unfinishedlibrary | do you bare your fangs at us, sir? MOONLIT RIVALS LOG 2, SCENE 2

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do you bare your fangs at us, sir? MOONLIT RIVALS LOG 2, SCENE 2

Who: Readers and Actors
What: The werewolves who are not sneaking into the party cause a bit of mischief... and did anybody actually agree to keep the peace tonight?
When: The night of the ball itself. [ooc timeline: Feb 6th - 19th]
Where: The city of Montica.
Content warnings: Please include any warnings in headers.

Waxing Gibbous Moon

In Town

Above the city, the Umbra Mansion stands tall. Its grand doors and windows have been opened, spilling light like a beacon. Music lilts in the air, drifting so far as to be faintly heard even in the neutral centre of the city.

The streets have emptied, particularly in the vampiric half of town. Most of the vampire loyalists have joined the masquerade, leaving their homes and shops unattended. Tonight is a special night - a once in a century event, and they wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Even some werewolves and neutral citizens have been enticed to attend. Jadis the Mystic has created a lotion that will disguise the scent of a werewolf; an effect that is broken by shifting, breaking the skin, or the gradual passage of time. It is not widely distributed, but rumours travel fast. The lotion is only given to any Guildulf-aligned werewolves, but… well, there’s nothing wrong with a little trade here or there. Right?

For all of the wolves in town - with the moon so close to being full, it’s natural for them to feel a bit more excitable. Energetic. Ready to take on the world. And seeing as Montica is so empty, it’s like a playground has just been opened up. The young wolves in particular are eager to take advantage of the empty streets, the sound of not-quite-mature howls breaking through the air in their excitement. There are hardly any people around to be scared if they play too rough or run too fast, and they are taking advantage of this with great enthusiasm.

In the highly-debated 'neutral' zone, some small packs of adolescent werewolves are gathering. There's banter and roughhousing, the not-quite-adults playfully shoving each-other over the invisible line where the vampire territory begins.

Some of the bravest amongst them take the challenge to dart over and brush their fingers over silver doorhandles - their yelps spurring courage and adrenaline in the others. What starts harmlessly enough quickly escalates as they urge each-other on, teenage excitement and the thrill of the moon encouraging all sorts of bad choices. The longer they go without reprimand, the more bold they become; and somewhere along the way, bulbs of garlic start winding up in places they wouldn't normally be found. (There is at least one group who is excitedly challenging each-other to leave the garlic in more and more absurd places. If they happen to sting themselves on some silver ornamentation on the way, all the better.)

Not all homes are unoccupied, though - sooner or later someone’s going to disturb someone else’s peace, and tensions are already so high. Hopefully there are some Responsible Adults around to curtail the worst of the mischief before someone’s temper is sparked.

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It's gone silent elsewhere in the manor, no more muted sound of begging, no more shrill sounds of agony muffled by walls and distance, so when the lord of the house howls his pain, there's nothing to drown it out. When, exactly, Curze reappears is a bit uncertain, but when Jadis withdraws, shaking, perhaps overextending her power or perhaps overwhelmed by events, the hunched pale figure's once more in the room, silent and assessing.

The stench of fresh blood, torn bowels and vampiric ichor may be missed under the scent of burning fur and meat, vile things dripping from the metal crucifix clenched in one hand as a makeshift weapon snatched off a wall on some other floor.

He'd expected to find more attackers, based on the sound. But the only things still alive in the room is a wolf that wouldn't be for long, Jadis herself and Roberte.

Something else then.

He's not the sort of psyker that can recognize when such power has been used just by the feel of a room. Maybe such would always be beyond him. But with no immediate hostile in sight, the bloody blunt instrument is set aside on whatever convenient surface is found so he can rub his hands a bit on bloodsoaked pants in a vain effort to clean them a little. All of Magnus' work to keep him clean has been thoroughly undone. The only place blood doesn't stain is his mouth. "Now what was the yelling about?"

It's quiet, like he doesn't really expect an answer. He's going to have to investigate for himself, but nothing told him either was about to suddenly expire on him.

The sensation of bone and flesh moving underneath his skin is not, in and of itself, unfamiliar to Roberte. However, he's accustomed to that bone and flesh being intact, not jagged shards moving carelessly, not shredded fibres and tendons writhing as they reach to reconnect, driven by outside forces. His body screams with the unnatural pain, his whole nervous system on fire for -- he doesn't know how long. His awareness of time abandons him. The only thing that exists is the power forcing his body to repair itself.

Until it ends. He falls back to the floor, panting, chest heaving. His body is still a scoured, burning, aching thing, his arm intact? -- he thinks? There is no more fresh blood soaking his chest -- but twitching, cramped tight, curled tight against his chest.

The exsanguinated daze has receded, leaving him reeling, wrung out, but -- but able to think. Able to... "Fuck," he mutters. He's going to have to get up, get moving, start work to counter this. He's...

...there's someone in here with them. He startles, bloody face twisting into a grimace as another wave of pain goes through him. He looks up, over, and bless him, this mortal shell, he's fighting to push himself upright with his good hand, eyes locked, properly focused, on the vampire.

"Heron." He still sounds out of breath. Voice strained from overuse. "We owe your our lives." His eyes move over the man, taking in the state of him, the bloodied crucifix. It takes him another moment to remember that he was asked a question. Maybe he isn't thinking entirely clearly. Close enough. "...healing."

Demonstratively, he holds out his previously-ravaged arm, the limb shaking with the strain of the motion.

"I regret allowing that name," is the wistful response, drawing close enough to drop down, sitting on his heels, to examine the ravaged arm. Tabs are being kept on Jadis, but so long as her heart rate and breathing remain the same, he's not concerned she might suddenly run into further issues. "I am owed nothing. There was a debt. And you were doing well on your own." Was there anyone left alive except them?

Time would tell.

Some of the blood on him is his own; he's not as fast or as strong as he'd prefer to be, but he had experience, durability and a vicious streak little in this city can hope to match. Roberte's meanwhile, is entirely his own, and that of the savaged creature not far away. "...Her work, I take it." That didn't look like a fresh wound, the bite and break looks like it could have been days ago. A week perhaps. "Does it kill infection?"

The Night Haunter pauses, brow furrowing. "Do you know what infection even is, like this?"

"Is there another you'd prefer?" Roberte asks. Part of him still screams to flee this man, but the rest is reeling, dizzy with gratitude. He cannot quite explain the depth of that feeling, but it is there nonetheless. "I should not call you a name that is not yours."

How polite.

"There were others out there," he points out with a frown. Does he not care about taking credit? Receiving thanks? Repayment for this great service? "Unless all of that is yours. A limb for every two down is -- poor math. Respectfully. We would not have made it."

He shakes his head, clearly annoyed by what he sees as an unimportant question. "There may be fever. Later. As it heals fully. I'll see to it when it comes. As long as I have the next day to work. If I burn, so shall they."

His eyes catch on Appienne. The slow rise and fall of his chest. The wet gurgle of his labored breathing. The occasional tremor of his limbs, so weak it's hard to tell whether it's reflex or an attempt to move. His face is a defleshed horror, pieces of hair and skin still stuck to Roberte's own face.

"...would you mind helping me stand?" he asks Curze, his attention fixed on the dying man.

Nothing he does is for adulation or even gratitude. That was for others. Explaining that.. would be a headache he doesn't feel like dealing with. "My name is Night Haunter. She is close, but not.. quite." What kind of name is that??

Curze's, apparently. The only one he would answer to if he had his way, but an obnoxious number of people insisted on using the one in the Imperial archives. "Oh, I think you are more resourceful than you give yourselves credit for." Those sad creatures can't truly be a threat, can they? "None of them were worth much except some interesting teeth to work with."

Except Roboute is a mortal. Barely stronger than a baseline. To their own kind, mortals are regularly lethal. Such a bite would never have been enough to break a primarch's bones. But now? A fever was as likely to be lethal as a stab to the gut.

How strange to think about. Jadis herself, soft and yielding, no longer had a shield of metallic feathers to protect her. Would her sorcery?

The still-living attacker is studied with an equally measured gaze when Roberte's attention turns to Appienne. "They shall burn if you fall," he says eventually. "All of them. The entire city. So have a care. You can barely lift an arm without shaking, what will you do standing?" Faint, perhaps.

He does have other weapons than the bloody heavy crucifix he'd used to beat a few to death with, but they are finer implements. More delicate, for fine work, not harsh butchery. The skinning knife he withdraws is for his size, but someone Roberte's size can still use it; it's offered hilt-first, uncaring if the edge cuts him in the doing.

"Where I am from, we wear what we kill."

Edited 2026-02-12 22:33 (UTC)

"Night Haunter," he repeats, perfectly accepting of the name. "Very well."

Mortal he may be, but Roberte Guildulf is still an enormously proud man, clearly displeased at his request for assistance being denied, at his weakness being pointed out. He's gearing up for an argument (or maybe just a tantrum), until the Night Haunter offers him a skinning knife. His mouth snaps shut, and a very unpleasant, teeth-clenched smile pulls across his bloody face.

"It is not usually our custom," he says lowly, and takes the knife. He drags himself over to Appiene, eyes bright and murderous. "But this is a situation requiring a clear message."

It is kinder, really, than what he had been planning on doing. A neat cut across the throat, instead of a boot coming down on it repeatedly. And then he begins the rest of the necessary cuts. Slow, sore, occasionally clumsy -- lacking the strength that's really necessary, and the leverage of his other arm -- but focused, unhesitating.

It's not a strategically sound action. Not remotely. But in this moment of bloody rage, it feels right.

"The children are still well?" he asks, eyes still on his bloody work. "Do you know?"

It's better to offer an alternative when outright denial is unwise. "Little sends a better message, I've found." Except perhaps doing it while they still live and broadcasting the results. He's reluctant to irritate this mortal version of his brother too much and make keeping an eye on him more difficult. Relieved of the knife, Curze stays where he is, hands folded across his knees to do little else beyond observe, and continue to drip blood on the otherwise goresoaked floor. "It's such a lovely pelt, too. It'll make a fine wall hanging or rug, if a cloak doesn't suit you."

Not just watching Roberte's efforts with the knife, but the still-quiet Jadis, and any hint of movement from anywhere else. He'd not harmed anyone who smelled like they belonged here, but that didn't mean reinforcements wouldn't suddenly appear.

If the witch didn't recover her wits soon enough she'd have to be seen to as well. "They are, as of when I last left off observing them. Foolish youthful discretions are taking place, but they are not lethal." One's running around getting involved in the vandalizing and the other .. may have made a new vampirish friend. 'Friend'. "They will be shocked at this, I think. Perhaps angry they were not here to aid you."

Jadis emerges from some whirling internal pit with an inarticulate mutter to the effect of "I won't-" She raises her head, blinking furiously, and touches her left hand to her right forearm, which is about equivalent to reaching for a holster. Clearly she's had various degrees of facial bleeding - bitten lip, drying blood at both nostrils, some tint in her tears - which just blends right in, really. It's stopped for now.

The brothers - brothers!? - are here and Roberte is doing something very stupid and she should try and catch up but there's something she has to do first. Jadis heaves herself to her feet, stumbles towards the servants' stairs, and catches herself on the desk which, somehow, is still standing, if far worse for wear. She glowers at the mess she'd made. The pile of ash and crumbling bones with a low flame still clinging to them, barely identifiable as canid. "Bare-ass idiot," she hisses. "If you were so glad for my help you should have said no and gone anywhere else tonight! Better yet you could have warned me! I would have protected you! But no, you couldn't decide if you were actually grateful and am I supposed to be happy it let me kill you? What would your sister say? Now you can ask her yourself because you're both dead."

Anger is rare for her - she feels it, she just only expresses the fear or hurt that usually comes with it - so this low-voiced outburst is clumsy and leaves her panting. 'Bare-ass', meaning venereal disease so bad there's no pubic hair, is also, in this time and place, extremely strong language by the standards of anyone who is not a soldier. Supporting herself on the desk she turns.

Without Polaris she feels the influence of the night heron (if he insists on his actual name she'll try but she will get it wrong sometimes) unshielded. On the other hand, she's had a rough night and her adrenal system can only provide so much more terror without more prompting than him squatting there, dripping fresh gore into the mess that's spread everywhere now, beautiful in his awful way.

"I'm sorry," she manages, trying to use the unaccustomed anger to keep back the exhaustion without letting it in her voice. "I - Roberte. What are you doing."

"A cloak," he says, thoughtfully. Something prods at him, a ghost of a memory of a dream. A wolf's pelt across a man's shoulders. Beloved. Betrayer. As he grasps for it, it turns to mist. "...perhaps."

He sighs with relief, and nods at the Night Haunter's update. "I had expected that much. Sigwulf told me outright that he was going to the Masquerade." He smiles faintly. "Impressed me lately, that boy. I won't be surprised if Sigrid's done the same, or if she's just running with the other pups." He hrmphs, and sits back, giving himself a minute to stretch his back and to try, once more, to test his damaged hand.

"They shall. And the rest of the household. We'll have to gather the dead in the courtyard once this is done. Identify those we can. Announce the attempt in the morning, and those who wish to claim their traitors may do so to my face." He clicks his teeth together, thinking, thinking. "How to proceed will depend on the identities of the perpetrators. If this fool was the only head of house, that's one thing. If there were others..."

At Jadis's voice, Roberte perks up, abandoning his contemplations and his work on the idiot's stupid hide to sit back, twisting his head to look over at her.

"Jadis." Beneath the blood, and even with the vicious light in his eyes, he is pleased, relieved. "I'm making a statement. How are you feeling?"

Jadis is watched as she suddenly lurches to her feet, but Curze doesn't interrupt. She's moving .. .alright, for someone injured, nothing telling him she's likely to bleed out or lapse into a coma that isn't psyker-related. He was no medic. He knew how to take care of his own injuries, for what minimal care those tended to require, but someone else's? A mortal's? The principle was there, an innate knowledge, but no real experience. "From what I could tell, without disguising himself either. Forcing your foes to acknowledge him when they cannot move against him is a clever move." Sigrid he didn't know the scent of, couldn't tell where she was. But she should have been there.

The bridge that would end this Story was in theory to begin tonight. Would it still, with this mayhem?

"Information easily gained from these. Perhaps not that one." A gesture to the charred corpse; that one might not be good for much.

The grin that crosses his face at Jadis' questioning what Roberte is up to is utterly friendless and full of way too many teeth. What the Lord Wolf is doing seems terribly obvious to him, and Curze surely had nothing to do with this decision.

Jadis remembers, when Roberte looks at her, that her legs are half-bared by the cut apart remnants of her skirts. She flushes and really wants to get behind the desk, but that would call attention to her state. So would trying to pull the ragged new hem lower. She's going to pretend two men can't see her indecency.

It's a good look from her patron though. The malevolent intensity put aside a moment, his pale eyes in a mask of drying blood... he really is kin to the night heron. But there's more warmth in Roberte, for all that he keeps it tucked away. He's so-

-she's staring. Jadis shakes her head and regrets it as her skull protests the sudden movement. "I'll go to my stillroom in a minute. That is such an undertaking for a trophy. If you make that 'statement' the whole city will see us as completely unhinged and barbaric. Can't you take a paw, or his ears? His tail, even, he's the only pack leader with that russet band."

She may be the most regular person present in this regard but it's all relative. Trophies - most of them understated, when compared to a whole pelt - from the bodies of fallen pack leaders are rare and mostly passed down as heirlooms. Far more usual for the loser to survive and surrender a lock of hair, a tuft of fur.

Something she doesn't see with her eyes draws her attention past the vampire. Now that she's encountered SecUnit's drones and her insight has diagrammed them out, they're not really hidden to her. "Why do you have a- never mind." Not a conversation to have right now. She looks at the night heron with visible apprehension and bows her head. "Thank you. I'm sorry I gave insult the last time we spoke. Is there a way I can make it right?"

Not that she gets why he was angry when she asked him not to hurt Sigwulf again - she has a dim awareness that he'd done something, far away, when Sigwulf was a sky person. Jadis assumes it's that she all but told him what to do.

"The point," Curze interrupts, almost gently. Almost. "Is barbarism, humiliation and terror. To make it clear there is no honor in this defeat. There is no respect to a worthy foe on offering. Let them see the price of their cowardice and their crime, and think twice before ever doing it again, knowing their dead will be desecrated and their remains treated as a beast's." His admonishment has no hostility in it, no anger. He outlines it as if it's fact, with a strange calm persuasiveness that makes his chosen methods seem ... somehow perfectly reasonable. "The cost must be unbearably high, or it will reoccur, emboldened by civility when they have given none, and the next time there may not be a decadent party to lure away the young or vulnerable."

He gestures to the corpses with a blood-soaked hand. "Would you be still feeling so nobly inclined to these criminals if it was this pack's pups lying dead? No. I think not. An example made now prevents more from being needed later."

He ran a planet like this. it was in fact super effective up until he left, so much so that the average person genuinely wished him to return.

The price Curze exacts is high, but it .. is effective, if maintained.

His head tilts slightly, to the ever present drone. "It keeps me from killing what I do not wish to." A simple answer. The rest.. making things right, insults given, simply earns a slight, dismissive shake of the head. Not worth apologizing for, and not worth addressing - to him, anyway. His ongoing struggles with his kin are his problem.

Jadis's admonition sends a flash of hurt, then of anger, across Roberte's face.

He opens his mouth to retort, but is beat to it by the Night Haunter. His expression tightens, blue eyes cold as he listens to the great giant of a man talk, and nods. He tries so very hard to be civil and civilized. And most of the time, he succeeds. (...doesn't he?) But there is a vein of darkness that runs through him that agrees with this man. Especially when his family is at stake.

"What they have done is barbaric. No courage. No honour." He takes up the knife again. "I shall return the rest of him, if his family will claim him. But this is mine."

Jadis presses her lips together and keeps herself from a sharp response. There are a lot of points in that little speech that she disagrees with. Among other things, it works so well for the night heron because of what he is, someone who's never had to build a coalition, or make peace that isn't a wasteland, who can't hit the point where people have had enough and have the tables turned on him. That level of brutality only works as well as he's confident of in settings designed for it to work. But it's obvious neither is going to listen, so she may as well save her breath.

Additionally she is herself, at base, from a setting that has a long slow work towards justice and horror-as-deterrent. Of course people shouldn't get to lie about an honorable death, of course there should be examples that sit in the memory of those who'd try something similar and those should be dramatic. So there's a part of her that finds some sense in this. Just. Not to that degree.

She eyes the night heron, really wanting to say What, I wouldn't be cowed into thinking they're right? but she doesn't need the faint flickers in her peripheral vision to tell her that would be fruitless. He won't understand and she is trying not to antagonize him, because someone has to take that kind of position and apparently it's her.

"Don't be surprised by being put at a distance, then," Jadis says at last, with all the dignity she can pull together. Her eyes flick towards something unseeable. "Now the first of our people are coming back and I've work to do. I'll have some remedies for you so you don't get blood fever and will be able to sleep. Whenever that happens."

She's not saying she won't still support him or she doesn't understand or care, and her voice is gentler by the end of that statement than it was at the beginning. There are just places she won't go. Jadis crosses the room, trying very hard not to falter when she has to step into something particularly gruesome; she's not going to pick her way around it and look squeamish. On her way out she remembers a final thing: "And don't shift, your bones need time to set themselves. It will be worse if I have to redo it."

In another reality, Curze's methods aren't painfully effective. In other times and places, instead of learning the only way to get people to live to higher standards is viciously punish lower ones, he was taught compassion and kindness, and did not learn to bring worlds to heel with suffering and terror. That man is much different from the one crouched easily in Roberte's manor, grinning like the cat that ate the canary. He has no doubts about his methods, they've worked flawlessly for well over a century on hundreds of worlds, one mortal's protest over a lifetime of evidence wouldn't do much indeed.

But he's made his point, he's sure of it, and sees no reason to pursue it further. Retribution has been achieved, and what's left of that rival family isn't going to consider doing this again for a long, long time.

"..Mm. She is right about the medicae matters. Infection is a concern, neither human nor wolf mouths are particularly clean." He'll be fine, little was going to get past his immune system, but Roberte? "By the time you must make your show of solidarity and strength, it is best it not be an act. Rest will be important."

Practicality.

The dead werewolf, mostly minus its hide, is considered for a long moment. "If none will touch that, I know a thing or two about leatherworking. It will take.. three or four days to get something workable from it." Unfortunately not through his preferred method of brain tanning, given the mess..

Jadis reprimand stings, and then his pride bites back -- she is his servant, why should it matter? -- and that stings too. But he holds his tongue and his temper, only huffing softly as she takes her leave. (He knows why it matters, doesn't he?) After she is gone, he looks to the Night Haunter, shaking his head.

"She'll come around," he says, in a effort to convince himself. She will.

He looks down at the half-butchered werewolf, at his bloody hands... testing his mettle. But he still feels no guilt for what he is doing. In the depth of his heart, he doesn't feel that he's in the wrong.

"It is tempting. The tanners will be displeased. But I may need to show his hide to his family before it's done." There is a cold calm in the discussion of practicalities. It's comforting. "Your offer, though, is appreciated."

He continues. "I, in turn, would offer you a reward, should you desire." He isn't the type, though, Roberte suspects. "But if you do not, at least know that you may call upon me, should you need anything. That is only right."

"It is often ... uncomfortable for some to realize there is no moral high ground that doesn't empower an opponent, gratuitous force is often what is necessary to preserve order against those who have grown complacent." The still-burning wolf will go out in time, but may burn a hole in the floor. What's left of it is herded bit by bit across the bloodstained floor towards the hearth, where it can burn freely on granite instead of something more flammable. He doesn't need to stand to do it, there's no room to stand here anyway. "It is always the victim that is expected to 'be the bigger person' and 'have higher standards', to shame them into neglecting proportionate retaliation."

A lesson that might only be listened to for the duration of this Story. He knew every single one of his brothers save Mortarion abhorred his methods and reasoning. "..Hm. Well. Keep it salted, and once you are finished rubbing their noses in their mess, I'm sure I'll still be around." Somewhere. If the story's ongoing, he'll be there too.

"I have my reward already. This was a debt to be paid, remember." That's both true and not quite, but it serves his purposes. "As such, I will ask my brother to see to your wounds, and those of your household. Your witch risks damage if she continues to exert herself further."

Curze doesn't think infection is worth playing with. But it's also not an emergency.

It's easy to assume he means another vampire, and that it might not be til sunset that said brother might arrive.

Edited 2026-02-15 21:30 (UTC)

"There should be," Roberte says plainly. "There can be, if those with the strength of will make it so. But there are times that the troublesome elements must be made an example of. The man-eater wolf must be culled for the sake of men and wolves." He taps the back of the loaned blade on Appienne's skinned ribcage. Almost done, now.

"As you say," he acknowledges, though he truly does wish he could offer more and have it accepted. "I am still grateful. As for your brother, if he can secret himself past the gates, just let him not be seen. Or have him move openly, and identify himself as your brother, and he shall be given entry." A familiar sort of wry smile. "So might you, though I expect you shall make your own way instead."

Curze's smile is brief and bitter. "Often I have heard others say something similar. But I have never seen life work the way it 'should', if all were fair and equal. And so we do what we must, so others do not have to." Including killing and skinning rival pack leaders, it seems.

There's no doubt in his mind Sigrid and Sigwulf would have been targets if they were there, as well. Leave even one wolf alive..

"Avoiding being seen isn't much his style, but I'll advise him all the same. He favors red, I imagine he'll be difficult to miss." What name is Magnus currently using? He hadn't bothered to find out. How troublesome. "I will draw too much attention, I think. It is better for the perceived strength of your pack if this.." He waves one bloodsoaked hand at the corpses - and surely more out of sight. "..is seen as self defense, and not the interference of an outsider."

When he rises, it's never quite straightening up, well used to moving in spaces not made for him. "Nothing lives in these walls save those which carry the scent of the house. If any linger outside, they will not for long." He is, apparently, fully intending on making sure of it.

"So that others do not have to," he agrees solemnly.

The worst case scenario of his children, his children being harmed, is in the forefront of his mind as well -- will be, until this is all resolved to his satisfaction -- and were it to come about, he would burn Montica to the ground himself. God willing, it won't come to that.

"Red. I shall watch for him." He cuts the last bits of tough flesh with the Haunter's knife, as he watches him rise. It may be the finest knife he's ever used. But it is not his. He wipes it off on his thigh, and offers it back to the man, hilt-first. "Good moon and good hunting, Night Haunter. Be safe and be well."

He really should take the knife back.

It's just a story. He'll get it back eventually. "You may keep it for now. I doubt there's much else in this 'city' which can match adamantium. Put it to use."

He had others, if it came to it. He could get a skin off a man as well with his nails or a broken piece of glass, a knife was a luxury he didn't require. "I'll be watching."

With that pseudo-reassuring statement, Curze heads for the window. Between one step and the next, ten feet of too-pale primarch becomes an oversized but much more maneuverable indoors bat that hops easily up onto the open window's sill and then right out it.

He's still not good at flying, he's only been at it a single night. But he's catching on quick.

"If you're certain --"

But the Night Haunter is already moving to leave before he finishes his sentence, and Roberte is getting enough of a feel on the man's mind that he knows pursuit would be futile. He chuffs softly, in frustration, and flips his grip on the fine blade. If the man insists that he holds on to it for now, so be it. When it must be relinquished, it will be.

"Be well," he says to the open window, in an echo of sentiment. He shall accept the Night Haunter's gifts, and use them as intended. Of there is a chance to thank him later, he promises himself, he will.

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do you bare your fangs at us, sir? MOONLIT RIVALS LOG 2, SCENE 2

In Town

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