---

If one was to describe the setting of Shanton, it would all boil down to a solitary word: dreary. The shroud that loomed over Crue Efros sheltered them from the light of day, and on stormy nights everything below was an inky void. Outside of his home, however, was almost always well lit. The sound of hissing rain and booming thunderheads was a pleasant sound to sleep to, but it was effectively absent tonight. 

This evening would be spent listening to something else, a fact that had not been decided by Yijoon himself. His head tilted lightly as his fingertips brushed aside the dense fabric of the sheltering curtains. The draping veils were heavy, with every intention to block out sight - more from the outside than in. His back rested against the wall, his peripherals watching the figures that skulked in the shadows nearby. Outside of Lavalles and the richer circle of Shanton, guards were few and far between. Not only did the elite care naught for those viewed beneath them, but those beneath them had their own semblance of law and code. 

One these individuals were now sorely breaking.

He exhaled a slow, steady breath, allowing the curtain to fall flat once more to the frame of the fragile hollow. His stare, instead, returned to the woman who occupied the room with him, and the one he undoubtedly blamed for the presence outside. Through no fault of her own, he would have to admit, but her doing none the less. After all, it wasn't exactly common to find one of her ilk. 

Anywhere.

"How long have they been coming here?" His intonation was flat, hard, as he crossed his arms over the breadth of his chest. He missed the furs that adorned his shoulders normally, instead bearing the simplicity of a starch white tunic. This was, after all, supposed to be the comfort and safety of his own abode. However, just like in his part of town, he was his own security here as the fingers of Lavalles left them barren. 

---

Hazel-blue eyes stayed overly long upon her captor as he obsessively guarded the window as if protecting against some beast that would burst through those glass panes.  Uslín caught the way light flickered in from the street lamps as he drew the curtain back to observe the alley and the people in it.  She watched the shadows travel tither and to, oblivious about the man whose guarded gaze trailed their every move.  The quiet predator; the patient asp.  There were no words shared between them when she returned to her chores.  Uslín diligently pushed and pulled the bristled broom across the wooden floor of the room until the grime and dust formed a neat pile that she'd toss away. 

"How long have they been coming here?" 

The sudden burr of his harsh voice nearly made her jump.  Uslín continued her task of smoothing the wrinkles from the quilt laid out across his mattress before straightening herself to regard him.  While it was surely meant as a way to keep her in line, cleaning was one of the few things she took pleasure in.  She'd been terrible at cooking human food - accused of attempting to poison him a time or two - and she was even worse at what he called sewing.  Even in the sea, these domestic chores had never been her strength.  Maeve made sure that they had a palatable meal and the other girls of the tribe made clothing for their human skins.  Uslín healed the sick and was attuned to the natural flow of magic.

Now, however, her magic was locked away behind the hindering iron collar locked around her neck.

"Two nights ago."  Uslín's girlish voice demurely answered as she began to untie the apron from around her waist and hang it on its hook behind the door.  Since their arrival, she'd been instructed to stay indoors no matter what and be careful walking in front of the windows.  Like the good slave girl she was now fated to be, she obliged.  It gave her a chance to quietly look for her seal skin while he was away but it seemed no matter how much Uslín planned her great escape, he was always a step ahead of her.  "What are they looking for?"  She'd brazenly question from the comfort of her allotted cot set at the foot of his bed.

---

She cleaned, quietly, in the background. She offered him naught a word, and in some ways, he found this preferable. In the same moment, however, he wished that she would offer some semblance of coming to terms with their arrangements. He had thought giving her the freedom while he was gone would build a bridge to at least being friendly, but in the end he supposed it amounted to little more than nothing. Though among the chores he had asked of her, simply cleaning seemed to be the best option. Cooking was certainly not her forte and he was fairly certain that any sewing repairs she had done had left whatever article touched in far worse condition than she had received it in. In all given honesty, she was quite willing to do whatever work he offered her, a surprise given that most rebuked the notion of obeying another. While he felt certain hers was but a guise of docile intention to hide her fervent efforts of escape when his back was turned it meant little to him in the end.

Because unless she found her skin, she couldn't truly leave.
And he had no intentions of parting with her anytime soon.

"Two nights ago." Would come her answer, and he would shift his weight faintly, noting that the were drawing closer to the manor. They stayed close to the pools of shadow thrown by the architecture that surrounded them. Did they think him still gone? He had returned from his last business trip sooner than he had expected to, certainly, which lead him to believe that perhaps these few individuals were ones working under his own hand than competition. They would also be the only ones to discern her presence on him compared to any other. He had to admit that he had stumbled upon quite the find. One he would hold and protect most selfishly, unwilling to loosen locked jaws from his prey. For him, almost all things had a price. There were very few possessions he would not part with for a spot of extra weight to his pockets.

The first being the cold iron dagger his father had brought to this land from their homeland. Its blade was etched with runes, many of which he couldn't understand or their meaning was forgotten from when his sister told him their purpose. The second being the man's silver sword. Both pieces had been left to his children before his final departure of their house, one he had eventually parted with. Perhaps his old man knew he was to meet his end that day - Lan had been so young he didn't remember their departure, but he could still recall the way his mother had drawn the furs of his coat tighter around him that morning. Telling him to remember to keep it closed up when it was cold so he didn't get sick. That winters could be harsh here. That was another he would never part with, as even now that very same coat had been tailored to rest along his cloak. The fourth would now reside close by. Though it was not sentiment that held her so aloft, but rather what she could offer.

He would not have her so easily taken from him. "What are they looking for?" The inquiry caught him slightly off-guard. It was rare for her to press such issues. Perhaps there was a hint of knowing within her - that it was she the sordid prize for their snooping, and what he assumed would soon turn into a full blown invasion. Though his attention never fully left those fleeting shades, he would give her a vague glance from the peripherals of his stare. "You." He would answer, honestly. His voice was becoming more hushed, unwilling to alert any that he was, in fact, home in time to spoil the party they planned. Alas, he would leave the window as they disappeared wholly from sight. "In fact, I believe you'll have some more cleaning to do, and rather soon." The words accompanied the loading of the dual barrels, as calm as his movements despite the hostile irritation that bubbled within him. Filthy cretins. He would teach them and all others within his faction that it was unwise to bite the hand that fed them.

---

"You." 

He'd stated it so bluntly that the muirinn girl couldn't help but blink.  Whether it was astonishment or quiet knowing, Uslín couldn't yet define.  Her heart raced with a billion thoughts, a million questions, all and none finding an answer or respite.  Quiet revelations sank into the depths of her cerebrum.  It was silly to think that there wouldn't be others like him; others that sought her kind.  Others who voraciously craved the magic of the sea-fae for their greedy ambitions all at the cost of her unfortunate suffering.  They would take her further from the sea, far away from her people, and continue to deny her the skin that was her birthright.  Even in these human clothes, Uslín felt bare without its cradling embrace. 

Unlike Maeve, Uslín was patient.  She'd find it again and return home to her wife's loving arms any day now.

When Yij spoke again she did her best to watch his mouth but found her drifting attention drawn to the strange object that he shoved more oddities inside of.  She cocked her head, bemused, a lone brow piqued alongside curious interest.  "Is that human magic?"  She'd ask quickly before realizing she spoke.  They didn't have things like that beneath the waves and though she longed to investigate it herself, run her fingers over the metal of the barrel or the wood of the grip, Uslín remained seated on the cot wholly content on not riling his anger.  One glimpse of it was enough to subdue the already compliant girl.

"Is it not clean enough now?"  Maidenly voice mused almost with a fleck of disappointment.  She'd worked hard on getting rid of all the dust and grime, after all.  Spent a good portion of sunlight on it, too.  Worked herself until the sun was nearly set on the elaborate estate they now shared.

---

Quiet.

It was the reply from her that he was accustomed to. Were he a better man, guilt would be his reaction to her various, naïve inquiries, and the silence that yawned between them after his answers would eat him alive. Unfortunately for her, he was a child ruined by the darkness of the slums he had been forced to grow up in, one that had grown into a malicious, selfish adult who cared very little for the suffering of others. At least that was the picture he would graciously paint for her. He was unwilling to admit to any - himself included - that he steadfastly refused to give her up based solely upon her rarity. It was more than that, but it was sickening to him. It made his skin prickle and crawl as if it was truly made of a nest of serpents. It was the sweet malady of her ichor, far beyond anything he had ever been around. It was she that made him realize just how easily one could lose themselves to the clarion beckon of such an addiction. He had his tendencies, certainly, but it was very rare to be at a point where he had to consciously restrain himself. He should have taken her back to the sea and released her. He should have sold her to Jing or any other that had made offer to possess her flesh. He shouldn't risk making himself a fucking monster just to jealously guard her as his own.

But alas, he was not a good man.
A sad reality that she would one day become accustomed to.

"Is that human magic?" He would look to her once again, thumb pad spinning the cylinder that now held the bullets. He had developed a fondness for the way it sounded, this soft, hastened metallic clicking. "No," he answered, though his intonation was underlined with the hostility of his flaring temper, there was a neutrality that snuffed it out when he addressed her, his jaw unclenching, "these are more for those without magic." A party which he was a member of despite his disdain of the fact. "It wouldn't work in the water." He would inform further, giving her reason as to why she apparently had never seen one before even though they had become somewhat popular and easy to gain access to in recent days. Then again, if she was to be believed he just so happened to be lucky enough to discover her on a very rare traipse on land.

Her next words inflected a hint of disappointment, one that had a vague smirk slipping across his lips. "Is it not clean enough now?" His back was drawn away from the wall near the portal he had been spying from, the guns holstered at his sides as he cleared the small distance between them. Calloused thumb and forefinger gently seeking to claim the curve of her chin, to raise it to seek his own features. From the very first time he had beheld them, he had been drawn to the softness of her ocean irises, to the plush, lengthy sweep of her lashes. Her very countenance itself was carved with an unfair amount of detail, of demure grace, ones that forced him to suppress the soft growl that nearly bloomed within his throat. "Stay here," he spoke, unable to keep the entirety of the heaviness from his low purr, "be a good girl. I'll be back." With that, he allowed his hand to abandon her, his steps carrying him from the room which he would shut the door of. The teasing presence of his grin would disperse with the minute clink of metal signifying the latch. His features darkening as foot falls carried him down the span of the hall, adjusting the hem of his furs as he disappeared to host this little surprise party.

---

She moved like water.  All fluidity and cunning grace, truly a creature born from the sea who could move in synchronized harmony with the tides.  The spear in her hand was like an extension of the lithe arm wielding it and few could withstand the might of Uslín's proud warrior bride.  Whether she faced sword, spear or fist on the training grounds, it seemed she had an answer for each.  Her strides were well-practiced and heavily versed in the art of war; she was prepared for whatever danger lurked beyond their pod.  Maeve was a bastion aegis but she was also gentle when the occasion called.  Her hands so capable of bringing down a grown man who could also touch and love so tenderly that Uslín forgot her own name. 

There were so many afternoons spent watching the sweat bead on her brow and wiping it away when the last opponent fell to the floor.  Most victories were earned through surrender.  Uslín then spent the evening nursing any wounds Maeve earned before they'd fall into slumber.  If she never saw Maeve use a weapon on the training grounds - or defend against it - then Uslín knew little of it.  Very much like the mechanism her captor toyed with now.

Her hazel eyes watched the way the cylinder spun beneath his thumb and the metallic sheen that mirrored the room around them.  Images that were contorted and constrained, his face among them.  "No."  His tone nearly made her recoil as if they had force enough to strike.  He didn't move.  She brazenly watched him and the tool before glancing towards the veiled window.  If it wasn't magic, then perhaps it was a type of special sword.  Perhaps even a spear.  Whatever it was, he seemed to feel confident with it in his hands which in turn likely meant she was safe from whatever threat lurked beyond.

It was the groan of wood that betrayed his advances and drew her watchful stare to the approaching shadow of a man who had taken her from the security of her shores, slapped binding chains to her wrists, and held her captive.  It was no surprise that a well of disgust bubbled in her throat when his calloused fingers held the soft flesh of her squared chin forcing it up so that her eyes would meet his.  Every fibre of her being froze like petals in the frost.  Even if Uslín wanted, she couldn't move.  Her heart was heavy in her chest as it raced against the bones caging it.  As it thrashed nearly violently against the macabre bars. 

"Stay here,"  Her stomach sunk.  "be a good girl.  I'll be back."  When her chin was met with the cold of his absence, Uslín managed to finally lower her head.  When he'd left the room, the click of doors confining locks set in place, she finally unleashed the breath she'd unintentionally been holding while falling backwards onto the mattress.  If she didn't know any better, she could have sworn she'd seen that look before.  It almost reminded her of the way Maeve looked in their private moments.  The smoulder in her eyes, the constriction of sinew as she moved like a sultry wave destined to pin her against the coral. 

She immediately threw the blanket over her head, welcoming the dark it brought as if that could lure away these swarming thoughts and bring her some manner of peace.

---

There was a quiet part of him that loathed her, if he was to find full honesty. He wasn't keen to lean into the whims of the undead, previously brimmed with smug arrogance at a weakness he could have exploited. That was before those ivorian daggers had found his own neck, before that condemning wine was awash upon his tongue. Even since then, in spite of his charade he had fallen into, he had held tight to restraint. He had tempered himself and his control against the pull of newly discovered instinct. He would not be like them - he would not succumb to scattered inclinations of mind should he find himself entrenched in a well of sanguine. He would always have clarity. That's what he'd vowed, at least. In practice, however, he had found the largest fucking boulder he could, chained it to himself and decided to take a swim. Then he had the audacity to be surprised that he couldn't even tread water. He'd shot himself in the foot and instead of making the wise decision to cut his losses and simply let another have her, he instead dutifully coveted the bullet lodged within.

A heavy breath left him as he brushed his hair back from his features, feeling the grit of his teeth before he even realized how hard he clenched his jaw. He knew it. He knew it was folly, and yet he would talk himself in circles. It wasn't that he didn't want to sell her off, the serpent would relinquish against the shell of his ear, whispering venom to poison his thoughts, it was the fact these dogs sought to take. To take from him. If he merely let them take her, or even caved to their demands and traded her off, it would be a display of weakness. It would invite further trouble to his doorstep. That was the reasoning that riled his temper, that gave him motivation to continue down the dark shadow of the unlit hall. The rest of the house had been put to bed, most of the meager staff he afforded locked away within their private quarters.

He stood just on the other side of the large, solidly built door. The would be thieves were brazen, if nothing else, he deigned as his arms crossed over his chest. His head tilted slightly as he heard the rattle of the lock pick trying the mechanism of the lock. The mounting animosity felt like it was boiling oil, ready to explode from its container, a pressure that unwound itself with the growing simper that spread upon his lips. There came a click, muffled voices upon the other side. The knob turned and allowed him to see the trio as the fading light of the candles just outside spilled over him. Likewise, he spread his hands, a disguise of a warm welcome, "Good evening, gentleman. Forgive me. I wasn't expecting guests."

---

The noise had disturbed Agnes, an older woman and his head of staff. She was an efficient, cold shrew, and one well accustomed to everything that went on in the house - one of the few privy to such details. However, she also knew that the basement was always an off-limits area unless explicitly said otherwise. So it should have been of no surprise to him that she was found waiting at the top of the steps just on the other side of the door when he pushed it open. His hands still shook, a combination of fury and adrenaline, a malady he was quick to mask as he pushed his bloodied fingers through his hair, drawing in a deep breath and forcing his lungs to regulate the rapid, undone inhales and exhales into a semblance of calm. Airs that came naturally, though he figured with her there was no real need. Without waiting for a word, the dame would step forward, tender as she withdrew a roll of fabric from her apron pocket and began to wrap the swollen, bruised mess his knuckles had devolved into. "They're from Clairmont's." He informed, unable to rid his countenance of the unsettling chill that had anchored itself within his stare. Competition after all. At least in action, though he couldn't shake the paranoia of a mole in his midst. "Be sure they're returned to him, won't you? It'd be a damn shame for him to not know what became of them, hm?" Agnes nodded, her features paling faintly, though she offered nothing more than a bow as she finished her appointed task. However as her eyes lifted to his face, she would clear her throat faintly, "Sir.. your cheek." He would brush the back of his hand against the trail of warmth that slid from just below his eye, the starch bandages coming away slick with blood.

Not too shocking, he supposed. He was sure there were others as well, ones he would feel on the morrow when he woke up bereft of the rage and adrenaline. He would only give her a slight shrug of dismissal, a vague 'no worries'. "I don't want bothered. For the rest of the night. Not in the morning. Make sure no one knocks on my door unless I have to play garbage man again, am I clear?" She would give a curt nod, a curtsy. He shouldn't bite at her so, he knew, and maybe once he woke up and was in a better mood, he'd give her a proper apology, but in the present, he would instead start making his way back to his own chambers. His steps slowed as he approached, coming to a complete halt outside his door. He released a deep breath, trying to arrange a somewhat presentable expression.

His index knuckle would lightly tap against the surface, unsure of exactly how much time had passed since his departure. That in mind, he gave a moment's pause before he would unlock the portal and push it open. "Sorry if you were sleeping." He would announce, leisurely nudging his boots off by the door, along with shrugging out of his furs, the only other sound being the quiet whisper of the hinges as he once again shut out the rest of the world.

---

Someone stood on the beach, their silhouette bright against black sand and the endlessly devouring tide.  They left no footprints as they walked; no trail to indicate they’d been there.  Who was it and why did they feel so… familiar? 

“Hello?”  Uslín’s soft plea reached out into the nothing, lithe fingers following suit as the figure continued their walk without her.  When hazel eyes glanced down, they weren’t fingers at all.  Girlish digits had become flippers, sleek and white against the dark sand.  Her flippers had pulled her out of the ocean and onto forbidden land—a taboo from the elders.  Fear boomed in their voices, warning stories told of painful deaths that would unfold.  Fear not the ocean, the tide and sea.  Go not upon land, an enemy to thee. 

But something more terrifying lurked beneath that murky surface churning behind.  When Uslín looked back, bodies emerged with the waves.  Their seal-like carcasses drifting to and fro mirrored in her wide, terrified eyes.  Family and friends alike - death played no favourites.  Panic surged its inky tendrils through her veins as she tried - oh, how she tried - to outrun the carnage building behind her.  No.  No.  All at once the water gathered into a great wave only now it wasn’t the cold wash of the sea that came careening down upon the helpless seal girl with a quiet scream still carved upon her open mouth.

“You can’t go alone.”  A shaken breath plumed against her neck.  But I have to, Maeve.  Someone needs to stay and protect them.

Bodies became water again—deep red akin to heart's blood.  Uslín swam, swam until she reached the forbidden shore and found herself staring up at the bright figure.  It was crouched low and offered the seal a smile, an outstretched hand filled with bundled herbs.  It was her smile.

⊰∾⊱

It was gone.  The nightmare was chased away by the creak of an opening door and the heavy brush of knuckles on wood.  She jolted up, pushing away the blanket from her face to observe the shadow of a man who began to enter with an apology fresh on his mouth for disturbing her slumber.  Uslín wouldn’t tell him the joy she felt at his arrival, the pleasure of her nightmares end.  Prideful creatures didn’t deserve that satisfaction least of all this one. 

The muirinn woman stretched both arms far above her head like a cat awakening from a day-long nap.  A soft sigh - a content moan - softly parted silken lips as she leaned weary muscles into the motion.  Bleary eyes still heavy with sleep watched as he began to disrobe the cloak that hid bloodied linens and the sinew beneath.  Why were humans such violent creatures?  More importantly… how had she slept through it?

Before she could think, Uslín rose to her feet and attempted to grab Lan’s arm.  Why did her brows furrow with concern for a man who held her seal skin hostage?  Maybe if she’d been a warrior like Maeve there would be indifference etching upon her face instead of worriment.  She could have sat - contently mind you - and watched him suffer.  Ever the mending priestess, through and through.

Dainty fingers sought to turn him, to work loose the buttons of his shirt to free the flesh beneath.  Uslín noticed the bandages on his hand and the cut on his cheek as hazel eyes rose to observe any wounds upon his face. 

“I can heal it good as new if you take off the cuff.”  She offered said cuff, keyhole up, hoping with baited breath that he’d take the offer.  “Only healing magic.  I promise.” 

---

His peripherals allowed the insight of her breathless waking. She jerked from lucent arms, her features warped by what he could only assume was terror. A nightmare? Had the sounds from the basement reached her after all? While he hadn't ended up firing either of the guns at his hips, he supposed it probably was much louder than what it felt to him. Beyond that, he couldn't witness her any further. Composing herself, she'd move into a stretch, the last sight that he beheld before turning the full of his attention away to his current task.

It didn't prevent the sound of her soft moan from slipping over his senses however. His hands would temporarily freeze as they worked to remove the belt of his holsters. His skin prickled, his jaw clenched, ticking slightly as his crown would lift faintly to fix duo hues upon the door's blank presence. Restraint wasn't something he normally had to endure, and perhaps it showed in how hard he had to try not to strike at the portal - to not just take what he wanted like a spoiled child. One darkness traded for another, a smoldering fire she seemed content to continuously fan and provoke. In the next breath one she smothered, because for all of the atrocities he committed without blinking, there were some lines he drew for himself that he would never cross. Lines that had never held issue before. Why the hell hadn't Tanyi sent for him recently?

He should leave. The thought did occur to him, truly. Despite the late hour, there were parts of Shanton that never slept, parts he was all too familiar with. He could rid himself of this tension, violent or otherwise. His frozen hands would settle for rebuckling the holsters instead of finishing their removal. He was half way through repossessing his coat from its hanger when his outstretched arm was lit upon by her silken touch. One he tensed under, sinew only further coiling as she wordlessly beckoned him to turn, one he obeyed without thought until it was too late. His lips pressed into a hard, flat line as her fingers rose to the button closest his neck, beginning to unfasten the clasps.

Were he more modest, more reserved, a better man pink may have dusted his cheeks. He may have looked away. Though such circumstances as hers would not be, and such situations would be far more demure and innocent in nature. No, if he weren't a monster, he wouldn't be standing before her, staring harshly at her naïve, virtuous, guiltless countenance covered in the evidence of animosity. The blood of those he called enemies, his own, it mattered not as it painted him all the same. He nearly flinched as the weeping trail from his cheek that had been consistently caught by his collar was now left to trail itself down the crook of his neck.

Before she could undo the shirt all the way, he would shake the inaction from his limbs, his grip upon her wrist harsh to begin with before softening, if but just faintly. "What are you doing?" The words were darker than he'd intended, vocals mixed with a low growl. She looked back to him, “I can heal it good as new if you take off the cuff.” So that was her ploy. He shouldn't be surprised she would use such means, intentionally or no. He was no stranger to the thought of being used in such a way. “Only healing magic.  I promise.” She offered the key slot to his vision, sights that grew hard despite the heat within them. He would wrap his fingers around the collar of iron, the motion lacking any nicety as he yanked it, dragging her face closer to his. "You don't trust me, and I don't trust you." He didn't hold her there, relinquishing his grip on the cuff. He'd made it just fine without magic to mend his flesh thus far, and while the scars ran a bit deeper, these ones would soon be nothing but the same. Maybe this would only serve to further drive the divide between them, but in the end, that would be easier than her closeness. Than the tenderness in which she'd touched him with.

His attention would catch on the lower side of his coat, at the gash found there. His tongue clicked in annoyance at the angry red stain that further blemished the keep sake artifact. He held it out, taking in the full damage with a slightly shaken sigh. He'd have to have it mended. And cleaned. From over his shoulder, he would shoot her a side long glance. He'd already seen her butchery with a sewing kit, and it lead him to believe she probably wouldn't be able to not maim the article if he asked her to cleanse it either. Another sigh.

She hadn't been out of the house, not since he'd put the chains on her. Not since he'd proclaimed that she would be his. "Sorry." His tone did little to reflect the sourness of his mood now, resigned to the softer way he spoke to just her. "Would you like to go to town with me tomorrow?" In emphasis, he would wiggle a finger at her through the hole in his coat. "Need to get this fixed." His head tilted slightly as he turned fully back to face her, some of the tension ebbing from his shoulders. "We can get food wherever you'd like."

---

Quiet unease had furrowed her dark brow and wormed its way along the fine line between her supple lips.  The bottom of which she nipped between ivorian teeth, focused, entranced with the buttons holding together the blood-stained linen shirt and the skin laid bare beneath. 

Human skin.  Ocean-bound muirinn men often kept to their selkie form, preferring it over the vulnerabilities of human flesh.  They took comfort in their seal skin, swam beneath the waves with it, and hunted the bountiful schools of migratory fish to provide for their growing pod. 

Women like Maeve and Uslín, however, embraced both walks of life.  It was difficult -  nigh, impossible - to heal the wounds of her pod-mates using her flippers.  It was also difficult to stop the curious stare of oceanic eyes from roving over Lan’s chest.  Was this also how the selkies would look if they took on that human mantle?  Of course, few did but none of which Uslín had been able to observe, not like this.  Not so close…  not beneath her careful fingertips…

Calloused fingers were rough on her wrist forcing feminal features to flinch beneath the abrupt assault and the soft sting of pain that traced down her hand. 

“What are you doing?”  There was an animalistic quality to his voice that nearly made her want to crawl into the shadows and cower in their embrace until this unpleasant sensation washed away.  Would that ire be further galvanized if she didn’t answer?

“Hel-”  A quiet yelp disrupted her answer as he pulled her close, too close, close enough that she could see her reflection in his polychromic eyes and smell the sandalwood perfume laced in his soaps. 

“You don’t trust me, and I don’t trust you.”  He released her and Uslín stumbled back, collecting herself and daring a glance at his face and the trickle of blood that coursed down it.  Again her brow furrowed with that familiar healer instinct; worry, by another name. 

“I don’t distrust you.”  She countered softly.  Even if in all respects she should hold some regard for preservation, of caution and disdain, he’d had ample opportunity to maim her.  He could have taken everything a lecherous man could want from a woman yet Uslín remained unharmed.  Physically, at least.  Pride would take more time to mend.

With her healing attempts cast aside, the muirinn girl sought to return to the cot at the foot of the bed and simply watched as he took stock of his belongings.  In part, she felt slighted, scorched and vexed by his flagrant dismissal of her kindness or perhaps it was because he didn’t trust her.  Of all the nights it would have been easy enough to hold a pillow over his stupid, smug face.  Of all the nights she could have taken the candelabra to the back of his head and returned to the sea, skin or not.  If she was a dishonest, violent woman…

But she wasn’t.

“Sorry.”

Oceanic eyes rose from the floor to watch his finger wiggle through a hole in the fabric of his seemingly favourite cloak.  Her head tilted with bemusement etching along the contours of her soft features at his mention of town, of food, of leaving this room and beyond.  Excitement quietly took bewilderments place.

“What is… town?”  Her smile took on a slanted, almost sheepish turn.  “What kinds of things do humans eat there?”