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a hunter must hunt
[ Phainon wakes up somewhere dank, dark, and altogether uncomfortable. Finding himself laid out on the rough ground is honestly more than he'd expected. His head is still pounding from the blow that'd sent him crumpling into unconsciousness and his body aches from the fight. It's a little strange to be waking up at all but he's certainly not going to complain about being taken prisoner instead of drained of blood and left dead for the hungry waves of the Tide. At least as a prisoner there's a chance to escape. Or better yet, finish the job.
Finishing the job will be more difficult, as he shifts and jostles his decidedly broken arm. He drags in breathes until the stars clear from his vision and he's sure he won't be throwing up from the sickening ache. Okay. Okay, not a great development, but he remembers the iron grasp of the prince's hand on him, the hot strength as the vampire had grinned at him with a mouth full of fangs, and snapped his arm with a wet, meaty crack. He'd held onto his sword through it anyway, but Phainon has no illusions as to how much further he can force the damaged limb.
So. Take stock.
Dark lair most likely full of the other vampires he hadn't gotten to before the prince showed up. Sword unsurprisingly nowhere to be seen and even the hidden dagger in his boot taken. And his boots, which is just plain rude. He's in nothing but pants and his thin black undershirt, and the chill seeping in from the damp ground isn't doing his injuries any favors. His vision's steady enough and his hands and legs aren't tied — not necessarily a good sign. But he can't feel any kind of wound at his throat. Small favors when he can hear the group moving around in the next chamber over and he still feels woozy and weak.
Phainon braces himself and sits up with a grunt. A glint catches his eye, and despite the pain, he lifts his broken arm to stare at the golden band around his wrist, washed pale in the dim light of the Evernight. A quick glance at the hand propping him up, fingers clawed into the dirt, shows a matching band around his other wrist, streaked by blood. He ignores torn skin and the jut of bone, takes several slow, measured breaths until his chest doesn't feel so tight. The foreign weight at his throat must be the last in the set. Restraints or ornamentation he isn't sure which, but the fine make of the metal speaks to a heavy sort of permanence.
Lovely.
His hand leaves bloody streaks on the wall as he hooks his fingers into a crack and hauls himself to his feet. Pebbles skitter down the wall with a clatter as he staggers, sucks in a breath and finds his balance. Phainon winces. None of his usual grace, leaden limbs, and now not even some element of surprise in being awake.
None of which stops him from lunging for the man who steps through the cave entrance. His head is thick, registering only a flash of blond hair and red along the vampire's skin, before he's on the creature. It's a futile effort, the collide of their bodies enough to knock all the air from his chest, but he doesn't care. Any damage he can inflict on Mydeimos is worth the try. ]
Finishing the job will be more difficult, as he shifts and jostles his decidedly broken arm. He drags in breathes until the stars clear from his vision and he's sure he won't be throwing up from the sickening ache. Okay. Okay, not a great development, but he remembers the iron grasp of the prince's hand on him, the hot strength as the vampire had grinned at him with a mouth full of fangs, and snapped his arm with a wet, meaty crack. He'd held onto his sword through it anyway, but Phainon has no illusions as to how much further he can force the damaged limb.
So. Take stock.
Dark lair most likely full of the other vampires he hadn't gotten to before the prince showed up. Sword unsurprisingly nowhere to be seen and even the hidden dagger in his boot taken. And his boots, which is just plain rude. He's in nothing but pants and his thin black undershirt, and the chill seeping in from the damp ground isn't doing his injuries any favors. His vision's steady enough and his hands and legs aren't tied — not necessarily a good sign. But he can't feel any kind of wound at his throat. Small favors when he can hear the group moving around in the next chamber over and he still feels woozy and weak.
Phainon braces himself and sits up with a grunt. A glint catches his eye, and despite the pain, he lifts his broken arm to stare at the golden band around his wrist, washed pale in the dim light of the Evernight. A quick glance at the hand propping him up, fingers clawed into the dirt, shows a matching band around his other wrist, streaked by blood. He ignores torn skin and the jut of bone, takes several slow, measured breaths until his chest doesn't feel so tight. The foreign weight at his throat must be the last in the set. Restraints or ornamentation he isn't sure which, but the fine make of the metal speaks to a heavy sort of permanence.
Lovely.
His hand leaves bloody streaks on the wall as he hooks his fingers into a crack and hauls himself to his feet. Pebbles skitter down the wall with a clatter as he staggers, sucks in a breath and finds his balance. Phainon winces. None of his usual grace, leaden limbs, and now not even some element of surprise in being awake.
None of which stops him from lunging for the man who steps through the cave entrance. His head is thick, registering only a flash of blond hair and red along the vampire's skin, before he's on the creature. It's a futile effort, the collide of their bodies enough to knock all the air from his chest, but he doesn't care. Any damage he can inflict on Mydeimos is worth the try. ]