Itchy.
The bound Miqo'te struck the floor with the heel his boot, half believing he would cast the awful sensation away. But like a leech, it lingered, unimpressed, carrying on with its slow and lazy feast. Kahn'a could not help but wonder if that was what the victims of his hunts felt as their flesh were exposed, deprived of their smooth coil. He also wondered what was to happen to the little stripes of him he was leaving behind. With a disturbed interest, he had looked at them. Such a waste, he had thought, the harvest had been performed by a novice hand, and thus was no durable material to be created out of such an ugly dejection.
So itchy.
Roughly shoved into a uniform, and cotton applied on where the flesh was most exposed, Kahn'a was being lead to believe that fortune had finally chosen to grace him. All he could really do was believe indeed, not a soul had pronounced a word since the mistress of the domain had turned away and left. Along the corridor he was taking, he stumbled. He nary had space to take balanced steps, his escort was tight. And soon enough, he could taste the burnt air of Thalanan, and like a warm embrace, Kahn'a welcomed it. His senses were timidly coming back to him, they had crawled deep into his being, as if seeking shelter.
A sniff of the air taught him what he needed to know, a look with his eyes confirmed and settled that perception into reality. So, the good doctor had been caught too. Before he could linger, the Miqo'te averted his eyes. He felt unsurprised at the pitiful state the Hyur was in. In fact, a tiny part of him was even relieved. Misery loves company, was that how it went? Not entirely. The Keeper was also glad that he had not been stranded once again. That very fear was irrational, and come to think of it, childish even. But like a steel hand it had gripped Kahn'a, trying to squeeze the possibility that in order to save their skin, The Red Wings would leave him and anyone caught behind. He would still be battling with that demon, had it not be for the frustrated look on the soldiers' face. Obviously, something had happened that did not please them.
And soon he understood.
The massive Roegadyn man was towering over them, doing his introductions. There was... something oddly creepy in his behaviour. His words, his detachment. His smooth manners. Was this the face of a man who had seen too many winters donning the same official garb? Has he grown accustomed to that kind of occurrence... that kind of mistake? This was a face that called for many questions, but Kahn'a kept them quiet, before everything, he simply wanted out, and if complying in silence meant he would see his stay shortened, then so be it.
The bound Miqo'te struck the floor with the heel his boot, half believing he would cast the awful sensation away. But like a leech, it lingered, unimpressed, carrying on with its slow and lazy feast. Kahn'a could not help but wonder if that was what the victims of his hunts felt as their flesh were exposed, deprived of their smooth coil. He also wondered what was to happen to the little stripes of him he was leaving behind. With a disturbed interest, he had looked at them. Such a waste, he had thought, the harvest had been performed by a novice hand, and thus was no durable material to be created out of such an ugly dejection.
So itchy.
Roughly shoved into a uniform, and cotton applied on where the flesh was most exposed, Kahn'a was being lead to believe that fortune had finally chosen to grace him. All he could really do was believe indeed, not a soul had pronounced a word since the mistress of the domain had turned away and left. Along the corridor he was taking, he stumbled. He nary had space to take balanced steps, his escort was tight. And soon enough, he could taste the burnt air of Thalanan, and like a warm embrace, Kahn'a welcomed it. His senses were timidly coming back to him, they had crawled deep into his being, as if seeking shelter.
A sniff of the air taught him what he needed to know, a look with his eyes confirmed and settled that perception into reality. So, the good doctor had been caught too. Before he could linger, the Miqo'te averted his eyes. He felt unsurprised at the pitiful state the Hyur was in. In fact, a tiny part of him was even relieved. Misery loves company, was that how it went? Not entirely. The Keeper was also glad that he had not been stranded once again. That very fear was irrational, and come to think of it, childish even. But like a steel hand it had gripped Kahn'a, trying to squeeze the possibility that in order to save their skin, The Red Wings would leave him and anyone caught behind. He would still be battling with that demon, had it not be for the frustrated look on the soldiers' face. Obviously, something had happened that did not please them.
And soon he understood.
The massive Roegadyn man was towering over them, doing his introductions. There was... something oddly creepy in his behaviour. His words, his detachment. His smooth manners. Was this the face of a man who had seen too many winters donning the same official garb? Has he grown accustomed to that kind of occurrence... that kind of mistake? This was a face that called for many questions, but Kahn'a kept them quiet, before everything, he simply wanted out, and if complying in silence meant he would see his stay shortened, then so be it.
