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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. ]
no subject
At least Mydeimos is aware that he won't be some docile dog easily called to heel. Despite himself, Phainon huffs out a rough cough of laughter. That flicker of something more than the brute beast most vampires are reduced to, a glimpse of the man Mydeimos is rather than the bulwark of a prince he is in battle. It's something Phainon's wondered about, along with the odd sense of honor he's seen from time to time. Something he tries not to let himself admire about a man who must be nothing more than a hunter's prey.
And still, the truth remains that he would indeed be a very poor pet in both behavior and temperament; he just hadn't expected the vampire to recognize it. It's that tinge of amusement that has Phainon actually listening when Mydeimos bids him not to move. He bears the vampire's hands on him with ill grace, but he doesn't try to escape, doesn't make it more difficult for his wound to be tended. ]
I found a litter of stray kittens once. [ Dry; they'd bitten and scratched for weeks until he and Cyrene had earned their trust, and even then, he's not sure he can rightfully call them pets. ] Vicious little things, you couldn't get them to do anything but what they pleased.
[ A dare — just go ahead and try to make him a pet and see if he behaves any differently. ]
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Even while his hands work efficiently at the task at hand, his gaze drifts to the hunter’s face, listening to the story he tells. He snorts, thinking himself that Phainon is no different than those wild little kittens thinking they were protecting themselves. Instead, they were making their lives harder, scratching the hands that would take care of them.
Not that Mydeimos doesn’t like a fierce little pet. ]
Just like you, aren’t they? Ready to take my fingers off.
[ Mydei muses, finding that Phainon is exactly like those “vicious little things.” He would have fed the snarling little things too. He would have found the growling beasts admirable. ]
Even with a broken limb, they’d be trying to bite.
[ Despite his commentary about Phainon being ready to take off his limbs, Mydeimos finishes the bandaging work carefully. It concludes some stolen cloth being reused into a make-shift sling he fastens around Phainon’s neck, keeping his arm stable and supported. ]
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It takes a great deal of will not to answer by snapping another attempted bite.
Instead, Phainon shifts his weight carefully, feeling out the tension of the sling, testing how much pain movement might bring. Without looking up from his arm, he answers: ]
Fortunately for me, the cats were too little to do real harm.
[ He leaves it unsaid that he is leagues away from a tiny little kitten and far, far more lethal. Never mind that the weight of Mydeimos' gaze on him has something shivering down his spine, the faint shock of waiting adrenaline.
Phainon looks up, tilts his head defiantly, his tone soft but snide. ]
Surely you don't think you can domesticate me.
[ He doesn't realize the position offers his bared neck up to Mydeimos. ]
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While he’s no little kitten, Phainon, as renowned and heroic as the tales of him may be, as impressive as the number of vampires slain by his hand is — he is only human.
He is… utterly distracting with his neck bared like that. The defiance and snide glide right off of Mydei while his fangs itch to puncture right there.
Ah. ]
A couple saucers of milk or fish won’t be enough tame you.
[ Phainon might suspect he’s giving Mydeimos ideas when the vampire chooses to collect the cup left beside with the bandages and cloth. ]
Thirsty?
[ Except Mydei doesn’t intend to hand the cup over. ]
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Phainon's gaze flicks to the cup in Mydeimos' hand and back to the vampire's face. Ah. So he is giving the vampire ideas. Not that he'd expected to skip the torture when he woke up and found himself captive.
Slowly, deliberately, Phainon swallows. ]
Does it matter?
[ Whatever might be in that cup, water or blood or ambrosia, won't be given freely. Phainon will drink or won't drink at Mydeimos' whims, but he has no intention of trading good behavior for a single cupful of relief. ]
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And offering something that Phainon will need consistently is a start. ]
It's water.
[ Mydeimos explains, tilting the cup in his grasp and idly swirling the water within, casually taunting Phainon with the small promise of relief. It's far from an empty promise. He gives the human another moment of wanting, before he lowers the cup, bringing it to Phainon's mouth with a steady hand. ]
You should drink while you can, hunter.
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When Mydeimos abruptly brings the cup to his mouth, Phainon flinches back minutely. His eyes widen as he stares at Mydeimos over the cup's rim, evaluating — suspicious.
But there's no deceit in Mydeimos' face. No trap waiting behind the steady arrogance of a man who so firmly has the upper hand. Worse, Mydeimos is right. He should drink while he can, before the water does turn to a leash.
With a shuddery breath, Phainon dips his head in a faint nod and drinks. He takes slow sips, cautious, waiting for the cup to be snatched away. His eyes never leave the vampire's face, searching.
Between sips, he asks, with a weak trace of a sneer: ]
So you intend to be a responsible pet owner?
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There’s no trap. Mydei doesn’t even intend to swap a rejected drink for a leash. Phainon lives amongst a group with no need for water or food. He needs to learn to take both when they are offered. Now that he has, sipping carefully from the offered cup, Mydei makes no move to rescind the offer. He provided a steady hold, tipping the cup gradually to allow Phainon more as the water depletes. He intends to let him empty the cup in its entirety. A reward.
Mydeimos continues to watch, not perturbed by the way the hunter’s wary eyes remain locked on him. Dry lips are freshly wet with water, glistening wetly when Phainon speaks, pulling his gaze down to watch the words form. He exhales a snort that isn’t at all offended at the snide comments. ]
You should hope as much, shouldn’t you? [ he returns to the vicious kitten in his care. ]
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And still, Phainon doesn't look away from the man. Can't look away, eyes bright with banked fury and defiance both, and he meets Mydeimos' gaze unflinchingly. Every swallow of water is a draught of bitterness, but he forces it down until there's only drops left in the cup.
Then, he carefully leans back — waits to see if he's allowed, or if Mydeimos will reach for his hair again, or yank at his freshly splinted arm, or any other number of ways he could bodily take offense.
Even if punishment comes, it's worth it to throw a gauntlet. ]
More that I have doubts in your ability to be one.
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Mydeimos isn’t. He sets the near empty cup aside when Phainon leans back, a clear enough indication he is done. There’s only a few beads of water left collecting in the bottom of the cup. Mydei doesn’t correct Phainon, his life not so empty he intends to wreak needless damage onto Phainon at every turn just to make his own life more difficult.
Rather than a cruel hand, Mydeimos reaches out slowly, a hand tracking towards the messy mop of white hair atop Phainon’s head. In lieu of the doubt he voices, Mydei makes motions to pet him. He is more than aware he’s toeing the line.
Phainon’s hackles are already pricked up, Mydei would do better not provoking him by attempting to pet him like a dog. ]
I’m not taking advice from the vicious little kitten I found.
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[ Perhaps it's fortunate Mydeimos hasn't tied him up, because Phainon slaps away his hand rather than going for a bite. There's plenty of force behind the blow, enough to sting even if he doesn't have the angle or leverage to make it more damaging. That the rough drag of Mydeimos' fingers leaves his hair sticking up in every direction to make him look very much like the kitten he's accused of being is inconsequential. No matter that the vampire's touch had been gentle, Phainon won't stand to be treated with such condescension.
He draws himself up stiffly, every inch of his body tense, his back rigidly straight. ]
Return my sword and I'll show you exactly how like a kitten I am, Mydeimos. [ Flat but anger simmering just below the surface. ] Perhaps the other humans you've captured were easily cowed, but don't mistake their fear for any skill in keeping on your part.
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Perhaps in the future he will give Phainon the chance for the fight he so desperately yearns for. He doesn’t put the thought to words, doesn’t need Phainon salivating over the thought until it becomes reality.
Mydeimos stands, moving as if nothing occurred, not taking any vengeance on the slight against him. His behavior hasn’t been the worst. Mydei likes that spark, that unflagging courage. ]
And how many humans have you known me to keep?
[ This hunter should know very well when he thinks about it. No rumors have mentioned anything about Mydei keeping captives — he’s merely assuming he isn’t the first. His gaze flickers over the whole of Phainon before he glances over at his companions. ]
What makes you think I’d care to keep terrified pets around?
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At Mydeimos' question, Phainon's eyes narrow. It's true, there are no rumors of humans kept in Mydeimos' Kremnos. There had been many when Eurypon ruled the city, tales of the mobile city's markets filled with humans sold as bloodbag and decoration alike. But since Mydeimos ascended, nothing — even grumbles from migrant vampires that it's no longer so simple a matter to find a meal on Kremnos' streets. That means little, of course. Mydeimos and his band are clearly well fed. They've been drinking humans one way or another, kept or not.
Phainon tilts his head back to keep his gaze meeting Mydeimos'. He lifts one eyebrow in clear skepticism. ]
You expect me to believe you don't have humans captive to feed your people?