Heybby 83 NIGHT TIIEEEM yiss+000

The long, drawn, soft scraping sound was punctuated only slightly by the occasional, soft splash of a staggered step into a puddle. The season was cooling, the day's sun burning off cloud layers, until night came and cast drizzle down to the earth in tepid hours, setting a chill deep in the bones of the unprepared. The light rain had gone on for a good hour, perhaps an hour and a half, before the basilisk relinquished her post.

It had not occurred, that perhaps, she could have claimed some small, abandoned hut for her own; for not yet had she thought herself proven, and much like in her childhood, the nights were spent outside, curled up and cramped amidst roots and rocks in the dark. There was no hurry in her gait, no purpose other than shelter as she moved through the thickly-cloaked night, the tine of an elk's antler clasped in her left hand, the anchor dragging through the loam behind her as the slouched beast crept along. The bone was a prize, something she found while adventuring out in the mountains, and while others saw nothing, she saw worth. Fingers of her right hand were wound loosely about the hilt of a carving knife.

Between the paranoia and the cold (for her old cloak was abandoned to cover her horse), she was kept awake. Past the ruins the basilisk dragged, towards the stables, and she was hesitant, before sidling her way in through a cracked door. The dry was welcome, and the weary heap slid over to a wall, before slumping down to the floor.

What pelt she possessed clung to meager form, all ribs, all lean sinew, diminishing any perceived size that the hybrid could have possibly possessed. Wild, tangled mane had been tied and wrapped tight, an afterthought when the rain had started, and what was left loose hung in slightly dripping ringlets. Miasma sights were turned towards muddied feet, before shifting up, and were it not for the exhaustion, the beast would have been startled to meet the gaze of a stag in one of the stalls, sights widening in slight before blinking, once, twice, three times, to ensure it was not mere trickery.

For a moment, Peregrine was blearily enraptured by the beast, elegant as it was, before she dropped her gaze again, this time to the antler and her whittling knife, and she dragged the shed closer, before putting the blade to bone, carefully etching out the deeper lines and shapes, recollecting teachings, old heritage near lost by the Canadian-bred parts of her bloodline. The figures were, as always, intricately crafted into her work, and slowly it took form as a three headed beast with a large eye in the center of his chest. Brow was knit in concentration as she carved designs outwards in silent pondering.

NO PROBLEM BBY <3+000

The chant of hundreds of voiceless spirits rang in her ears. In the blackish moor stood the pallid, ivory beast, faces bare of flesh and yet those empty sockets held hunger like a mother held her babe. Ebony smoke spilled, slow, cascading from jaws with ragged, hollow breath. Amidst the thrum of a pounding heart, there was twitching, pivoting of a single eye betwixt the scrawny man's breast, pupil dilated until it came to rest on her, before contracting to pinpoint, finding its focus.

'Feed, burn, rest, freeze.'

Those words were clear among the hum of wordless sound, distorted and bewitching, somewhere between a boom and the hiss of a whisper, the soft lull of velvet and the coarseness of thorns. Perhaps it was all these things at once.

'Bring forth the new. Purge, raze, it comes to end,' the tri-headed beast spoke, with unmoving jaws which parted slowly to envelop her form with smog that froze clear to the bone. Yes, if things should end in fire, the basilisk could be clean. She could be living. Rise, rise, rise.

Peregrine?

The sound had not registered for but a moment, before she realized that chilling voice was tangible, a part of some physical plain that yanked her from some waking dream. Her whittling ceased, and the woman continued to stare, void of expression. A sharp breath was sucked inwards through parted lips, breathing life into her lithe, sinewy form, and swirled, cool eyes looked to its source, somewhat seeing, yet at the same time blind, all the same. He was dark, as always, a shadow once-prince among the thistles that both scorned and cradled him. What cruel irony, to have a birthright wrenched from extended, wanting claws.

"Lokr," came a bland response, robotic and empty, before clearing her throat, setting the blade and antler aside for a moment as she pressed palms flush to the ground to rise to her feet, as though remaining seated would portray some form of weakness. "What are you doing out and about this hour?"

The inquiry was a bit more feeling; it did not probe, it did not pry, but it was quiet, matter-of-fact, perhaps somewhat laced with a lilt of worry for the Arbiter's well-being, though phrased quite simply. In the grander scheme of all things Salsola, it was best left with less spoken.

Sorry for the awful reply *w*;;;+000

He had answered with honesty, pure and simple, and it puzzled her in slight. His form slipped closer through the dark as she stood, two bodies made of sharpness and angles, one form guilded with silver and copper, the other of rust and shadow. His question raked the forefront of her brain, an obvious, brief glimmer of irritation knitting her brow. Ill? It was a reasonable fear, however, she was not ill. True, she had been without food for...

The pang of hunger in her stomach dully struck her, something that had gone unnoticed for the past week. However, certain angles, certain leanness were to be attributed to her blood, and she cleared her throat a little, dual-tone sights peering to Lokr.

"I am not ill." Words were muttered cooly, a breath sharply inhaled. as chin angled up in slight. "I appreciate your concern, but I am fine, Lokr. I just lack a place to sleep, and I do not like the rain."

Palm came to rest flat against her hip, the other firmly grasped on the antler.

"So you cannot sleep? Perhaps a walk is in order?"