Desreal: to ash;

Aglaeca is feeling particularly unsociable this afternoon; having failed a minor he finds himself more hostile than usual, disappointed in the failure and suffering additionally from the elemental consequences of doing so. He wants nothing to do with any horse from any herd today and makes a point of sticking especially close to the shadows, his black form blending quite well despite the warm summer sunshine, his battle scars flashing now and then when caught by the light.

When he comes across Ash he can feel himself recoil, a slight curl to his lip; he sniffs tentatively and catches the stench of death and destruction. It rouses him, of course it does, because he’s a wicked thing and these smells delight him. This is no warrior, though, recently returned from a bloody battle – the stranger seems frightened, tired. Where could he have come from, to bring such a delicious aroma? Aglaeca can feel his muscles clenching and unclenching – it’s been so long since he’s had a battle, since he’s delivered to his anxious nose these very scents.

He should walk away, because such an aroma stirs his very soul and brings from him the devil itself; his temper flares already and nothing has been done, his teeth grind with that terrible, insatiable hunger. But he can’t pull himself away, and he can’t leave Desreal to go seek out the source, not this day. He has no choice but to approach Ash, his hazel eyes afire with something brooding and violent, but his pace measured; he holds himself in check, keeping his breathing calm. He remind himself that Ash is innocent, and apparently defenseless. He tells himself Ash is a child, because the Indomitus has never harmed a child. He wonders if he can convince himself of this; if it will be enough to hold him steady, like a hungry dog quivering under its owner’s flimsy command.

“Hello, stranger.”