Private for Iliya. :3
Daemon had the vague sense that he wasn't supposed to be here. The tingling of no fur standing up on the back of his neck should have warned him, really, that he'd trespassed; but Daemon was having one of his "bad" days, the ones where he couldn't focus, didn't know where he was--couldn't see straight, really, as if everything was being viewed through a cloud of smoke. He drifted as if in a daze, and insistently ignored the tugging of Fion's hands on his cloak. Fion, he could see, was scared; more scared, in fact, than he'd been when they camped by Cercatori D'Arte for that first, fateful night. He'd known there was a pack nearby, but they hadn't been within the borders, and nothing bad had resulted from the situation.
This, he thought with a terrible sinking feeling in his gut, this was bad. Daemon had trespassed, and Fion had followed him, attempting to get him to turn around every time it looked as though Daemon was aware enough of himself to notice. But Daemon pressed on; he continued walking as though this weren't someone else's territory, and Fion knew that was very, very bad. Daemon...well, not to say Daemon was stupid or anything, but he was walking around like he knew this was bad, and just didn't care. The least he could do was look like he was out of his mind, Fion thought furiously; he wasn't even wearing his mask! And his hood was down, with bandages distinctly absent. He looked, Fion thought, very comfortable. And he was glad for that, really; but did he have to be comfortable here? They hadn't even fully explored their own packlands.
He was just contemplating grabbing hold of the cloak with both hands and digging in his heels when they came upon a wondrous thing. Even Daemon could see the remnants of buildings buried beneath the overgrowth, and he stalked closer, his back suddenly hunched even more pronouncedly and his eyes wild. Fion had to let go for a moment, for fear that the suddenly feral man would turn on him, and Daemon was off like a shot, ducking into the bushes and vines and prying with careful fingers at long-closed doors. Fion chased after him, but Daemon's shorter legs seemed to move faster, despite Fion's longer stride, and he couldn't keep up and stay quiet at the same time, tripping and stumbling his way after his craft master with desperate hopes that no one would come and notice them here.
Because Fion knew the consequences of trespassing. It was becoming increasingly apparent that Daemon didn't.
Image courtesy of Watchsmart@Flickr; table by the Mentors!
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