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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
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.
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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?