Daemon had left the pelt usually keeping out the light at the back of the wagon tied back, to let in the moonlight. While he had several candles lit, nothing set the mood like looking out and up and seeing the glowing orb shining down on him. He looked at it now, absently rummaging through a wooden box, and finally came up with a smaller one, filled with needles thick enough to pierce leather and thread. He'd found it. But for a long moment more he stared at the moon, and something in him--something that, perhaps, remembered a time before his furless state--longed for the sun.
A voice on the ground brought him out of his contemplation, but his head moved more slowly, dropping to gaze at the male--boy? Another Boy?--at the back of his wagon, attempting to get in. He stared at him, and then made a groaning noise, and stepped back, setting his sewing box on his work table and bending down to help. The Boy was taller than he was, by about a foot; Daemon couldn't bring himself to be jealous. He reached a helping hand down, not bandaged and uncloaked in the moonlight.
He tended to keep his bandages on, but they needed to be washed occasionally, and Fion had been in the middle of that when this mad desire had taken him. His cloak had been sufficient in getting him here, and he had no problems moving around his wagon without them. Thus, his bare skin, his patches of fur and the welts and scars from the fire, were bared in their full glory before the stranger; he would have expected him to run, if Daemon still knew how to expect things.
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