouldn't. "What's you name?" he hums, letting an absentmindedness fall into his tone to cover up the fact that his gaze is lingering a little too long, even for his standards. Felix offered something about refortifying their defenses with allies when the Thunderlands' ambassador arrived, but it's not Roman's jurisdiction to offer it to the Covener (hopefully). Nor has he let go of paranoia completely. It isn't as if he's begging to be of more use like the bleeding hearts he so admires. Another unspoken, quite nosy question hangs in the air, but Roman lets it be.

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Roman sits down silently, wrapping his dreadfully thick tail around his paws. Ambassadorial duties were faintly enjoyable to him: he's familiar with at least some of the Cartellian faces now, but he's not sentimental enough to assume the familiarity would help any. If it's one thing he appreciates about the Cartel, it's their commitment to the cutthroat. Well, if he were a bystander he could appreciate it; detachment would have to suffice. "One of Shadow Veil's medics is coming over from time to time to care for those still wounded; he's also bringing over more supplies. I asked him for weapons, but I admit I wasn't thinking of trading them when I asked. It's also unlikely they'll have any, anyway." His intentions, crude as they had been, were only focused on offensive defense at the time. He realized later that it's far less difficult to defend with walls instead of knives though, making trading them to the Cartel an increasingly-attractive option. It's unexpected of him to overlook such a blatantly-paranoid thing, but his mind is still...out of it, and would rather stay blurred and happy than deal with the sanguine reality. Also, he's never heard Felix use the word "jazz" before. The tom supposes it's just a sign of him feeling better about whatever had occurred. "I went to the Cartel with some nonessential gifts." He doesn't need to say that it's all out of a twisted politeness, a mute obligation. Most of their debts are due to Asimov regardless of what the rest of his group thinks; it wouldn't be a good idea to show up to their more-oblivious members with a basketful of nothing, after all. He just assumes Felix won't question his placidity.

"You mentioned building defenses with the Thunderlands ambassador?" he inquires, blinking at the serval with featureless gaze. He has his own opinions over it, but he's honestly content to let the Harbinger do the talking.

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Dee's response leaves him with an internal smirk of sorts, watching the other's brow dip just that touch, tone slipping into well-practiced fluidity. It's in equal measures amusement and curiosity, pragmatic interest piqued by his seeming knowledge of facades. Facial control is probably ingrained into those merchants by now: what else is bartering if not a game of chicken? But as he thankfully said aloud, the hybrid isn't here to conduct a trade (sure, Asimov is, but his second is tagging along for more charitable, if not questionable, reasons). He tilts his head; it gives him the faintest expression of pleasant surprise, as if he isn't at all suspecting any ulterior motives from this devilish, polished Cartelian. Just another subtle jab at the both of them. Perhaps Roman just likes to imagine that he knows them, even if it's only as deep as a tender pat to the murky waters' surface. Those ashen eyes soften a touch through his gleaming smile, rounding out into something that he suspects is contrition. He offers a neutral quirk of his lip in return; it's a conciliatory, wary gesture for a man he can't trust quite yet. "Oh—thank you, then. Can't compete with you, but we'll try next time I visit," he hums, focus sliding towards Fireghost just as Dee's breaks as well.

He regards his Shepherd with an inconspicuously, flatly polite look. Dee is pretty innocent in his deference towards Asimov; it's not as though Roman has any authority to take a negotiation into his own paws. The need for utter control wars with the need for rest and relaxation; both at once, he would enjoy stepping up to the sovereign plate and crouching meekly underneath the belly of his superiors. It's rarely in his nature to make light of grim situations. However, having lived a light-filled life for the past months, is it truly his fault for being the tiniest bit more cheerful? He lets his grip on his own mind soften when Fireghost speaks. Their pleads are a little too submissive for his warlord tendencies, so like any coward, he chooses to ignore them in favor of something easier. He catches Dee's delicate smile directed upwards, a certain sentiment lingering behind the knowing gaze. Roman doesn't know what it is because he's too busy being in awe at Makariy's incredibly contribution.

It's hard to miss a magenta catsune next to him, even harder to miss the mound of mud dumped at the suspiciously-similar kitsune's paws. Roman gives him an unreadable glance. He's hard-pressed on trying to decide whether it was really called for, or whether he should give him a laugh as payment—because mud is honestly hilarious to anyone. Dee's glossy voice chimes in again, and Roman gives him a soft huff in return. "Fair's fair," he says with a tiny shrug. "Just warning you: it might not taste as good." Indulgence feels nice.

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Roman's concern—satisfaction? anger?—grows with the strength of Felix's smile. He supposes it's obvious then. The severity of his problems might be exaggerated in his own mind, or his gamble could pay off later: Roman would rather have their Harbinger, a friend, at peace in the long run and deal with his inevitable hurt now. He blinks at him, gives him a slight narrowing of the eyes. They're intentional cracks in the rusted facade, some gentle warning of what's to come. He's just about to leave when he hears Grave's voice from behind. Behind? The tom slowly turns to leave, creating a small arc whose invisible path allows him to see both serval and wolf, to observe. The reason being is that buried strain her voice. He watches those powerful paws shuffle up against each other, held back by some emotional barrier she doesn't think herself worthy enough to cross yet. She'd been like this with Fireghost too. Something happened while he was...gone. There's no hurry in his step when he silently pads away, no widening of eyes or stiffening of spine, but there's most definitely something that's desperately pulling him away from the place this conversation is veering into. Oh, Grave, Felix. He revolts at the idea of asking the expected "what happened?" Absence—darkness—tragedy—the all-consuming feeling of missing someone and the crimes committed in the name of grief, no, no. He walks off, closing his eyes when they can't see his face anymore.

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A question floats by, airy as its source. Roman lifts his head to regard the scarred man, no, ghost; the mere sight of someone in such uncomfortably-familiar straits is enough to make something flicker across his face. Mornings aren't usually his most vulnerable time. It's as if he spites the ruddiness around everyone's eyes with his own unfathomably clear ones, the spring within his limbs that snap him into militaristic attention. Naim's state of being is enough to break something though, if only for a moment so brief it's unclear what had actually been damaged. He responds in the usual, thoughtful fashion: "I honestly don't know." His tone crackles in the dawn air, a deep hum laced with the auditory equivalent of an amused shrug. With no need to, he doesn't smile. He carefully tears his eyes away from Naim's ghastly appearance, as if staring for too long might turn him back into the shapeless and thoughtless. He pities him, albeit half-heartedly; it's a genuine tragedy about the whole "lack of corporeal form."

Roman tilts his head at Heavensdoor's remark, deep blues drifting to him too lazily to be natural. Surely he has a response to that; shouldn't he know how interesting it is that certain things survive at the expense of others? His eyes are half-lidded as he regards the other tomcat, and he lets them take on the look of placid contemplation. As if he hasn't mulled these things over hundredfold. But no one would ever be immune to devastation. The fire has died, but the injustice burns on. Out of everything in his collapsed house that could've survived, out of warm bedding and sprouting flowers, these decayed leaves don't seem like they live up to expectations of a "survivor." He shifts his weight to avoid the rising steam, careful to avoid crunching the packet underneath. "Well," he murmurs. "They did." It's not as if he's going to admonish the Honor to be grateful.

A flash of neon catches his eyes; it's what he always notices about Joshua first, and thank those ancestors of his for his size. He meets the beast's gaze evenly. There must be a background in that casually-paranoid statement, or maybe it's all just a joke. "I don't intend to." The neutral tone of his voice leaves its true meaning up for debate: is some mild-manner, cruel joke or a little pledge from the depths of his heart? He doesn't feel like justifying himself, not today. He doesn't acknowledge the mentioning of his ancestors, doesn't blink at his unholy musings. The past, spirits and magic, if they could have turned events around, they should've done so sooner. He's always held that it's the living who make the difference for the dead, not vice versa; he's always held that close. But, again, he's not going to force his opinions down another's throat, so he turns away with only politeness.

The booming voice from above doesn't startle him. Astiar shouldn't startle anyone, really; it's incredibly difficult to not notice a brilliantly-colored dragon in a sea of gray. He has to crane his neck to look into those blank eyes. It's not a question of how to explain the concept of tea to him, but more of a "why bother?" He wonders what it's like, being a weapon: powerful, but with no real autonomy. Ah, no, he shouldn't disrespect him like that; Roman doubts that he'd be able to control this monster in his ordinary, emotionally-charged way. "Water," he answers, watching that shelled face for any sign of expression. He's never noticed how useful an exoskeleton was before now, and sort of wishes that he had some as well. It'd make his mask a lot more forgiving. Would Astiar want that sort of dangerous freedom if he had it?

Mysticpaw has it much easier. The black shape slinks by like a remnant of night, and Roman blinks when that pitched voice pipes up. "Of course." Roman carefully tests a chipped cup with a tentative paw, because like anyone, he doesn't enjoy getting burned. It's cooled enough for the apprentice to be safe, so he quietly nudges it over. It's then he notices that the crows aren't around him anymore. For a second he gets lost in finding them. They dot the plains like little mounds of ash, mournful shadows that would blend in if not for their pinprick eyes; it's ever-impossible to tell anything about them, but they're staying away for what seems like obvious reasons. Roman would return his focus to their liege after he'd taken a sip of the drink. "Is it alright?" he'd inquire. Mysticpaw is the only one who trusts him here; he admits to being a little miffed by it, but their distrust is valid even without these dismal circumstances. He glances about himself, raising a stiff eyebrow. "I'm drinking it, so will you drink it?" he asks, drawing another cup closer to himself.

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A sharp ear swivels back at Marrok's approach, and the winged panthera gets a flick of acknowledgement. His steps are quiet indeed, but it's hard to miss the new shoots crunching under such massive paws. At any rate, he's just satiated by another's presence. The breathy thanks touches warmly upon his ears, almost as if the male had been speaking right next to him; he questions it a little, like everything, but stores it away. Perhaps Marrok is feeling particularly tender today. The Covener catches his attention again with that oh-so-chipper voice. A drought...a storm... One would think that the two just cancel each other out, especially with their visitor's lax way of putting it. He smiles, all shining teeth and cheery airs despite the tragedy befallen. That's one way to cope, he supposes. He doesn't respond to the offering of the name. The other puts it out there as nonchalantly as any; the only weakness he gets is the soft hitch in response to Marrok's bare sincerity. Is there something there? There's no use in (suspiciously) eyeing both of them; it's likely just his surprising jealousy worming its way deeper. "Good to hear the Coven's fine," he answers rather airily, lending subtle weight to the 'fine.' There shouldn't be any reason for him to lie about their situation, unless they were fearful of being taken advantage of, but he can wonder yet. Or maybe it's just a point of amusement for him. He glances over to Marrok this time, giving the larger a tilt of his head: somewhere between a casual "do you or any of your loved ones need help?" and "will you carry the basket?". "I can't think of anything. Thank you, again," he adds, sobering his tone into a 'good-bye.' "I won't keep you."

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The sigh brushes through his ear fur, ripples across the silence-steeped waters, like drowsy limbs trying to stay afloat: heavily. He knows the great cave where all the sad winds come from, she with a voice steeped in pure grit and swathed in ashes. It is the beast like her who everyone regards with nice words like "belonging" and "responsible" and "determined." Empty, empty words, they might placate her for the time being, but it's nothing like having that broad back covered for her. He's wondered about her; he wonders if she knows. It's in all likelihood that she doesn't. Their Nymph pushes all out of her mind in her endless march, urged on by...what? A pitiful desire to be useful in some way, atonement for all of the wild events she could've prevented if she had. Just. Done. Something. Roman used to shy away at that overwhelming tide, the guilt of the far and gone reaching out from across horizons, across realms, to drag a soul scrabbling backwards. He really just bathes in now. An ocean of regret—how edgy.

The feline comes stumbling to Grave's side as he always does. The bond between them has shattered for a known reason: it's quite within his grasp, but he keeps pushing it out into the unknown. He hasn't picked it back up yet, and neither has she. Maybe they're both just busy, toiling away in scarred fields around just as hard as the toiling within their screwed minds. It's a depressing day, or maybe it's just Grave making it like that. A spirit washes through her, purpose unknown as any's: is it to cleanse her or to punish her? Both? That and the dour look on her face are all contributing to the total presence of "injustice." It's not fair that their territory burned down, it's not fair that their territory burned down. It's not fair, the childish tantrum goes. Step into adulthood, the inner wolf growls at all, baring dirtied teeth and ragged paws. He sits at her side, curling his tail around his paws with an inordinate amount of care. The seeds dip and float on the surface, cheery as a gosling. It'd provoke the swirl of emotions, of hate and uselessness and hope and passion; it would, had the current not fizzled out. He turns his head, cranes it to look into her dazzling eyes. From below the ocean blinks at the sun.

Once, there had been a lot to say. But it's just like that first moment: under the stars, under the Gaia, simpering in their respective worlds. New to the other's face. With his tail he reaches out, brushes it over her prone paws; wholly devoid of meaning, but he hopes she'll derive something from it anyway. "Brooding," he quietly answers.

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Mysticpaw's complaining, along with Naim's inconsiderate consideration and Arlo's tentative offering, is only too easy to overhear. They're interrupting him from being absorbed in nothing, yet he can't help the prickle of annoyed fear that comes with musings aloud. Small noises in the gray, they tumble off into jaws up to no good. The feline pads over, letting his expression morph into something of the faintest curiosity. Unlike Arlo, healing isn't his dominion. He learns it out of necessity, the eagerness to just do something in return for the wartime advice he refuses to let go of. He feels like a child again, all eager paws and bumbling first tries. Muscle memory can take care of the basic things, bandaging and tourniquet-ing, but the gritty details of pulling out shrapnel and the like always escape him. He takes a gentle seat next to the Neophyte and briefly scours his pages. "That would be nice," he murmurs, turning back to stare at their fragilest feline. It's not a wonder that such a frail creature would choose the route of healing—it's almost a stereotype. He wonders if there's more to their ex-Ruiner than it seems. Growing up in such violent surroundings, do those porcelain paws grow steadier under pressure? For his future's sake, he hopes.

Twisting back to the book, he adds nothing more to the conversation. Just a plopping-down next to the confused ball of fur and staring at the book in front of him; a quiet show of solidarity. In his mind, at least. Is there anything going on inside this boy's head besides pure naivety? He gives Naim a pseudo-meaningful glance because he most definitely agrees with him. It'd be mean to just reinforce the sentiment though; with no heads on the line, this future healer can take all the time he needs to really absorb all this information. It's fitting. There's a lot more to learn here—herb gathering and storage and preparation—than there is to basic first aid, even within combat. It's almost just a test of memory with how much information there is. Dimmed eyes lift to the young tom's, one dusted cynic's versus moonlit youth's. He'd be able to manage it far better than Roman could. He stares at him, curious at his next response.

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Why? The question has never really occurred to him, at least in recent times. Tea seems like a natural way to wind down, to end the day with misty eyes and drowned thoughts. It's like the smell of it clung to his fur, weighing it down with heady, pleasant scents. He imagined he'd have questioned it at the very beginning, where everything in world seemed dubious to wide eyes, but it's long past. He stares into his own cup for a moment. A few leaves drifts within, swirling in unknown shapes around the tiniest currents. A littler world of just leaves and water. The thought is comforting, but nothing on his slack face makes it seem so when he looks back up. "Nicer than normal water," he rumbles. Dog is right of course. There's no reason to drink tea, rather than water, for any other reason because he likes it. Because he can. The loud 'slorp' of a tongue slapping against already-bruised ceramic will never miss him, but he doesn't know if there;d be any other way for canines to drink. He leans down into his own, delicate sips almost spiting the other's enthusiastic drinking.

He lifts a curious gaze to Heavensdoor at the other's prompt, following glittering green eyes towards Mysticpaw. He blinks back down. Healing includes herbs, and tea includes herbs; it's pretty obvious of how a desperate mind to come to that conclusion. He makes some thoughtful sound, not bothering to glance back up but responding all the same. "It's calming." That could also be disputed. But on these quiet mornings, breathing, living with one another, how could anyone say that tea doesn't add on another layer of tranquility? "If you're calm, you're less likely to get hurt." His musing is a little non-sequitur. Instead of caring, he starts staring at Mysticpaw too, something also done for the fun of it.

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Roman just frowns. He's not in the mood for a lack of leadership right now, especially with a stepping-down so vague. He hides the anger, the unjust, when he stumbles over, replacing it with a completely flat expression. Deep blues scrutinize the stranger's retreating form with needless harshness; there's no reason for him not to suspect the mere messenger of the crime. It feels ferociously improper for a leader to just disappear like that, as if they're not an Ionian pillar of society but a cracked leaf at the mercy of unfettered winds. A disgrace. But then again, when had Fireghost ever been graceful? He's ended up next to "Felix," as per usual. The male holds back a sigh. There's nothing he can do about it, he supposes, if Fireghost has all-of-a-sudden decided to just give up. Ah, that's what's rankling so much. No one could say that the spectre had been suited for the leadership of a crumbling world, but it's what they'd signed up for, what they'd (probably) pledged to the Gaia for. Roman closes his eyes for a moment barely longer than a blink. He's never encountered a leader who wouldn't lead before. At least, he qualifies, thinking of one white flash in the grayest night, not this high up. He turns the sharp gaze upon Dandelionfluff now, silent weapon of stained blue glass that pierces snowy armor. It wouldn't matter because she's also leaving.

She needs to understand. She can't afford to seem relatable, can't afford to say that she's only "trying her best." Her best wouldn't matter unless it's genuinely the best, and an aimless society with none to blame will always go for the head. She's a target with her soft words and gentle actions, of strange acceptance for abandonment. Pity isn't one to be counted on. Something twists in his chest at the last word; it's not at all as if he's been abandoned before, right? Behind the sober visage is the ghost of a grin. "Yes," he murmurs to "Felix." He suddenly flicks his tail. "I was going to patrol the Brigade border. Does anyone want to come?" He'd been about to say "someone come with me," but it seems a little too forceful, a little too frustrated.

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It's a little disconcerting, not being at the same height as "Felix" anymore, but he doesn't dwell on the thought. Instead, he gives the serval a slight eyebrow raise of interest. He doesn't know whether he expected the idea or not, but it sounds fair. Newcomers to the terrain would always be quickest to find the weakest patches, instead of their own, meadow-worn gazes; new faces with new powers would also be very nice, and maybe they'd get to meet their newest leader. Turning, he gives Fireghost a blink at their last sentence. Traveling out of the Sanctuary? Surely they meant just in search of supplies, but he couldn't fathom the idea of spending even a single night out of their lands. Burned down and beaten as they were, he still went to sleep each night with dreams of murmuring spirits and glassy air. The ground grows heavier under his paws. It's not paranoia as much as it is distant apprehension, but the unwillingness to leave safety rings clear in his mind. He gives Dog an absent-minded flick of an ear when the other pops down. The Coven, the Thunderlands, the Cartel, he'd be willing to deal with all of them if it meant he'd get to stay right here in the end. Funny how he chose to be an ambassador, then, but he doesn't suppose anyone envies his job right now. He'd much rather they all come to him, but it's the game of cordiality they play and he doesn't want to interrupt it for no good reason. The tapping is getting annoying by now, so he reaches out and places his fluffy tail underneath the jittery pen; if the noise doesn't stop, it should at least be muffled.

Labor and sparkly things...the only thing that comes to Roman's mind is metal. Copper wiring, stainless steel, cracked chain, of glittering polygonal mountains; he's very glad the spakliest sights in the meadow are the lakes. But Dog mentions the canyon, and the canyon mean other dangers: the Exiles. He closes his eyes for a second. Heavensdoor's report washes over him, along with some minor confusion over Dog's meaning (if he had to figure out the question "why is Dog?" he might cry). Thankfully, "Felix" brings up the Exiles anyway. This thought brings a surprise with it, but not enough to show. The Exiles hasn't done anything to the Sanctuary lately, not even to the minor extent of the Painted Brigade, so the venture seems reasonable on paper. And they've negotiated a truce with the Sanguine Ruins once. Along with their true status as a "neutral" society... "How are you going to make that happen? We don't have much to offer in the way of defending them—at least, not yet—and I don't know of anyone with a personal connection to the Exiles. But they've been uninterested in us for some time, and...Dog," His voice takes on the slow, patient tone of a determined teacher. "What exactly do these sparkly things look like? Past the canyon, we'd want to negotiate passage if we decide to go scouting," he adds.

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Roman suppresses the urge to glare at her, at Dog, at everyone who thinks it's nice and alright to have such a blatant piece of a bait lying around their territory. As always, he's at "Felix"'s side in border-bound activities. He stands a deal shorter than the serval now, but no less internally disapproving. His gaze, ocean's hue and depth, settle upon her form heavy as the crushing weight of the sea, traveling quickly and carefully through canyon-scented fur. There's no trace of antipathy in his slack expression, no ghost of suspicion within the neutrality. The only part of him that moves, that could betray him, are his eyes in endless, silent interrogation.

It's obvious that she's pregnant, through the vulnerably distended belly and her own abashed announcement (like Sitri, he scoffs at the "difference" between an innocent adult and an innocent child. There'd been none for him, after all). What's less obvious is her relative youth. With zero interest and/or experience with reproduction, even he feels the slightest bit unsettled at this realization; in order to be showing right now, she must've had to...? It begs the question about what, exactly, the Exiles are like. But it's certainly not his place to wonder about depravity, much less criticize it. His eyes catch the glimmering wings tight at slender flanks, the little horns like icicles stabbing through her head, almost misses the grotesque paw below all the swirling monochrome markings. It's definite that she has ice elementals, but otherwise she could be considered helpless. Bait, the paranoia hisses. He casually gives their surroundings a quick once-over again; in their rolling fields, charred down to a single color and scent now, hiding shouldn't be too easy. There's no harm in pretending that he's prepared though.

He blinks back to the little airplane she guards, explores a train of thought in his head. Would it be necessary to read it, or would it only make him seem like some power-tripping antagonist? While the Exiles are enemies to everyone, Roman doesn't want to provoke them by having some hormonal child running back to them with tears in her eyes and her dignity in shreds. The tom lets his eyes drift over the surroundings once more. Only "Felix" seems to align with him here; despite their relative inactivity, does everyone truly give no second thought to those with the title of "Exiler?" Stereotyping is necessary evil. "If he doesn't show up soon, we can pass the message on," he murmurs, soft tones incongruous with his implication: you can't stay here for long.

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An amber pelt flashes in the corner of his gaze; the next thing he knows, he's blinking a water droplet out of his eye. The tom scrambles to his paws in some flash of surprise; while his face stays unamused as ever, the hasty drawback proves otherwise. It's not surprising that Dog should appear and do this, but more surprising that he hadn't heard him before. It's only too obvious that he shouldn't have been staring. But how else would he provoke something, some sort of reassurance that Grave still has her strange sort of loyalty to him? He cares for her—surprisingly genuinely—but the recent lack of normality is beginning to unnerve him. His grasp is slipping off that ashen fur, and his first reaction to it is indignance. There's some reward for holding on, some spoken oath that must not be broken, but he can't quite remember it. He lets a tiny frown slip on to his face when Dog emerges, and they all get a hefty dose of lakewater. Roman draws his tail back from her feet to shake it out. If there's anything he doesn't want, it's his nice tail dragging among the dirt and unknowingly catching all sorts of terrifying bugs. He's not going to lick it in public though. Instead, he gives Dog the slightest prick of an eyebrow: "all is not lost"? What a wonderful and convenient statement.

He gives the Neophyte a small nod (it wasn't his bag of seeds, though part of the situation may have been his fault). The silent acknowledgement was more agreement than gratitude anyway; he enjoys the feel of those four words on his tongue. He's given a variation of them innumerable times, all off some great con man's silver tongue, getting others to do what he fearfully wouldn't. It sounds better on Dog's mouth, yet no less a lie. It's with a mixture of approval and sinister amusement that he regards Dog for another second. "Do you remember the time when we all fell asleep?" he hums, blinking back at Grave. His low voice is laced with a note of nostalgia this time; it's forced, but it's so unfamiliar to the others that it may as well be candid. Roman gives a soft huff. "You should ask Dandelionfluff sometime," he adds, letting the implication of 'I don't know anything' trail along in dim frustration. The spiritual world would always be a complete unknown to him, viewed with warring suspicion, hate, and fear: irrationalities that he thought he'd since forgotten. It's difficult to force himself to look at the spirits, dead in the eyes and feigning indifference; there would always be some part of him that quakes and flees from these hushed unknowns. But he's made a home in the Sanctuary, and he's not going to be driven out by something that isn't yet completely malicious. "And maybe we should learn how to swim." Roman doesn't look at Dog, because he does not want Dog to teach him anything that involves motor skills.

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Killing flowers is one of his most cherished hobbies. It's the only sort of artistic expression he can manage; paint coats his paws with a terror too reminiscent of rain-soaked blood, graphite wields in his clumsy grasp like burned blades. He could never fathom the purity, the innocence, of a single flower like Losteyes could; he'd be hard pressed to nurture something that couldn't repay him in significant dividends. He cultivates food instead decor. The Sanctuary has flowers enough to sacrifice, and he wouldn't ask of it for anything more than flowers. If Marrok seeks someone to press flowers with, Roman certainly has the experience, if not the weight. And certainly not the innate kindness it takes to coax any job satisfaction from the sabertooth.

A dim gaze trails over the beast and his victim when he passes them by, encouraging him to stop and socialize for the moment before heading off to a patrol. The tom pauses next to Alaksiej. As to what he's doing, it's clear as day: untied bouquets line the edges of books heavy in both mass and content, like mindless cats lying in an alleyway before some young boy with a gun. A dull gaze drifts up to Marrok's. The slight drooping of facial muscles would always be exagerrated with larger creatures, along with the general air of despondency in which he pitifully sits on a book: Roman would've never guessed this scarred brute, mature for his age and skilled in both war and healing, would be the sort of bleeding-heart who feels for things that don't even have a face. Perhaps he's wrong. Perhaps he hadn't read his acquaintance's brutal face accurately in the half minute that he surveyed it, perhaps he's letting his own hunger for the cold cloud his judgment. Perhaps he's delving too much into it, and the male just always looks like this. His opinions don't matter today, nor even tomorrow or a month from now, but they will matter eventually. He gives Naim a glance first, faint amusement ghosting his face, as if to say "I sit on things that I'm going to read too"—his useless speculation doesn't warrant an answer because he hasn't even stated his question. "What's your favorite flower, Marrok?" he asks, a softly-casual question fitting for passerby conversation. He half expects him to answer "living ones."

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Grave, whispered his first thought, in dim tones of muddled recognition and pity. Finally. Even if it hadn't been face-to-face like was polite, like was "friendly", he's only grateful for this first step towards closure. He'd given the messenger a cordial, if not perfunctory, thanks; while his eyes hadn't strayed from their departing form, his mind wandered elsewhere. Dreaded sunset: he's not used to being in the dark. He knows her—no. They know one another well now, some inordinate amount of familiarity brought on by felicitous coincidences and harmonious personalities. His gaze had drooped to the note afterwards, lingering with nameless emotion like it had been her on the floor instead of her words. He's not one for sentimentalities. At least, he doesn't think he is. But he can appreciate Grave's apparent flair for the dramatic; beneath the moribund sun, awash in bloody lake's reflection, a perfect setting for what she must spit out. To let sink the whatever burdens she carries, whatever has to do with him. A wave of nausea had rolled over him at another thought, concerning the spinning darkness and twisted depth of having...ended. She's one for answers, for the "truth" of any matter mundane or enthralling. He can taste the bitter ocean spray, feel the damp rock pressing against a hunched, rusted spine. He doesn't hold it against her. He values her curiosity's fire, in fact, even to the point of quiet resentment, but he isn't sure whether he'd want such a double-edged sword. He has plenty of those anyway.

No, he wouldn't have brought it up. May it be cowardice, may it be pragmatism: he wouldn't have addressed this aching feeling straining within fluttering chest without her. Emotions are unsophisticated details of life, unwieldy toys to be swept under the dumpsters while he plays with the messier ones of others. Whether it drawing them out or crushing them entirely, he's only ever dealt in negatives. Tension, horror, and rage his most exploited, he's the iron heart to another's iron fist (he hadn't been tyrannical, but hovered on the edge of it here and there). Freedom, nature's eternal whisper of "at ease," had been a constant surprise at first. Thoughts ring a little louder here, reverberating so clearly as though the peachy heather were sunlit steel. They hum around him as the wisps do, unsuccessfully ignored. Too natural are the actions that chill him to the bones and leave him shivering after wretched dreams; ice runs through his marrow and into the back of his vivid gaze, freezing it into place. It dyes the world in bicolor: necessity and opportunity. It's changing today, shifting around in the way new grass-shoots can and buildings cannot.

His paws are still faltering, but they've been regaining their confidence just as his heart's is falling. He treads carefully across the plains, watching the sunrays spill around the dark expanse and wash them in gilded blood. His shadow stretches long behind him, a deep blue that cuts crevasses across the orange glow. He carefully avoids stepping on the emerging green if he can, but it doesn't hurt much if he ends up trampling some; the young grow soft beneath his worn pads. Even as afflicted with introspection as he is now, the dark eyes scan the bare horizons as continually as a lighthouse within some thrashing storm. Even when the lake and its fateful figure come within sight, within tenderest reach, the silent sirens don't cease.

Does he wish that she was the one? That her face, broad as it is alluring, would make him forget everything; that she'd be the beholder of such a weapon? The tom comes as wordlessly as ever, crouching into a seat before the Lupurca. She looms over him like some metalwrought statue of a great god looms over the devout: threatening or benevolent, they'd never know. He is not devout. Not to her, not to her with powerful breath in her lungs and steadfast flames in her gaze. He doesn't owe her anything, nor does she him (he hopes the thought brings her peace like it does him). Roman lifts his head, watches her. Would her thoughts betray her and sneak across her face without her permission? Or would they be chained down, every one of them, from the passions to the angsts to the joys? The unfamiliar tail curls around his paws again, all four. It paints him in a tidy little light of mere expectation, though it's still easy to spot the other characteristics he gives her: emotional weight in his steel-backed stare, anticipatory tension in his raised ears. Genuine acceptance in the silence permeating the thickened air. It's whatever she wants, whatever she needs from him at the moment, because what he's not willing to give she wouldn't ask for. (Not anymore, she's learned her lesson.) He watches her with steady, mute consent she's become accustomed to, that she's lost and found.

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He seeks her out within wavering branches and spirits' murmurs, caught between wearying responsibility and an unfortunate predisposition to kindness. He wonders which form she'll favor today: the statuesque wolf goddess or the charming little feline ("little," he says, aware that he's not much taller than her now). She's been a direwolf for some time now. Presumably to effect the idea that she's the Shepherd, she whom the Sanctuarians must crane their necks to even witness. Perhaps not. Perhaps it makes her feel safer this way, untarnished by the desperate earth, guarded with gaping maw and readied lunge. And perhaps he shouldn't be questioning her like this, much less trying to turn her inside out and examine her noble psyche. To be sure, Roman has a wealth of mixed feelings for his only Shepherd. He appreciates her graciousness just as much as he scorns it as weakness, though even he can recognize the strength within the most delicate of actions. He recognizes it, but he won't be the one to carry them out. His blood, tired from too much time spent outside of his veins, runs too cold for warmth. At least he can trust it to stay that way. Just as he trusts in his knowledge, stored in a fractured mind and coiled muscles, more than he does hers, if only in a single area. The near-wastelands around them are beginning to rebound, yet each new, ashen day only serves as a reminder to his greedy soul: he almost lost it. It's not a question of failure, but about how well he's able to pick himself back up again. And if he's able to prevent mistakes, even hide them behind that stone visage, then all the better.

Roman knocks, waits for her appearance. While he's not trepidatious, he genuinely respects her privacy. Once she lets him in and exchanged pleasantries, he'll make his blunt request: "Dandelionfluff, please consider me interested in the position of Harbinger of War."

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His straightforwardness widens those ocean eyes, twin pools of deep blue one could easily find themselves lost in. It's all the more appreciable when he's face-to-face with them instead of peering upwards like some inquisitive kitten. Roman flicks an ear at her response; it's not unexpected, at all really. He assumes that, had anyone truly wanted it, they would've received it ere long after. Nor do his clanmates, excluding a particular few, strike him as the warmongering type. Admittedly, he isn't the best physically. Worn through mind and soul, this clumsily-winged, four-footed, relatively tiny form is all he has left. But he isn't one to underestimate himself, and his qualifications are clear as day. "Thank you." There's nothing more to say than that. However, judging by the way he lingers in the doorway, it's evident that there's something else on the tip of his tongue. He watches her carefully, as though gauging her exact state of mind in the quiet moment. The post-Fireghost musings have been rumbling in his mind since he got the idea into his head, as well as other, less savory notions about his own parallels. He gives her a carefully measured stare, steel-backed blues meeting her ultramarines: a soft warning. Against failing at her duties, against lying to him—it'd be unclear because neither of them know the other all too well. He hasn't had the chance to visually examine her, not yet at least.

It's obvious. Through sudden silences and ashamed admissions, she cracks. Roman finds doubt a necessity, but he also knows it's not helping any. "Are you alright?" he murmurs, gently tilting his head. Even he's uncertain about his own motives for asking. A soothed leader would be one more capable, more trustworthy; it's in all their best interests to talk to her. But it is only equations that prompt him so? It strikes a chord, this emotional exhaustion, with all the expected ferocity. Three paws have been thrown in a hopeless situation many times over, slipping upon the red-stained sidewalks, crashing down into desolate scrapyards. It's nothing new, yet each mistake hurts just like his first; it's only with a totalitarian reign over his own beliefs that he's made it. Here, to where he'll never have to feel again, ad yet he's putting himself into these lonely scenes again. It gives him hope for his empathy, that it may grow back some day.

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And she draws breath. Draws it deeply at the sigh of one who has loved and lost, prolonged as the turning of a mind in the dead of night. He can't see her face but supposes he doesn't need to: her sweeping breath is enough. He doesn't know whether it's on purpose, a little display for his benefit, or if it'd been completely involuntary—no, Grave wouldn't do a thing like that. Even in confidence she'd only looked the meekest amount of shocked before composing herself to comfort him. To comfort him. Any qualities past pure determination could be summed up in "deliberate." She must maneuver around her fragiler clanmates with care, must shoulder the weight of their two missing Harbingers all on her shoulders; broad as they are, not even they could hold the weight of two whole responsibilities alone. Thoughtful in every action, measured in each execution. It gets tiring, he knows. He knows and pities and laughs at and tries to relieve this myriad of troubles she's brought upon herself through undying devotion. Undying. Is it any coincidence, then, that she chose them to meet at Cinnabar Lake? He hides the flicker of dark amusement behind cold, rigid eyes who follow the turning frame and tearing gaze. What was once golden-brown are now deep blue, an ultramarine enigmatic as the ocean depths; they've never been touched by sun's warmth, not even while directly below it. Her great shadow falls cool upon him, but the relief from day's heat clashes with the placid disquiet that follows. His movements have slowed to a standstill. They always freeze under heat, under pressure, as though becoming some magnificent ice sculpture would spare him from warfire. It worked, at least back then. It doesn't seem to be working out too well here, in this twisted sort of first impression he must make again. Of course, their tenuously formal exchange at the beginning won't ever count.

She stares back. Hesitates. She hesitates with every lungful of air she desperately catches, pausing in this nebulous, verbal doorway with the least confidence in the world. He doesn't mind. If she were someone different he would, but he can trust her. Not to the ends of the earth, and certainly not with those he knows to be his, but surely with truthful speech. Roman doesn't bother with wondering whether she'd lie to him, or if there exists even the chance that she would: no, convoluted as it is, he assumes that she knows that he knows her too well. It's the case for her utility to him. He'd be able to predict her immediate actions with ease by now, and possibly her future aspirations with a little difficulty. Right now she's been behaving a little too erratically for him to truly rely on her, but after she unloads he'd be safe to count on her again. Maybe to hope on her again, but his hope is a delicate youth he's apprehensive of placing near such brutish willpower. Still, he longs for her to cut the strings and pour down like a waterfall for him. He's known the significance of this ever since he'd been left alone her words. The scrawled meaning had been ringing in his ears since he carefully folded it and tucked it underneath a good book. He doesn't bother to acknowledge her thanks, but it's not out of insolence that he refuses. It's more a silent regard for her dignity, a turning of blind eye to this uncharacteristic naivety in stalling. 'Take your time,' the silence replies. 'You have all the time in the world.' He hopes she savors it. Time, especially the nonstop variety, is wonderful.

The corners of her eyes, sun's brilliance within fading night, tighten a little. She sits up. It's all rather sudden; he hadn't really expected the changes while they were still staring at one another, but it was inevitable. It's at no cost to him, so he'll allow her these moments of respite. He's only too familiar with spitting words with hollow confidence, of roaring charges with shaky drive at best—isn't that what Grave always does? She's a beast in brawn and brain, someone destined to become a force of nature if she just let go. To let go of her second-guessing, her rampant insecurities that (probably) power this desire to be useful that burns holes through her: he'd like her to be free, but it's not in his best interests. She gives him some words and offers a consolation pause after. The tranquility is suspended in the golden air, if only for a second, and he'll take whatever he can get before the emotional turmoil to come. He closes his eyes, lets out a small puff of air. It's no use hiding from her, and he doesn't think he can anyway. His eyes flutter open again, fix on hers with a resigned sort of decision. "Go ahead," he says, soft as the wavering horizons surrounding them.

for sure, all for a pretty sky — information