'Souls RPG

(flail)

Achilles had mentioned a castle to the south, long since abandoned and claimed by no pack according to his memory. The Kokinos did not know its name given his comparatively short time as a resident of these lands, but regretted its mentioning since the moment the castle slipped his lips and Mistral's eyes began to glitter.

And perhaps it was her constant babbling since leaving Cour des Miracles that had been reason for why they had gotten lost. Princess this, castle that; Achilles scarcely knew what any of the words meant, let alone the implications therein. But Mistral called herself royalty, and each time she did so the Kokinos earned himself a few new bruises when he laughed.

He did not mind escorting her. What else had he to do? After all, Atalanta could have been hiding anywhere — even in a castle.

By the time the two had managed their way back on course they had rounded back near courtier borders and nearly started anew, an afternoon lost in the trouble. Their next day was a late start (Mimi liked her beauty sleep) and delayed further when Achilles stopped to inquire goods with a trader idle along the path. When he began pulling from the stuffed saddlebags of Sibylla to offer random items for some sort of advertised miracle product, Mistral groaned and wandered, impatient. Were they ever going to reach the castle?

She found the mouth of a cave and snorted, casting one glance over her shoulder to confirm Achilles still busy with nonsense and wasting her time. Convinced it would be his own fault if she were hurt—and thus in her debt, perhaps—Mistral huffed and stalked into the dark.

Further within the dim light she caught glimpse of a light-colored blur and called in echoes, "Hello?"

And with her next step forward squeaked high-pitched, toes caught with not enough light to guide her. She tripped, arms waved a moment, and so landed Mistral de l'Or unceremoniously on her stomach with a windless oof.

Winded and annoyed, Mistral sat up and held her bruised belly. Perhaps bumps and bruises were not worth an indebted Achilles after all.

She was relieved to learn the crash was not entirely in vain, for someone had been in the tunnel's increasing shade and had clearly distracted her from focus on her footing. It made perfect sense to her regardless of the truthful occurrance, and so by that logic the dog that approached her earned himself a dreadfully sour look. The chivalry was appreciated, but the nickname and—was he missing a foreleg?

"N-No!" Mistral barked, not with anger but the start of terror. She waved him urgently away and compensated the fearful squeak with sudden fickleness. "Don't touch me, cripple. You'd just—you'd probably just fall over if you tried to help me, anyway."

The girlish de l'Or rose and dusted herself off, wincing once when fingers brushed sore stomach in the process. "What are you even doing in here? It's too fucking dark to see anything."

As she dusted herself off the cripple dropped to the floor and wriggled and writhed in pathetic, overplayed shame that Mistral did not mistake even for an instant. Nostrils flaring she folded her arms and tapped multicolor fingertips against bicep, waiting out the display with obvious impatience. "Oh my God—stop, just stop. You look like a fucking idiot."

Irritating as he was and useless as he must be with an arm missing, her impression of the man was not yet ruined in its entirety and it troubled Mistral as such. Though the spitz mix would not admit it, she admired the color of his eyes; a brilliant turquoise against the warm and golden tones of his fur, reminiscent of her own eye color and the charming hummingbird strung about her neck and forged lovingly by the guardian she missed dearly.

"I'm not helping anybody," insisted the girl, huffing, and started to march away assuming he would either follow or more preferably be left to his own devices. "I'm supposed to be seeing a castle but Achilles had to go and strike up a conversation. What else am I supposed to do?"

And she mumbled beneath her breath, pouting, "This isn't how you treat a princess."

Regardless of how she thought herself to be feeling, Mistral cast an unconscious glance over her shoulder at him as if to determine if he would follow. She hesitated, then continued into the dark. "Have you found anything in here?"

"Boozing?" she said, the scoff hardly restrained; it bounced off the walls and ceilings down a long, dark stretch and and end she couldn't see. "Juggling?—You have one arm! Ugh, tell me you're joking. Nobody can be this useless."

Even Micah had some means of constructive sport. His art wasn't exactly... well, useful, but it wasn't self-destructive like this so-called "boozing." Besides, Micah was obsessed with being useful and part of the functioning machine—it was just that he wasn't actually good at anything.

This man, though—he was missing an arm. She supposed the fact that he hadn't been put out of his misery yet by some sympathetic, good soul was a triumph in and of itself. Though, perhaps she herself might have taken to this "boozing" in such a handicapped predicament.

"I'm a princess, and you're a dirty fool that sleeps in dark, gross caves," she said, primping the mane of white fur back into something presentable following the fall. "I don't suppose your boozing is what made you a cripple, is it? I certainly wouldn't be surprised."

Perhaps she should be nicer, Mistral thought. She didn't much like to wander the darkness alone. Would Achilles hear her if she slipped again and broke her neck?

That smile turned into her rage, the unaffected and indifferent smirk of his, it should have flared her rage further—should have done something. But Mistral stared back into it unashamed of her insults and unimpressed with his character, perhaps so much so that she could not waste the energy on one so bizarre a person. Instead, the de l'Or sniffed a disapproving noise and began patting at the ground for rocks without explanation.

Stones damp and slimy in her fingers, she wrinkled her nose and touched them with the least contact possible, collecting three. Then, eyes half-lidded and lips pulled into a line, Mistral offered them out to the cripple.

"So juggle," she said. "My old pack had some performers. I'd bet you can't juggle any better than I can play the flute." That was, of course, acknowledging that she was not the worst at the instrument.

A moment's hesitation passed, and with turquoise eyes connected with his she asked, "How did you lose your arm, then?"