The sound of the woman's voice woke Fion from a sound sleep, and he shot up as though it had been a hostile bark, slamming his head squarely on the bottom of the wagon. Inside, the wooden floor groaned a bit, and Daemon looked at it curiously, stomping experimentally just to make sure it was sound. Fion glanced up, thinking perhaps he'd woken Daemon and that was the sound of him falling to the floor, before crawling out from under the wagon, scratching his head nervously and offering an innocent grin. "Oh, umm...wur just...campin' ou' ere! Ah mean, we didna mean ta disturb anyone. Ah, uh..." The boy looked up as there was some more thumping from Daemon, who'd moved to the front of the wagon at the sound of the boy's voice to see if his plate had been filled yet, before he continued. "Ah can move us on...Master sure won' mind." His unique accent was thick, and he twisted his fingers together nervously. It wasn't often he talked to women; they intimidated him more than men did. More often than not, they could be crueler than a man.
Daemon found his plate still empty, though the Boy was clearly back from wherever it was he'd gone. Prodding the dish again, lightly, Daemon once again glanced up at the moonlight. It wouldn't hurt him, he knew; it just...scared him, sometimes. It's rays very much reminded him of a dimmed sun, which was why he still wore a cloak at night. But the Boy had not filled his plate, and to get the cloak and then find the Boy, he'd have to go back into the depths of his home before he went out. Daemon decided he wouldn't bother. Pulling the pelt back farther with one frail hand, Daemon carefully climbed out and scooped up his plate, and then climbed off the driver's bench, making his way around the side. He stopped just in sight of them, his face unmasked and his bandages barely wound, hanging off his limbs and shoulders and baring most of his skin. There was a stranger there, a female. She didn't look even vaguely familiar, but Daemon always felt he should know strangers when he came across them, thanks to losing his memory around his own family. He hesitated there, uncertain whether to step forward and grab Fion's attention or retreat and pretend he'd never left the wagon.
He made an indecisive sound, somewhat like a ragged cough, and Fion looked his way, surprised to see him and then horrified to see the plate in his hand. "Ack! Sorreh, master! Ah'll ge' ya some food!" He said, so loud he barely refrained from shouting, and rushed up, taking the plate and running off before Daemon could object. Thrown out of his half-baked state and into the real world so suddenly was disconcerting, and he shuffled toward the female, uncomfortably aware of his appearance. He tugged his bandages tighter as much as he could self-consciously, and looked at her out of the corner of his eye, the corners of his mouth turning down. He'd heard something of a name, in the wagon; Cercatori D'Arte. A...what was the word? He couldn't remember. It was something of a family, though. A clan. Daemon had been looking for one, sometimes.
He tilted his head and lifted one bandaged hand, slim fingers stretching toward her curiously as he pointed. Hoooooo. He made the sighing sound that Lucivar had always taken as a question, meaning it to make her tell him who she was. He wished Fion would come back and do the transaction for him, get them into the clan, but he'd run off. Daemon was on his own.
He took deep breathes; he could do this. He just had to...focus. But focus on what, he wondered?
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