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_{[He is absolutely correct-- barring present company of course, shades tend to be one of Heather's least favorite monsters to encounter unexpectedly in the middle of the night... she's never been fond of things whose flesh doesn't give when you stab them.]

[Her ears flick back towards him as he approaches-- she knows his footfalls by now, even if they're feigned. From his vantage point, he'll have a pretty good view of the damage-- it's not easy to see scorch-marks on already-black scaly feet, especially not in the dark, but it's still visible. That alone says enough about how bad it is.]

[She's already dreading the thought that she might literally need to get around the Nest via piggyback for awhile.]}

Oh, sure. Let me spit on them.

_{[A scathing sneer is the only thing capable of making her feel better right now.]}

[Stocke is... coming to roughly the same conclusion about the whole piggybacking thing.]

[He doesn't respond to the jibe. Instead he turns back to her, shifting to his solid human form and holding out one hand -] Come on.

[If she takes it, he'll swing her on to his back. There will definitely also be some sort of first aid kit in there, right? Let's go break into that office.]

_{[She can tell he's come to the same conclusion and that makes her even madder!!]

[Her ears flick all the way back when he holds his hand out, and she starts to, with great difficulty and some minor defacing of the headstone she'd been leaning against (it was totally already covered in clawmarks, it's fiiiiine), haul herself upright without actually putting any weight on her feet.]}

Don't help me, I'm angry at you.

_{[She manages to get ALMOST all the way stood up, scrawny chest heaving... only to hiss again at the very first attempt to make her sole come in contact with the earth. The harpy breathes hard for a moment, before very grudgingly slapping her hand down in Stocke's.]

[Okay fine it's not like this can get any more embarrassing than it already is.]}

[Look, it could be worse! A piggyback is probably better than a princess carry, right?]

[Stocke can feel the prey in himself wanting to bristle slightly - she's mad? He's the one who got a chase interfered with - but away from a hunter, he can recognize the urge as unreasonable. Especially since she's hurt. So he swings her on to his back without a word or even an irritable flick of his tendrils. (Most of those vanish, to spare her from getting weird cold chills as they go through her; one or two remain but become solid to help support her.)]

[The shade makes sure she's well-situated before setting off at a fast walk toward the office.]

[Still, he can't quite help a quiet,] You didn't have to intervene. I was doing fine. [Which is... a very Stocke sentiment, unfortunately, and nothing to do with his prey mindset. He was fine! Totally not about to be evaporated at all!!]

[The shade kneels in front of the cemetery's door and squints at the keyhole - after a second, telekinesis clicks the lock open. He pushes the entrance open and ducks low to keep Heather's head from whacking on the lintel.]

_{[She latches on, still growling in her throat. Fortunately, Mason is very light. She's not made of much aside from bony knees and feathers.]

[Ducking her head as well, she mutters darkly.]}

He didn't want to chase you. He wanted to hurt you.

He wouldn't be the first. [Wry.] I've survived before.

[You know. Usually. Ryslig has been kind of weird. Also, "survived" is a pretty broad category..]

[The office lobby is large and empty; Stocke doesn't hesitate to cut through it toward the first restroom sign he sees. For a miracle, the inside is clean; there's even a vase of very slowly wilting flowers on the sink counter. Stocke pushes that aside to perch Mason in its place, fiddling with the faucets to get cold water.]

So? So have I.

But I bet you'd stop me from trying to wave my dick at a demon the size of the Chrysler building.

_{[But she lets go of him grumpily and allows herself to be plopped down on the counter, wincing. It's a damn miracle she's not more burnt than she is, but even a little is enough to bring memories rushing back that she really doesn't want right now. Or ever.]}

[Mason's... Mason's not wrong. He probably would.]

[Or at least, right now, he'd join in. (Thanks Fog God.)]

[But that's different, because - because for all that he respects the harpy, and he'd trust her to look out for herself in a fight far more than, say, Dawn, he doesn't get the impression she has quite the experience he does. Not like Rosch, or Dante, or Lady.]

[...who he'd also try to stop. Maybe he shouldn't be following this train of thought.]

He's hardly anywhere close to the size of a Hell Spider, [the shade says, half under his breath. It's audible, but not exactly a response...]

[There. Cold water. Stocke's tendrils flick - he steps back and heads to the lobby again, this time to root behind the receptionist's desk for a first aid kit.]

_{[It's true-- for all that Heather was taught to fight from a young age, for all that she'd survived by taking down horrors tooth and nail-- she's no trained soldier. But try telling her that.]

[Her eartufts stand up-- of course she heard that, and she shouts huffily after him.]}

I don't give a fuck how big a Hell Spider is!

He was too big!

_{[And just in case he didn't hear her, she cups her claws around her mouth.]}

T-O-O B-I-G!

I've smashed bigger thaumachines! [Stocke yells back, abandoning all pretenses of keeping comments to himself. This demon wasn't even made of metal, gosh.]

[The shade's back shortly after, lugging a first aid kit in a large green tin. He leans over Heather to check her feet again - through the water she's been keeping them under. Hopefully.]

[Stocke knows burns - with an affinity for fire magic, he sure inflicted enough of them in his time before Ryslig. How bad are these?]

Edited 2017-12-17 08:22 (UTC)

_{[SHE DID start dabbling her feet in the cold water, thankfully-- as indignant as she is, soothing the burns is really the highest priority right now.]

[But she does yell after him-- and doesn't lower her volume even though he's slipping back into the room mid-sentence. Just makes direct eye contact and continues to shout through her cupped talons, straight at his ear.]}

S-O W-H-A-T?

_{[AS FOR HER FEET well, it's hard to tell when they're already a sooty-black color even under normal circumstances, but they're definitely pretty singed-looking. Some of the wispier feathers on her ankles are gone entirely.]}

Edited 2017-12-17 22:42 (UTC)

[Stocke, in contrast, lowers his voice back to a normal volume.] So I'd have been fine. I've killed far bigger. [Nevermind that all he was letting himself do was get hunted...] And even if he turned out to be more of a threat than I thought, he wouldn't be able to chase me into any walls.

[Singed is fine, feathers gone are fine, even blistering - all Stocke needs to know is that she's not outright charred, skin burned all the way through. It doesn't grow back from that, and it's not possible to treat without magic if it's wide enough that the edges can't touch. At least, not in Alistel.]

[But assuming she's not that badly off, he'll start to dig into the first aid kit, looking for bandages and antiseptic. (Other miracles of Ryslig: antiseptic.)]

_{[FORTUNATELY, the damage is nothing that can't be healed through normal means. If she'd been burned to the bone, she wouldn't be sassing him, she'd probably be screaming and biting anything that so much as looked at her. As it is, the best distraction from the general panic of being burned is to focus on how much of a dummy Stocke is.]}

I've killed bigger, too!

_{[... Hm. Maybe not, actually. Weirdly enough, God wasn't as much of a towering behemoth as you'd think... but symbolically, it counts!]}

But I still don't go picking stupid fights!

Weird... fuckin' instincts this week or not.

_{[Her own Prey drive had translated almost entirely into running. Somewhere down there was the desire to be chased, but her own natural paranoia amplified the other parts almost to the point that she had no interest in actually trying to tempt people.]}

[Stocke is an unfortunately stubborn bastard. He knows when he's not going to convince someone of something, though - he'll drop the subject.]

[But they're totally normal instincts, excuse you, he's been having fun! Most of the time. (He'll probably be pissed about thinking this later, when they're gone and he remembers that they're the Fog God's fault.)]

[Instead, he nods at Heather's feet.]

Any better? [Because he's found the antiseptic and bandages.]

_{[She gives him one last good glare, then looks down at her feet and huffs grudgingly.]}

Yeah, they're feeling better.

At least as long as I have them in the water.

They're gonna be a bitch to walk on for awhile...

[Stocke slants his head.] Tell me when you're ready to take them out.

[A bit drier:] ...I can give you a ride back to the Nest.

_{[She lifts them from the water gingerly, grimacing. Both at the pain and at the thought of needing to be carried all the way back to Djavulenstad.]

[BUT... there's really nothing else to be done about it. She can't fly without being able to land.]}

... Well, yeah.

You owe me one.

For thinking it was a good idea to take on the Final Boss of DOOM.

[Time for antiseptic it is! Sorry Mason, he'll try to get it over with as fast as possible.]

Final boss? [the shade remarks, absently, as he works on that and then the bandages - it kind of seems more like he's commenting to give Heather a distraction than anything.] - oh, like Greed. [He gets it.]

[...look, it's a reasonable conclusion to make. Greed's his boss, Greed is a demon, Mason is joking about how this demon was like Greed on steroids -]

_{[When the antiseptic makes contact with her feet, she jerks, squawks, and hisses, squinching her eyes shut and flattening her ears for a second.]

[But she's not going to pitch a fit over it-- better the burn of something that's going to actually help, than the burn of lingering fire.]

[It's a second or two before his words actually sink in, and she blinks at him in confusion, still sort of grimacing.]}

What?

No, not like Greed. Did you see that guy?

_{[Heather remember that time he didn't know what ice cream was? He's never played a video game in his life.]}

Well, no, but he's... like a final version of the boss...

[Stocke trails off, staring at her. That is the joke she was trying to make, right?]

[Silent incomprehension reverberates through the room.]

_{[She stares back, and there's a long moment where they both clearly have no idea what the other was talking about.]}

... Oh.

_{[Light bulb moment.]}

Uh.

Shit. They don't even have video games in this world...

[...is this going to be another ice cream moment? It is, isn't it?]

[On the other hand, the ice cream thing did turn out pretty well. Stocke warily prompts,] ...final bosses?

... Whoof.

Okay, so.

Where I come from, there are these-- virtual reality games you can play. Kind of like watching a cartoon, except you control the main character.

And usually you have to make the character fight evil dudes.

'Final boss' is like... the last evil dude you have to beat to win the game. So, usually the biggest and baddest.

[Okay, cartoon Stocke knows. If only because of Ryslig. On the other hand, a lot of Ryslig cartoons dance kind of delicately around the subject of monsters by now, so what Stocke comes up with is...]

So... like an evil spellcaster.

[Hm. That doesn't sound very impressive, or anything like the giant demon they just tangled with. Maybe he should pull from another example? He's definitely fought pretty big and bad things, like those giant spiders, but the biggest and baddest he can think of -]

Or a three-story tall amalgamation of stairs and the negative emotions of sacrificed people.

[Yeah, that seems more in the demon's ballpark. He's getting it!]

... Okay.

_{[THAT IS WEIRDLY SPECIFIC, STOCKE. But sure, she could buy that being a video game boss.]

[And she knows all about amalgamations forming from the negative emotions of sacrifices.]}

Yeah.

Something like that.

My point is, he was huge and mean-looking and you're like. The size of a pea.

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