[Semi-Open] An Esteemed Guest of Lohkimareen

[warmare]

WHO: Hayame (warmare) & Makoto('s Head) (affal) & You
WHAT: Visits, interrogations, supply drops, medical aid, nightmares, maybe an eventual rescue?
WHERE: Lohkimareen, near the Valley of the Innocent
WHEN: Throughout Sekiseri (Sept.)
WARNINGS: there is a living severed head in this log and almost no one is going to be nice to him + a variety of referenced CW's (torture, amputation, SA, etc.)

[There is a new resident of the forest of Lohkimareen, to the west along the border with the Valley of the Innocent. It had taken portals and days of travel to make her way there, but Hayame (and her unwilling "guest") now call those woods... "home", following the advice of the aion Tehri, who assured that the Regent's eyes should not be able to penetrate the trees. So for now, Hayame and the severed head of the Kenoma Makoto tied to her withers spend their nights in hollow trees and caves, moving location each day, just in case, even though the forest is supposed to protect them.

Perhaps she would have spent those days quietly, putting her efforts into recovering from her injuries... if Makoto would stop waking in the night and mouthing off at her, and if he was not a valuable potential resource to the Pleroma, some of their number which desire to speak to him. But she will not trust his "care" to another, not when he was... something. Her trophy, her hostage. Even when others come to call, she refuses to leave the "room", even if she will largely leave them to their devices as long as the visitors do not touch or attempt to mess with the shard in the man's skull. ... There's a bit for when he gets too mouthy, blinders and earplugs for when sensitive information needs be discussed between only the Pleroma. Other than that, he looks... almost well taken care of.

Supplies need to be brought, Hayame needs medical care for the raw eye socket where her left eye had been, there are interrogations and talks with Makoto to be done... But what business has brought you here today?]

starters and wildcards go below! please use the OOC plotting post to check-in first, plz and thanks!

Comments

FOR HIMEKA, ABEL, & MAKOTO ↣ TURNED TABLES ↣ 首を梟す

[warmare]

[Hayame has no right to speak to the two people who were rescued from Achamoth, because all she had done before the raid was question why they were risking their lives for them and all she has done since their capture is resent them. For the sake of just two people, so many members of the Pleroma had lost their sense and mind for odds or strategy, and on top of that... She struggled to comprehend why they were even still alive. Had they been prevented so cleverly from harming themselves by their jailers that they'd been unable to bite off their own tongues or crush their own shards and bring an end to the shame their detention brought upon themselves and the rest of them? Were they so weak as to accept being pawns used as bait? Even though she had wanted to think that there must be something unique and powerful about them that made them worth it, something that made the person she respected respect them... Though she had to give them a certain level of respect for sheer fortitude in surviving the torture they must have endured...

... In all honesty, there is a part of her that does not want to talk to them, just because their capture... Their capture had led to her- ... to the Pleroma's loss, and when she thinks of it...

But she had received word that they would speak to the demon called "M", who's head remained alive through some foul magic in her custody though she had thought it would dissipate in her hands and leave only a shard behind to imprison or study. In this, she can find no reason outside of pettiness to refuse. If anyone had justification to speak to M, it may be them, and so when they are ready she sends just a location by communion.

When they reach it, they will find a cave in the roots of a gigantic dead tree that has been converted to her base for the day, and at the mouth...]

So you have arrived.

[Hayame emerges, standing stiff with a makeshift, slightly crusted bandage covering the empty socket that had once been a left eye. She does not bow fully... but she dips her head, and when she raises it...]

You will find the prisoner inside.

[Inside... where M's head is placed on a simple cloth spread over a flat stone. He is freshly washed, his hair has been meticulously combed and styled back, and though he is not wearing a blindfold or earplugs, a metal bit prevents him from speaking until it is allowed by another.

Hayame has not told him who will be visiting.]

[aquaveiled]

[ It's at a part of the forest she recalls from when they first ventured out of the Valley, back when this had all began. Going on the word of a nearby village that there was refuge in the forest...provided you could survive in it. But remembering the bodies she'd seen strewn outside the Wanderer's Shrine, Himeka believed not only where the people of the forest there, but they were allies--those who had stood opposed to the soldiers that captured them. She had been right.

Yet now as she and Abel move in the direction Hayame had given them, they walk not as hopeful wanderers seeking solace, but the wronged seeking retribution. Answers, maybe. She isn't exactly sure.

There's a large part of her that doesn't want to talk to him or see him--he who has been one of the lowest points of their stay in Achamoth. To have Dionys and numerous nameless Achamites deliver their daily blows was one thing, to have an Aion that began the same as they did was a deeper cut in the fabric that should have been binding them all together. Even on different sides, they still had that in common.

But Makoto--no, "M" had shown his cards. To be undone in such a way, let alone in front of someone she cared about and held in esteem, was the greatest violation. Even now after many of their wounds are fading, Himeka wears cloth around her upper arm and her neck to cover the missing scales he'd taken. It's one of the first bouts of shame she's felt in a long, long time. To be used in such a way...as bait and some sort of sick amusement? It isn't an act of war.

It's personal.

Prone to silences as she can be, the silence she wraps around her isn't her usual companionable daze--it's heavy, wrought with frustration and confusion. Though she and Abel had weighed their options at length and came to a joint conclusion, the sight of the trees closing in on them brights it to the front. It makes it real.

Himeka sees the cave not far ahead and falls to stop. ]

...

[ She needs a moment.

Exhaling slowly, Himeka raises her chin. Though she's feeling far from jovial, she does twitch a smile in Abel's direction. ]

...I couldn't do this without you.

[ She's not sure she'd want to.

With that, she leads them forward.

The wound on Hayame's face does not go unnoticed especially to a healer such as herself, but she doubts offers made to the other woman would not be welcome at this juncture. They're here for another purpose, after all. But she does set down a small parcel--linen wrapped around various dried fruits and jerked meats. As assistance to a fellow Pleroma and gratitude for the opportunity, whatever the end will be.

To see M inside as...he is...she knew it was coming, but it's still unexpected. That he not be some half-dead looking thing and still look so much like him.

Just missing a few important pieces. ]

M.

[ He can't return the greeting just yet. There is some petty enjoyment of that. ]

[inutilis]

[ there is little joy in their excursion out into the wilderness, today.

though time and the patient ministrations of healing magicks had seen much of their wounds on their way to healing, some fester still in places invisible and unseen. it is in the quiet moments that Abel sees it - the heaviness in the distracted gaze of Himeka's eyes; the unhappy sit of her shoulders when she thinks no one is looking. in her shadow travels an unknowable companion - one that has followed her home from Achamoth, one that is not easily shaken.

and every time he sees the naked skin where her scales should be at her neck, at her arm, an old grief... an old rage simmers in his stomach churned up anew. he knows how badly this has dug beneath the skin, how hard it's been for her to move on. considering the circumstances - Abel cannot, would not, blame her.

were that this was a less gruesome expedition, a trip spent to enjoy fresh air and freedoms they had been deprived of during their stay in the Citadel - but it isn't. the mouth of the cave settled deep within the dead wood - how fitting - ahead signifies their destination, and he can feel the nerves radiating from Himeka without her needing say a word. blue eyes meet those before him filled with consternation, and he finds himself gently reaching to squeeze her shoulder in solidarity, steadiness, in return. his expression is soft, reassuring; though he says nothing, she surely knows what he is thinking.

It's alright.

I'm right behind you.

he had come here for one reason and one reason alone: this woman and reparations due to her for the transgressions wrought against her by the demon known as 'M.' whether Abel feels any regret or uneasiness about Makoto's circumstances is unimportant; if he is capable of feeling compassion or sympathy for the Kenoma's plight matters not. he is not here as the Pleroma, Abel Nightroad. he isn't here as M's friend.

Makoto had chosen his identity back in Achamoth. so... he had thusly chosen Abel's henceforth, too.

Abel lingers by the mouth of the cavern beside Hayame to give Himeka the space she more than rightfully deserves; he is watching, and he is waiting - but the flow of this visit is hers to dictate. should she wish to extract a pound of flesh in return for what had been taken from her... should she merely wish to sit and talk; should she take this head and thrash it along the wall, should she scream herself raw - Abel doesn't know he has it in him to stop her from any of it.

...somehow, he feels already knows the path she'll set ahead.

but his eyes settle on the one-eyed woman, giving a slight incline of his head in the way of acknowledgment and gratitude for her time. Hayame... has seen better days, but coaxing her to take care of herself is fruitless. the best thing he can do is see what he came here for to its fruition.

and maybe in doing so, a new understanding can be reached. between all of them. ]

cw gore mention (oops)

[affal]

( when makoto had first come to in the wake of the Pleroma's attack on achamoth and fully realized the situation his confrontation with hayame had landed him in, he'd been impossibly animated, a tiny avatar of almost comical bitter fury. he had shouted, hissed, snarled, spit, snapped; he had poured every ounce of anger, shame, humiliation, and degradation that he felt into the impossibly small amount of personal agency that he had. with his head severed as it is, there is precious little he can do. he can move the muscles of his face, he can close his eyes and turn his gaze, he can open his mouth to speak or to bite, but that's it. that is the full extent of his control over his own body. being trapped in this state against his will brings back memories he prefers not to entertain for too long — of his mortal death, of being taken into hell unsuspecting and unawares, of making his first defiant stand against J and his wishes, only to have his head wrenched off, fingers forced up through his throat, and then his refusal flagrantly refused in turn while he was made to watch, powerless to do anything about it. he understands now that back then, it had been a lesson that J had decided to teach him. "an act of defiance is meaningless unless you have the strength to back up your assertions." that's what he had forced him to learn, in a way that he would never forget. a way that had shifted and altered his mind in a way that was indelible.

"reaching a goal takes power. taste various things, mako-chan — swallow them, and learn."

here, he has been swallowing nothing but his own pride. the alternating intrigued, disgusted, fearful, and furious gazes of those that came by to either offer hayame supplies or aid or to take a look at the bizarre captive that the Pleroma had managed to take.

imprisonment does odd things to one's mind, and there's no one that would understand that more than the two that came to visit him this day. he no longer knows how to direct his thoughts. they form a shapeless and indistinct morass; sometimes they form points and valleys from spikes or depressions of emotion, but he is without drive. he is without direction, purpose, or hope. anticipation of rescue had died within his first few days in hayame's captivity, consumed by the gnawing dread that the Abyss had leeched into his mind. it has since faded, and with it, his conception of where any of this might lead. what is the end result of this? as far as he is aware, there are only two options: he somehow finds his way back to the Kenoma, or he finds his end out here, one way or another.

for whatever reason, hayame has a very specific ritual she performs when preparing him for visitors, and so he is always aware it's going to happen. who it is that is coming to see him and why, however, is a mystery until the last. the amount of time he has spent in her captivity has hollowed his wretched defiance, so rather than (ineffectually) attempting to thrash or make noise, he is oddly still and quiet where his placed upon the low, flat stone. a horse's bit has been forced into his mouth, and the sharp, inhuman teeth of the demon curve over it; his tongue is pinned uncomfortable and useless by the unfeeling metal, and he has absolutely no control over the faint line of drool that curls down from a corner of his mouth.

he is aware that he looks dreadfully pathetic. and when the figure that moves to stand before him resolves from an indistinct silhouette to an all-too-familiar young woman, he feels his blood run cold. especially when his pale eyes flick over her shoulder to take note of the tall figure that waits near hayame in the cavern entrance.

his eyes slowly move back to himeka. silently, he acknowledges her speaking his initial; it would only embarrass him to try to make any aural reply, given the bit in his mouth. he glares at her for a long moment, unblinking, and then he makes the only action he is able to do in this moment: after considering, he slowly closes his eyes, the metal in his mouth clinking ever-so-slightly as the pressure between his jaws increases, anticipatory.

one might think he's doing so to try to imply that he's ignoring her... but that's not his intention. it's odd. he would be hard-pressed to say he felt guilt for what he did to her, and what he did to abel by extension. he has spent the last few years being encouraged not to feel such a way, and it was so freeing when you released it. but, that having been said... he told abel once that he believed in actions and consequences. he had not done what he'd done to them thinking it would never come back to haunt him. if this is the price that he pays for what he had done then in the dungeon in the very bowels of the citadel, then... he closes his eyes to accept it. whatever she or her companion want to say to him, to do to him — well, what else can he do but accept it?

there might even be some unacknowledged, vestigial part of him that welcomes it. )

FOR CHARACTERS DROPPING OFF SUPPLIES/ETC. ↣ "HOUSE"CALLS ↣ 治せないもの

[warmare]

[The aion Tehri had assured Hayame that the forest of Lohkimareen in the western reaches near the Valley of the Innocent would hide her presence and M's from those with far-seeing eyes like the Regent and his ilk, but that did not mean that Hayame had relaxed her guard. She still moves bases frequently, staying only one or two nights in a cave or tree hollow before crossing miles forward and back through wood, over river, and under vines to leave confusing trails and false signals along the way, M's head bouncing slightly against her withers as she goes.

But the cost of moving so much is that she has less time to hunt and less time to care for herself. Though she despises relying on others, she reluctantly accepts... charity. She attempts to control her visitors to those she already trusts, but even that... Well, when you trusted almost no one... She had to lower her standards. Those who come must contact her via communion for the location she has found herself that day and then make the journey through portals and through forest, for she is far from Greentruth and swore to Tehri she would not endanger the rebel base, but, when her "guests" arrive...]

A. [They may find Hayame "sitting" on her haunches at the mouth of a stone cave, the interior dark and hidden by a curtain of vines. In her hands is some sort of plant material, which she seems to be weaving into... something round. At the sound of an approach, she looks up sharply, the one eye she has remaining narrowing... until she identifies them as ally and not enemy. She might not... look the most welcoming, but she at least says-]

Welcome.

B. [They may find Hayame withers deep in a river, washing... something that looks at a distance like some sort of inky dark cloth. Laundry? But as they get closer... There's an ear, a flash of teeth, a spluttering bubbling... Yeah, it's. It's M's head, currently in the middle of being... "bathed" would be far too kind a word for what's going on. "Scrubbed", perhaps.

She turns to address the new arrival, looking... rather unbothered, considering what she's doing.]

Give me a moment.

C. [They may find Hayame has actually met them partway on her journey that day towards finding a new camp for the night. She carries everything on her person that she owns- not that it's much, just the leather armor made for her by a fellow Pleroma before the raid (now marked here and there where blades had penetrated), her saddlebags, near empty quivers, bow, knife... and M hanging off the harness on her "waist" alongside the other sheaths and buckles, the severed head stuffed into a woven "bag", blindfolded, ears stopped, and a bit in his mouth to prevent him from being able to observe anything about their location or overhear conversation.

She holds out her hand for whatever has been brought, flinching a bit as a sudden pain flares up in the socket hidden under the makeshift bandages over what once was a left eye. Pushing through, she simply grits out,]

I'm headed east. What news have you?

A.

[emblazer]

[ Tracking down Hayame's exact location had involved a lot of combing through his memory to match some of the notable landmarks to the flashes he'd received from communion. Luckily, he's had a few months to get used to the area and explore his heart out, so it hadn't taken him too long to find Hayame and... the head.

In his hands is a woven basket with the best dinosaur-kabobs he could put together, using a combination of patience and ingenuity. They're well-spiced and grilled to perfection, if he must say so himself. He's hoping the fact that they're still steaming and piping hot from the grill will inspire her appetite to spare him from certain death. Or at least make her slightly more amenable to taking a break and eating.

He stops a few feet away to wave, trying not to let his nerves overcome his desire to help. She greeted him, so that's already somewhat encouraging. ]

Hi there, Hayame! I figured it's probably been a while since you've last had a proper meal. How's the head doing?

[ It doesn't appear to have grown legs and walked off yet, so another encouraging sign. ]

[warmare]

[Hayame had a lot of questions. What the hell he was doing there was the first one. What the hell that delicious smelling food in his hands was happened to be the second one, but she isn't going to allow herself to ask it. Not yet.

There is business to attend to. Business enough that she has apparently either put aside or blocked from her memory how desperately she had lost her temper with this man over the unsettling mode of communication that was Communion.

She jerks her head sharply back towards the inner part of the cave behind her, her fingers stilling in their task weaving reeds she'd harvested from a riverbank on her trek through the first this day, just one of many she's taken since her arrival, unwilling to risk staying in one place for too long even though Tehri had assured her that the Regent's eye could not pierce the trees.]

It's inside. He hasn't called death upon either of us yet, if that is what you are asking.

["It". "He". She hasn't decided which was the most appropriate yet.]

[emblazer]

[ ...Oh. Good.

Thoma isn't entirely assuaged by that response, but he tries to brush it off and focus on the task at hand as he approaches her a bit more closely. He's still tense because it's Hayame, and it's physically impossible for him not to clam up around her, but he's also determined because it's Hayame, and she's an ally that needs to be fed. ]

I'll take a look a bit later to make sure it's still dead in a bit. I'm not used to the mechanics of revival in this world. In my world, everything that gets beheaded, doesn't get a second chance unless they come back as ghosts.

[ Which is a whole new set of problems he doesn't want to think about just yet. He's had enough imagined nightmare scenarios about the head just as it is –watching them all with cold, lifeless eyes. ]

Because you've been more or less probably traveling since you left the battlefield, I thought you could use something to reenergize. I wasn't sure what sort of portions you'd prefer, but I made a lot anyway.

[ He lifts the blanket to offer her a peek at his pile of skewers, their scent waft more freely towards her. She has to at least be feeling a little hungry by now. Then again, jinba are probably built differently and might be able to last longer without food... ]

for makoto.

[passio]

[ dextera has made himself as small and unobtrusive as possible in order to get access to this, but truthfully, that’s not such a hard effort on his part. despite their technical victory in achamoth in the form of rescuing himeka and abel, dextera has managed to take a few hits both physical and emotional in the couple of days it’s taken him to get access to the location hayame and unwillingly makoto are presently hiding.

his whole demeanor is particularly gloomy, and that’s just about the only thing protecting him from the sharp, furious glare of hayame on his back. he can’t worry about what other people think of him when he’s got so many more things on his mind. ]

…

[ strangely, it’s less shocking to see makoto’s severed head than it was to hear about it. maybe his sensitivities have numbed thanks to all that he’s seen in the apocalypse. he’s not sure if that’s a good thing.

there’s still something left in him, though, so his stomach twists as he takes in the totality of the situation in front of him. it’s the first time he’s really had to face makoto with both of them representative of their respective sides; makoto is a hated member of the kenoma, and dextera is under the watchful eye of a fellow pleroma who doesn’t trust a thing he does.

already aware that he can’t use his shard to speak, dextera has prepared his notebook, but truthfully his first moments in makoto’s presence are just spent in pained, contemplative silence. ]

[affal]

( this may not be the first time he's been reduced to this state, but it is by far the longest time he has spent trapped in it. even immediately upon his arrival into hell, when he had been waiting for the body that J had ordered for him to be delivered, he had at least had his head sewn onto the body of a dog — it had been horrible, degrading, and humiliating, but at least he'd had the ability stand. to walk. to turn his damn head. he would have never thought that anything would make him almost yearn for those days, those he had spent chained to a doghouse outside of J's manor, simply because it would have given him some modicum of agency. in hayame's care, he has none of it. each and every element, aspect, and quality of his life is dictated by her prerogatives. his schedule is hers, and whatever senses he is given access to at any point in time is a decision that she makes. the first week had been the worst, full of bitterness and anger and despair all compounded by the unrelenting hounding of the Abyss that at times made him want to demand that she just cease this fucking farce, shatter his shard, and be done with it.

but he knew that was the shame talking, his acerbic humiliation given voice. it's not that it ever gets better, but he does start to acclimate. he doesn't constantly suffer the full-body effect of the phantom limb, constantly trying to access bodily agency that he had, of course, taken for granted his whole life until it was completely removed from him, but he did suffer it often enough that it was just as bad. he's exhausted. his sleep has been terrible, not only uncomfortable but ravaged by deep and vivid nightmares which left weighty impressions into his thoughts throughout the next day. if there's one somewhat positive that can be said about the demon's presentation when dextera is finally allowed to see him, is that he's at the very least clean. the centaur has some sort of fastidious fixation on that, always certain to wash and prepare him in a certain way before they receive... visitors.

a rarely occurring event that he hates even more than this whole accursed routine. he is the picture of a "captive audience," and even with that set aside, he hates to be gawked at like he's some sort of freak show act at the visiting circus. so when the whole process begins again, and he knows they are about to receive visitors, he starts to shut down. he can't block himself off physically, so he does so mentally and emotionally, wanting to become so stubborn and dull that they'll lose interest and leave.

but when he is presented to his visitor, and the silhouette made stark from the light of the entrance of wherever they're hiding out at the time resolves into one that he recognizes, his minor act of rote defiance cracks down the middle and crumbles away. there's a long silence. )

Dextera...

( ever since his head had been torn away from his body and he'd been carried away into this hell, his voice has reflected in many similar emotional registers: indignation, frustration, aggravation, and cold, flat lifelessness. this is the first time since that day in achamoth he has spoken without an ounce of anger, sarcasm, or pretense. sincerity is an odd thing to perch along the ridge of the demon's tongue, and concern is an even more bizarre one. and yet here it is, blazing in his pale eyes.

because his friend — the only person in horos he had trusted with his name — doesn't look well. he looks haggard, recovering from terrible injury, and his eyes are even more sunk into dark furrows than he remembers last they met. makoto's mouth feels dry. what is he even supposed to say in a bizarre situation like this? there's not only his state standing as an elephant in the room, but there's also...

they've always avoided bringing their sects into things. when it comes to their meetings, the bizarre kinship they share, they have tried so hard to keep it agnostic. but such a thing is impossible here. would seeming too compassionate toward one another bring him trouble? the thought lodges in the back of his throat; he squeezes his eyes shut, crinkling his nose, and when he opens them again, he's resolved into a flatter countenance. )

What do you want? ( even if what he would rather ask is if he was alright, circumstances be damned. )

[passio]

[ there’s nothing he can do for makoto. he knows that—knew that when he was begging hayame for a chance to come see him. there’s nothing he can offer that someone else couldn’t do better, but the selfish desire to check on a friend won out over the logical action to stay away. he’s put them in a difficult situation, more obvious to him when makoto has to fix his expression into something cooler and more controlled.

for his part, dextera’s face doesn’t change because it doesn’t have to. he feels as strongly as anyone, maybe worse at times with the guilt of sin, but it all comes out the same in his eyes. his gaze is dull and tired, a far cry from the effervescent interest he’d shared with makoto over a man’s organs. he needs to eat. he can’t. his wounds have mended enough that he can move and he won’t find himself with a nasty infection, but the baroque sickness works even on his aion body: as long as he’s drawn in and defeated like this, it’s going to take him much longer to heal.

there’s the slightest furrow of his brow, and he withdraws his notebook. by now, the little leather-bound journal looks as if it’s been through hell and back with pages missing and water damage across the thick of it, but it’s the only one he has.

he writes a message and turns it around. ]

I had to see for myself.

[affal]

( he is of two minds. the first is entirely aggravated at the fruitlessness of this interaction. there is nothing that dextera can do to help makoto, and there's precious little makoto can offer to dextera to assure him of his haleness and safety (though, admittedly, he has been the one making grandiose threats on his own life while hayame has been doing her best to keep him as well-maintained as possible, but he doesn't need to tell dextera any of that). that one part of him wishes that he hadn't come; that he hadn't had to see makoto like this, to have forced makoto to be witnessed like this. he didn't want this horrible, degraded image of himself to lurk in the back of his mind when they spoke in the future (if they spoke in the future).

but the other part of him is so desperately elated to see the face of anyone kind to him, let alone dextera, his friend, that he might have had to force back tears were he not so accustomed to modulating his own expression and demeanor.

though there's no guarantee that would be the case indefinitely, from this point on.

the other young man withdraws the notebook from his belongings, and makoto waits as his pencil scratches across the surface of one of its pages. he has to squint at the writing for a moment, eyes commonly discombobulated from the dimness of the cavern and the bright light coming from its mouth, but once he reads the answer, he looks up to him with characteristic wryness. )

Well. You've seen me.

( his brow furrows. for a moment his lips purse, the corners of his mouth tugging downward. )

And, setting aside the issue of my misplaced body, I'd say you look a sight worse than I do.

FOR MAKOTO ↣ ONE MONTH ↣ 友とは親密に、敵とはもっと親密に

[warmare]

VIGNETTE ONE ↣ NIGHTMARES ↣ 魘われる

[warmare]

[Hayame has not had a good night's sleep since she took the head of the demon M from Achamoth.

It is not for lack of trying, and not even for being haunted by the violent act she has committed that had become something far different than what she imagined. Once she reached the woods of Lohkimaren she had been willing to rest once night fell. All of the walking, avoiding the more dangerous creatures that lurked in the mist, the backtracking, the setting of false trails... She should be sleeping like the dead. She's exhausted, dark circle visible under the one eye not covered by makeshift bandages, the lines of her withers, hips, and shoulders beginning to grow sharper from a lack of food.

But still... she continues on. And still, she can't sleep. Every night she has woken in the dark with some vague sense of dread or fear or disgust leaking into her mind, infecting her dreams, unaware that the Firebrand legacy she shares with the severed head in her possession might be to blame.

Tonight perhaps. Their camp today is more comfortable than others have been- there is a thick blanket of moss and lichen over the earth, this time, the stone cave has such a narrow, singular hidden entrance that it feels safer and more defensible. Enough so that, though Hayame has refused to lay down until now, sleeping standing on all four hooves... This time, after eating a few fruits she'd gathered on the trek and chewing bitterly on one of her last pieces of jerky... She lets her dun legs fold beneath her body and lumbers down to the soft(ish) floor. From there...

She takes Makoto's head from her harness, brushing off a stone space nearby to clear it of dried leaves and dirt before she sets his stump down upon it. Her movements a bit wooden, she removes the blindfold, first, unable to stop the automatic turn into a glare when their eyes might meet. From there, the earplugs come out, and then, mindful not to get her fingers anywhere near his teeth... she unbuckles the strap behind his skull to release the metal bit.]

Hold still if you don't want to sit in your own drool all night.

[That is her greeting, pulling a scrap of cloth (the remnants of the garment that had also become her eye bandage) from her saddlebag to wipe the saliva off his chin and neck. It isn't a gentle motion, but it isn't... overly rough. It isn't motivated by care, though- She has a sensitive nose, and she doesn't want the stench near her.]

[affal]

( he doesn't want to go to sleep.

he doesn't want to go to sleep. he doesn't want to go to sleep. he doesn't want to go to sleep. ever since this contemptible woman had taken his head from achamoth as her unwitting prisoner, he has been cornered into a cursed cadence of embattled rest. even when he's awake he still feels the presence of the void like a physical object inserted into his brain, occupying both physical and metaphorical space. it lingers. it waits. makoto has contended with anxiety before, so when he's awake, he can focus on what few techniques he has worked out in his last few years to keep his mind sharp. its tormentous and exhausting, but he can at the very least keep himself from descending into fits of whimpering and shivering when he's awake (for the most part).

but when he's asleep...

up until this point, nights where his rest is deep and dark and he has no recollection of his dreams are pleasant enough. he typically does not dream "well." but in these last few days, very time he's succumbed to a dulled brain and heavy eyelids, he's been plagued with nightmares so haunting and vivid that they shake him awake. and then they linger, their fangs and claws lodged into his mind even after they'd long gone, even if the fears don't even necessarily feel like they're really his.

is it worth it? he asks himself this constantly, trying to imagine himself back in achamoth, weathering this storm in the comfort of his own room in the Citadel, if none of this had ever happened after the Sanctifier had fallen. he remembers enshrouding himself in the Regent's power, in the unmitigated thrill he felt when feeling the meat of that mammoth monster part away from his body as he'd shot himself like a bullet through its chest. to him... yes. when he is awake, he can think about that, and he can convince himself it's worth it. but then, night would fall...

when he's even aware it's night.

in this state, having his senses taken away from him is hell. he's never really certain when he's conscious or when he's asleep. is the vague swaying he feels from the centaur's movement as he hangs limply at her withers, or is it the swelling sense of vertigo one can get when slipping in and out of sleep? any ounce of it that he gets doesn't make him any more rested. he ends up just as sapped, weathered, and fraying at the edges as hayame does, though ironically for similar and disparate reasons all at once. when he senses he's being freed from his place at her side, he knows for certain that he's awake, and a sudden animated quality leaps to his features, even as limited as he is. his sharp teeth cause the metal bit in his mouth to creak, and when the blindfold is removed, his wide eyes fixate on her, furious and unblinking. then the earplugs. then the strap that secured the bit. when he's in this sort of state, he doesn't feel the involuntary need to breathe, but he always subconsciously exhales in relief when he's freed from the limitations and the indignity of the bit, almost not caring about the latter because of the former. almost.

he's bitten her before already, and he thinks of doing so again now (of course), but... in the end, it's that that causes him to behave. no, he doesn't want to fall asleep encrusted in his own drool like some sort of infant. his eyebrows pull together, but he ends up answering by pursing his lips into a line, allowing for her to clean him. he hates every second of it, but not enough to refuse, even if he hates far more that this is all happening in the first place.

for a long moment he rests on the low stone that she had placed him on, eyelids drooping over his gaze even with its fiery temper. and even still, in the midst of all this, he says, ) ...Do you have any idea how uncomfortable it is to rest with your neck on stone like this for hours at a time?

( it's not like how the head rests comfortably on its own body. the weight of it begins to bruise the delicate flesh after a while, and the knob of bone creating a sharp point of contact only makes it worse by the contrast. though, with all of that having been said, he doesn't think resting with his head on its side would be much better. he's just complaining as it's the only thing he's free to do before sleep finally claims him. )

[warmare]

[She wouldn't be surprised if he bit her. He has already, teeth marks in various stages of healing peppering the softer flesh of her hands here and there, and it isn't as if she is particularly resentful of it either. As foolish as it is for him to use those teeth to bite her instead of his own tongue so that he might drown in his own blood... If she was denied an easy death in a situation like this, she would torment her captors at every turn.

That didn't mean it didn't make her angry.

This time, he's obedient enough, however, and so she "rewards" that obedience with a certain amount of meticulousness. She wipes at the saliva that has crusted on his skin throughout their day's travels, careful to get all of it, even licking her thumb at one point to rub a patch that is too dry to come off properly without being re-wet before she wipes it both away and then folds the cloth in on itself, tucking it back away.

Was it just her imagination, or were both of their glares slightly weaker than they had been days ago? It was probably just the exhaustion.

She will have to roll over numerous times in the night to make sure her heavier weight doesn't press down too uncomfortable on her own organs, but for now she chooses a position curled up on her right side, long dun limbs pulled close to her belly, feeling safe enough in this particular safehouse that she debates taking a comb from her saddlebag... But she doesn't. What's the point? Instead, she makes to lay her head down... only to need turn her singular glare back on M as he complains about his comfort.]

Missing the soft pillows in the kennel the Regent keeps for you? What, do you get treats before he tucks you in at night?

[Her lip curls up into a sneer, derisive of the idea of him being so spoiled by such things that he cannot weather a night in the rough, even though she knows for sure that he must just be bitching for the sake of it, petty attempts at revenge against her for his captivity. But she's so gods damned tired that after a brief, cold spell of silence as she goes back to arranging her own makeshift bed, using her saddlebags as cushion and positioning her bow by her head, she actually offers,]

... If it will keep you quiet tonight, then fine.

[Out comes more of the scraps of her former top. Ripping it in half, muscles bulging along her arms, she lays part of it flat on the stone and then balls up the other, creating a makeshift pillow to pick his head up and arrange more on its side. That's all she's going to do, so hopefully he doesn't want to go back to his only other option.

She makes it clear that will be all by beginning to lay herself down, wincing as the action aggravates the crusted-over seal along left eyelids now protecting an empty space.]

FOR MAKOTO

[leicesters]

[Claude arrives with a pack of supplies for Hayame: some bread, dry meats, foraged fruits and berries, fresh water, arrows, and some wax for her bow. He doesn't comment on her eye, though he does give her a lingering look, brow knitted, like he's worried about her. But he knows she's a proud warrior and she's given herself a duty, so he's not about to undermine that when she's focused on what needs to be done. She's stubborn, and he'd rather present a front of unity instead of bickering where a prisoner might hear.

So he focuses on his own tasks, too. His interactions with the Kenoma so far have been minimal: a run-in with Kaeya during his failed attempt to slip into the Citadel, and his attempt to kill Atsumu. He hasn't had a chance to actually talk to his enemies yet at any length, and while the raid on Achamoth gave him a taste of the extremes they and the Regent are willing to go, he'd still like to understand why that is in their own words, if he really has to go to war with them.]

Ugh. It's about as pleasant as I imagined here. [He complains, as he enters the cave where the prisoner is being held. He has a bow and quiverful of arrows slung across his back, as well as a hunting knife at his belt, but Claude has no sign of drawing either, instead crouching down so he's eye level with the head on the low stone.] Hi. M, right?

[affal]

( boredom is a torture in and of itself. though he had complained endlessly about it, makoto hadn't thought much about the same sort of tedium that he had imposed upon J when he had kept him like a pet in his room, having him hide in a plastic drawer inside his closet when he was away at school. and even then, J had had more opportunity to entertain himself than makoto does now. he'd at least had his top half. he'd gotten high scores on the puzzle games he had leftover from his childhood handheld console, and he'd read every book he owned once or twice, most likely. hayame offers him none of the same distractions. most of the time he isn't even offered full use of his senses, either blindfolded or earplugged or both — perhaps with a horse's bit shoved rudely between his jaws, just to make a point.

the latter of those three was required less now, as he'd started behaving slightly more just to avoid the discomfort and how degrading it was. but he always had to have his sight and hearing robbed from him when they moved from place to place, and they moved far more often than he would have liked.

they were visited far more often than he would like as well (which would be "never").

the disembodied head's eyes track claude as he enters, brow knitted over their pale, dubious gaze. he... has no idea who this person is. considering makoto has been here from the very beginning, that would mean he's a new recruit, then — he knew every Aion that had been in the first clutch, at least by sight if not by name.

he doesn't like the way he crouches down to look at him like a toddler. perhaps some might see it as conscientious, but he just reads it as condescending. his lips purse into a thin, pale line for just a moment before retorting, ) How kind of you to point out to someone who has had little to do but sit here and stare at the wall for the last few days. ( if he's noticed that claude is armed (he has), he doesn't pay any notice to it. if the Pleroma wanted to try to intimidate or hurt him, let them. at least the excitement of pain would break up the monotony at this point.

at this point, forcing them to use his initial seems disingenuous. they were titles meant to reflect respect to those who bore them. what sort of respect did he deserve in such a state, even from someone he didn't even know? but... for now, he lets it be, allowing his tacitness to apply in the affirmative before he asks, ) And who the hell are you supposed to be?

[leicesters]

[Ah, the severed head really does talk. After that initial look of surprise, amusement dances behind Claude's expression, as if he finds something in Makoto's response funny.]

I am-- [hold on, let him get comfy. He pulls his bow off his back, laying it on the ground next to him so he can actually plop himself down into a sitting position,] --the mysterious and roguishly handsome individual simply known as "K".

[What? A little double misdirection might be funny, and part of him is curious what the initial thing is about.]

I just wanted to chat for a bit, so let's try to get along, okay? We already have so much in common.

for hayame, after meeting with makoto.

[passio]

[ dextera knew interrogation was coming, so he was bracing for it the moment he parted from makoto—truthfully not feeling much better than he did coming in, but at least now he knows makoto is being taken care of as much as he can be in the state he’s in—but there’s still an undeniable whimper that squeezes out of his throat when hayame’s imposing form stops him before he can slip out of the cave. ]

Hh…

[ he tries to make himself as small as possible by bunching up his shoulders and throwing his hands in front of his face, but truthfully, at any size compared to hayame he looks—and feels—pathetic. particularly with his injuries still throbbing under their bandages, he doesn’t want any trouble from her. ]

[warmare]

[Hayame had suspected there was something wrong with this from the moment this mute who had no reason to like nor wish to help her had begun trying so desperately to get her to accept his offer of supplies. She'd known there was when he arrived, riding the coattails of another to gain access to her location when she had refused to grant it directly to him.

But she had let them meet, to see just what shape that wrongness took... now that the demon is once again blind, deaf, and mute himself... Hayame's hand slams into the wall of the cave near Dextera's head, her arm blocking his continued exit from her day's safe house. She had wanted to stay another day here and rest, but... Fine, it would be denied her. She would move the moment he left. But before that...

A half ton of finely trained jinbaflesh looms over him, her expression somehow both cold and burning all at once, any possible softness or consolation that could have been taken from the elegant beauty she possessed now marred by the crusty bandage over the socket that had once held a left eye. When she snarls out her demand, it flashes peeks of canines that are far too sharp to look like they belong to either human or equine parts of her, but they are sharp nonetheless.]

What is your game, Pleroma?

[Just because she didn't necessarily consider herself a part of that group didn't mean that she didn't understand where their loyalties should lie.

And it certainly didn't mean she trusted a man who looked so longingly and caring at the head of a man who had murdered one she had cared for.]

[passio]

[ dextera knows that hayame knows he’s mute. they’ve communicated through their shards twice now, although both times had been brief and unpleasant for both parties, but he doesn’t think she’ll appreciate him trying to reach for his shard without any kind of warning. just because he left the obvious weapons at home doesn’t mean that he couldn’t be hiding anything under his coat. ]

…

[ his notebook, maybe. without knowing much about the limits of hayame’s own abilities, using the same method he used to talk to makoto seems like a fair compromise. since it’s half-sticking out of his pocket, hastily shoved in there rather than tucked away properly, he offers with shaking hands the pages that he used to communicate.

she can check for herself—he said nothing traitorous, except for the fact that his gentle demeanor and the worry that brought him here in the first place could be considered treachery to some. ]

FOR CLAUDE ↣ POST-INTERROGATION ↣ 君子豹変

[warmare]

[In all honesty, Hayame had not chosen the man named Claude to be her middleman with the woman Tehri because she trusted him. Certainly she did not have a high opinion of him when she left the Godsblood lodestone after wiping the oil from his hands off her bow and slapping his knuckles with it for daring to act as if he might wipe them on her coat. She chose him because, in that moment, fleeing from Achamoth on hoof because she could not ride a dragon even if she wanted to, her enemy's head clutched in her hand and blood from his torn neck dripping behind her...

He had made her the least angry of the first few who responded to her chaotic communion.

But now he has a part in this, and he has spoken (or attempted to speak) at length with the demon M. She allowed it, supervising from a short distance, and once he has finished, and followed her instructions to replace the bit, blindfold, and earplugs on the prisoner so that he could not overhear, oversee, or disturb things that he should not...]

Are you finished?

[Only once her self-imposed duty as overseer is done does she lift up his package of supplies and begin to look inside of it, inspecting the contents slowly through her one remaining eye.]

[leicesters]

Hm? Yeah. He was chattier than I expected. [Claude emerges, somehow with all of his fingers intact despite putting Makoto's restraints back in place. He does feel bad for treating a prisoner like that when he's already been dehumanised enough, but given the need for secrecy, and given how the Kenoma have treated their own prisoners... Well. There's not much room for sympathy in war.

He doesn't linger on that thought, instead watching as Hayame looks through the supplies.]

I tried to think of stuff you'd need to tide you over for now, but if there's anything else you can think of, let me know. I'll ask the next person to send it over.

[warmare]

[The arrows are immediately examined, Hayame sights down their shafts and finds herself frowning very noticably as her lacking left eye makes the attempt to squint, instinctively, only to be reminded there is no eyeball inside. She will just have to assume they are sound. They go straight into her drained quivers, accompanied by.]

I require a new bowstring, also.

[Her spare was now on her bow. She almost asks for the aion Rand's work, but- She supposed he was no longer just a craftsman. And their deal had been concluded.]

Just get it from the rebels. Theirs will do.

[Chattier than expected, he says. That comment just earns a non-committal hmm from Hayame, who finds she is not willing to comment on whether M had spoken now more or less often that he did to her. They had their phases by day, some spent in silence with no one saying a single thing because she did not make a practice of talking to herself and some spent fighting and arguing pointlessly.

But there was no room for sympathy. Not when she knew now what the Regent did to their own captives. Not when this deman had punched through the chest of the twisted entity that had once been the man she'd followed to Achamoth despite her sureness that doing so would end only in her death.

... And that reminds her.

The silence stretches on just a moment past being awkward as she sorts through the rest of the supplies, working on the words that eventually become a completely context-less,]

... You were right, you know.