1 The Request

Alone, Arwyn enters the tavern – Illy decided to stay in the stable with the horses; she has never gotten used to humans. The tavern's upstairs provides rooms for the weary traveler and the accommodations are just as shoddy as the entire building's appearance. Making his way to the keeper, Arwyn dodges stray patrons and various furnishings. This time of night, the majority of patrons have made their way to their homes and all that remains are the too drunk to move or those up to no good. Arwyn takes notice of them and their weapons but concludes they are no threat.

Arwyn's heavy midnight cloak opens slightly with each step revealing only glimpses of his small, agile and athletic build completely adorned with tribal and ritual markings, several of them carved into his body. His hood covers the majority of his face causing a shadow to hide the rest. Despite being tightly bound, each step generates a small clanking sound from the twin swords crossed on his back. It doesn't take long for Arwyn to make it to the counter and loiter while the innkeeper ignores his presence. A swine of a man, the innkeeper, seems to take unusual care in the sharpening of his knife. He smells as if he has not bathed in weeks—that he most likely has not—and dirty mop-like hair tops the pungent man's head, thin and stringy.

Arwyn can barely stomach him and silently debates whether to separate his head from his body or not, just for being repulsive.

"Six silver pieces per night," the swine sneers, finally, without even glancing up from his sharpening, "or two gold." He laughs a condescending chuckle at his own private joke. The repulsive man's humor doesn't amuse Arwyn. He simply, and deliberately, places a satchel of coins on the counter where the soft clinking of the coins sounds loud enough to wake the dead. The sound catches the innkeeper's attention and he quickly snatches the bag, biting each one to check its authenticity. Satisfied they are real, the man lumbers to the back wall where he deposits the coins into a lockbox.

"Up the stairs, last door on the right," he tells Arwyn, without turning around, pointing to the back of the tavern at the hole in the wall with stairs growing in it. Arwyn nods his head slightly and turns to leave, but comes face-to-face with the tip of a short sword. The miscreant on the other end of the blade smiles crookedly, with broken and missing teeth. He flimsily swipes at the air, his wrist limp while holding the sword in front of Arwyn's face. Arwyn remains calm in front of the dangerous weapon, almost bored with the display and theatrics the novice is displaying.

"I'll be takin' your coins," the bandit hisses, "if you don't mind." His smile grows wider, but when Arwyn makes no movement to comply it falters.

Arwyn soon realizes that the patrons are also part of this bandit's group as they awaken from their stupor and slide steel from their scabbards. The night air and near-empty room make the metal scrapping across metal a pitched whine that pierces through the rafters. The innkeeper chuckles as he walks away, allowing the injustice to continue, commenting to himself, "I got what I want."

Arwyn assesses the threat of the four men surrounding him. They clearly have no formal training and definitely no skill. He can tell by how each person is holding their weapon – gripping them either too tight or not tight enough. Years of training, the knowledge he was born with, and dedicated practice make his assessment easier.

It would be too easy to dispatch these bumblers and be on his way, but doing so would cause more trouble than he's willing to afford. Arwyn ignores his aggressor and takes a step to leave, but again the blade blocks his path.

"It would serve you well to let me pass, deviant," Arwyn says calmly never looking anywhere but straight ahead.

The deviant's smile disappears completely.

"And what if we don't listen to you?" the bandit asks with no small amount of sarcasm. He obviously has no idea who it is in front of him. Arwyn looks forward to showing him.

A sadistic smile twists Arwyn's face under his hood and small tendrils of smoke roll out the top. His eyes start glowing with the embers of desire. There is no denying the look of blood-lust etched on his face and burning in the red coals of his eyes.

"Shall I show you?" Arwyn asks.

The miscreant lets out a small, nervous laugh. He looks around at his companions confused about why the person at the other end of his blade is not afraid of them. After figuring something out in his head, the miscreant presses his sword against Arwyn, in the soft spot between the neck and rib cage. Small droplets of blood start to follow the sharp edge of the blade as the bandit presses harder into the flesh. Arwyn remains emotionless and reserved, which only seems to make the thief even angrier.

The would-be robber addresses his friends with a nervous laugh, "he's so scared he can't even move." The other three men laugh loudly but grip their swords even tighter as they do so. They seem edgy and scared, with good reason. Arwyn surmises that these thugs are not used to having someone like him in front of them – someone commanding, calm, collected, and emotionless.

Arwyn pinches the blade at the tip and easily moves it away from him with little effort. A simple flick of his wrist and the wide-eyed bandit watches as the steel wiggles out of his hands.

"Let me show you how to use this," Arwyn explains, his brutal smirk turning into a murderous smile. Another flick of his wrist and he flips the sword in a half circle, catching the hilt in his outstretched hand. Lightning seems to flash from the sword as he cuts through the bandit's midsection without a second thought. Entrails spill from the wound but barely hit the floor before Arwyn splits another attacker with his blade.

With a smooth spinning transition from slash to stab, Arwyn pierces the belly of an outlaw trying to sneak behind him. He kicks the gagging and shocked corpse off the blade and the body collapses to the floor in blood and whimpers. The final mugger tries to take advantage of the momentary loss of momentum in Arwyn's combo and attacks with a savage yell. Arwyn's cloak spreads like wings behind him as he spins and drops the sword he was holding in favor of the adorned twin blades on his back. He quickly slides both blades from their sheaths without missing a step. Swinging them over his head, he cross-slashes them through the final attacker as he rushes.

For a second the attacker stands there as if confused that nothing happened. "Were the blades fake?" he has time to think before the wounds slowly open and trickle drops of blood across his face and through his shoulders. The wounds open more, with a sickening suction sound, as he starts to fall to the ground. Before he hits the floor, the mugger's body collapses in on itself by quarters. Gravity viciously tearing him apart leaving him a heap of flesh and viscera.

He never loses the ruthless glow of his eyes and the vicious smile on his face.

Arwyn studies his blades for a second, lost in lust for the crimson liquid coating them. Placing them together, he drags his tongue across the gore, tasting the sweetly bitter metallic taste. The ecstasy of the elixir flowing down his gullet causes his eyes to roll to the back of his head and an animalistic groan of delight reverberates from his chest. Despite the disturbing images flashing in his mind of past deeds the blood-owner had committed, the flavor is more than enough to compensate for it.

His blades now clean, he sheathes them at his back and leaves the tavern for the stables, navigating over the aftermath as he does so.

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Illy prefers animals to humans. Horses are loyal and gentle; humans have been nothing but cruel and unkind to her. When Illy and Arwyn went on their first request when they were 14, the locals of a town they were passing through attacked her. She has never fully trusted humans again. The faces of the townsfolk as they pelted her with rocks and shouted curses at her were frightening. They called her monster, even though she was able to see their horns clearly.

She told them to stop, but they just continued. She tried hard to control herself and, in the end, Arwyn had to save her – again.

Why is it humans only respond to violence?

Members of Illy and Arwyn's race are easily recognizable with their white skin, so white the black hair is a sharp contrast. Their eyes are black with no whites. The males have a ball of crimson dying embers for irises. They have strikingly beautiful faces; are commanding in their presence, and are extremely deadly with any weapon. The males are the fighters, but the females can be equally as terrifying.

Because of their amazing proficiency with weapons, their people are often requested for many things; Bodyguards for high-ranking officials, the assassination of rivals, commanders of armies, or entire platoons for battles. There is even more than a few marriage proposals thrown in, though those are completely ignored. Most requests are declined by the same messenger the requester sends, but there are a few requests that require a face to face explanation. It's more a courtesy than anything.

Despite their skills and nature, or perhaps because of them, the Abitanti Ombra refuse all requests for war. Their skills have always been for the protection of their sacred treasures nothing else.

As if sensing Illy's melancholy, the mare nudges her with her nose. Illy smiles as she gently persuades the horse away.

"Okay, Knyt, okay," Illy laughs wrapping her arms around the beast's neck and nuzzling her mane. Raze—Arwyn's stallion and Knyt's mate—comforts Illy as he stands behind her, leaning down to caress' her hair with his nose. Illy giggles into Knyt's mane and pats Raze, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

"Sorry, Raze, Knyt's with me right now," Illy teases intensifying the hug slightly. The stallion snorts in frustration and starts trying to push Illy away. She laughs as she fights the horse's attempts.

"I think you enjoy my horse's company more than my own, Amica Mea." Illy squeals softly as she jumps up and into Arwyn's arms. Arwyn accommodates her by wrapping his arms around her in a strong embrace. She doesn't hesitate for a second to press her lips to his, her nostrils filling with the strong aroma of blood. He always has blood on him somewhere. The smell is intoxicating, arousing, and she risks deepening the embrace by exploring his teeth with her tongue. She shouldn't attack him right now; battle lust still fills him and he could unintentionally kill her.

The females of their race are sacred creatures, almost worshipped by the males, but the males are trained from birth to be warriors, killers, and protectors. Nothing is taboo in their pursuit of protection, but accidents happen and when they do it means death for both.

They stay in their own little world until one of the horses whines loudly.

"Did you something back for me?" she inquires after the embrace, mostly out of breath and licking her lips for the last bits of transferred gore. He smiles at her obvious excitement but shakes his head.

"Sorry, it was a fast thing and they were anything but pure," Arwyn answers. Illy's face falls. "Trust me, my beloved, they would have stained you." She nods her head not looking up from the ground. Her voice breaks as she speaks. Arwyn pulls her into his chest and gently strokes her hair—which reaches to her mid back.

"I'm just so hungry," she whines. Arwyn gently pushes her to arm's length.

"Look me in the eyes," Arwyn says as he searches for them with his. She dodges his attempts, staring at the ground, at the wall, at the rock between his legs, anything to keep from looking up as she shakes her head 'no'.

"I can't do that to you," she refuses. "You already provide more than enough to survive and function, taking any more from you could be dangerous." Arwyn stares at her for a moment until finally dropping his gaze and nodding his acknowledgment.

"I just worry about you and wish to care for you," his eyes reflecting his sympathy. "If that means giving you a bigger piece of me then I have already given, so be it." Illy lifts on her toes, pushing into Arwyn tighter. She looks at him, not his eyes, but his mouth as she wraps her arms around his neck. Sighing at his touch and words, Illy places their foreheads together.

"I love you for exactly the reason you want me to look you in the eyes. You know full well why I can't," she explains. Arwyn stares at her mouth, without uttering a word, as she talks. "The pull would be irresistible."

Arwyn smiles at her wording and her mouth twitches into a playful grin.

"I'm the only one in the village who can resist your pull. That's why you picked me," he teases. Illy's grin grows more mischievous and she runs her tongue expectantly across her lips. Arwyn watches her display with interest and growls in his chest. His animalistic groan, mixed with the already arousing smell of blood, sends Illy into heat. Arwyn grinds his teeth together when her arousal permeates his nostrils.

"Come, let's go to the room. It'll be a proper bedding for you tonight," he announces and guides her gently toward the inn. Illy laughs at his obvious need for haste and tucks herself into his side.

"Promise?" Her seductive question causes Arwyn to release a growl, which makes Illy laugh at him. She waves to the horses as he quickens their steps.

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Arwyn grumbles loudly as someone pounds on the door to their room early the next morning. Illy smiles to herself at his annoyance. The person on the other side of the door grows more insistent as Arwyn continues to try to ignore whoever it is. Finally, after unsuccessfully trying to ignore the knocking by burying his face into Illy's neck, Arwyn growls loudly as he pushes out of bed and makes his way to open the door, grabbing one of his swords as he goes.

Illy props herself up against the wall and covers her naked body with the bedding as Arwyn opens the door wide. The three soldiers recoil slightly at the sudden movement, but they turn white when they see that Arwyn is completely and unashamedly naked in front of them. The two subordinates in the back try to look busy studying the rafters and walls while the captain in front clears his throat trying to regain some composure. Illy suppresses her smile in front of the strangers despite how much she wants to laugh at their reactions. Arwyn stares at them waiting for them to finish their foolishness, showing no hint of emotion or amusement.

Arwyn turns slightly, allowing the soldier's room to enter and they loudly make their way around him. The captain is young, maybe just a little older than Arwyn and Illy, though the juniors are younger. The captain takes an immediate interest in Illy and her obvious bare state. Illy pulls more coverings on herself in an attempt to feel less exposed but never lets the emotion play on her face. Emotion is a weakness you only show your family and these soldiers are far from her family. A smirk, dripping with malice and lust, slowly plays with the captain's lips. Illy doesn't even need to be a clairvoyant to know what he's thinking.

"I was not aware we needed an escort," Arwyn spits out. The captain's leer lingers for a moment longer, a tongue sliding across his lips before he turns to face Arwyn with a look of professional distance. When she thinks no one is looking, Illy shutters silently and rolls her eyes at the captain's vain attempt to act innocent.

Like Arwyn doesn't know what's going on with you, she thinks.

"My name is Caden Garret, Captain of the Guard, we have been sent by the prince to make sure you get to your audience without incident," the captain risks a quick side-glance at Illy. "The prince is looking forward to talking to you and would hate to hear of something happening on your way to do so." Arwyn's eyebrow rises slightly at his explanation.

"That is certainly nice of him to do that for us," Arwyn glances at Illy in amusement that only she can see, "isn't that right Illy?"

"Yes, Princeps, very nice," Illy answers with the highest amount of respect and the least amount of sarcasm in her voice and a slight bow of her head. They're in public now, she has to act accordingly. Caden smirks, not even trying to hide it from Arwyn this time. The look in his eyes as he leers at Illy makes her skin crawl.

"Very nice," Garret says loud enough for everyone to hear. Arwyn's eyes narrow and one of the juniors lets out a shocked breath. A brief, awkward, moment passes before the group moves again. The captain clears his throat with a cough and turns to Arwyn.

"We'll wait downstairs while you prepare," Garret says. The soldiers make their way through the door and Arwyn gives them a nod to let them know he acknowledges. Just before the captain steps out of the room, Arwyn grabs him, twirls him around, and holds him in the air. Smashing him against the wall by his throat, the dying embers in his eyes glow brighter as he leans into his captive.

"Don't ever look at my wife like that again, Centurio," Arwyn scolds with fire slowly building, smoke wafting from his gaze. Arwyn slowly tightens the hold on Garret's throat as the captain starts thrashing to get out of his grip. No air escapes Arwyn's grasp, and Garret's face turns blue. Arwyn gives a small laugh before letting Garret fall to the ground with a loud thump.

Massaging his neck, Garret gasps for breath and spews curses. Arwyn ignores him as he goes about getting dressed, taking a sadistic pleasure in the captain's agony. Garret's juniors watch silently, cautiously eyeing Arwyn, as they wait for their captain.

"Run along now, back to your little prince, and tell him we will be there shortly," Arwyn says crouching in front of him. Garret slowly gets to his feet with malice filling his glare; Arwyn wears an amused grin because of it. The juniors follow their captain out without a single look back.

Arwyn slams the door behind them and lets out a purging breath of air.

Illy smiles at him as she extradites herself from the bed and wraps her bare body around the man she loves. Arwyn reciprocates the gesture.

"I really appreciate you standing up for me all the time, but eventually I'll have to be able to do it myself," Illy tells him with a smile. Arwyn huffs and then runs a hand through his hair.

"I know, I just get this urge to protect you," he admits, "and the way he was looking at you, he's lucky I didn't remove his eyeballs and make him watch me crush his windpipe." Illy giggles at the visual. Arwyn smiles at her laugh and pulls her tighter into his body. She reaches up on her toes and kisses him chastely on the lips before stepping out of his embrace.

"Go finish and let me get dressed so we can get this over with," Illy orders with a slap on his ass. Arwyn laughs to himself as he watches her start to get dressed.

Hours pass before they make it to their audience with the prince. The town is tightly packed together as if everyone is trying to get as close to the prince's castle as they can. Arwyn and Illy's room and horses are in the furthest most outskirts. There are several ring-shaped moats that cut the town into sections and also act as barriers for a possible attack. Each section of the town houses different social classes, going higher in rank the closer they are to the castle. The poor – in the outskirts, near their room – have hardly more than tents to live in, while the rich have built multi-room mansions encased in colors, precious metals, and flora.

Such a vast contrast between the two classes is something a true ruler should never allow to happen.

Though they both know what the prince is most likely going to request of them, the elders make it a point to answer all requests of this type in person. Lately, Arwyn has been getting the short end of the stick when it comes to requests.

It must be because his 18th birthday is coming up and with it the chiefdom. Either the elders are trying to get him killed – likely – or they're trying to prepare him for the great responsibility he'll be inheriting – more likely.

"State your business," the young guard demands when they finally make it to the Barbican after maneuvering through the massive crowd trying to gain an audience with the prince. Many of the patrons start arguing that they were there first and how it's not fair, Arwyn ignores them and Illy keeps her head down as she sticks close to his back. The guard starts to lose patience with the crowd and unsheathes his blade in a show of force that quickly brings the complainers under control.

Arwyn looks around at the crowd and then lowers his hood. The guard stutters a step, startled by the motion, as gasps erupt from the crowd. Screams accompany the closest people as they push and force themselves through those behind them in an attempt to get away from Arwyn and Illy. Soon it's only the guard with them as the crowd rings them at a respectable distance.

"We are Arwyn and Illy Nex of the Abitanti Ombra," Arwyn speaks with authority and everyone in earshot cringes out of fear. The guards in the guardhouse – behind the Barbican – cautiously aim their bows through the loopholes in the walls. Some of the soldiers approach through the Barbican from the inner ward, swords drawn and at the ready.

Arwyn's blood starts to boil and his embers start to the glow as his crookedly entertained smile appears on his face.

"This is quite the welcoming committee. Is your prince always so nice by giving all his guests toys to play with?" Arwyn reaches behind him as he speaks, wrapping his fingers around the hilts of his swords. The soldier's weapons start to shake and a few of them start a slow retreat.

Illy places her hand on his and motions behind the soldiers in an effort to stop Arwyn. A nicely dressed man calmly walks through the platoon of soldiers on his way to them. He wears a crooked little smile as he comes to a stop and bows low.

"My name is Gradius Gall, head advisor to the prince. I am to escort you to your room and inform you that dinner will be in a few hours. The prince wishes for the audience to start following the dinner," he spills out, still in his bow. Illy releases Arwyn's hand and stretches out to get closer to his ear.

"I don't like this. He's not human," she whispers to his surprise, "his eyes have no anima in them." Arwyn looks at the manservant as he slowly rises from his bow. His dark eyes and wicked grin cement Illy's fears. Arwyn pats her hand, smiles slightly at her, and nods his head that he understands.

"Is this how you greet all your invited guests?" Arwyn indicates the soldier's still at the ready. Gradius looks around at the armed group.

"We were informed by our Captain of the Guard that this is a minimum requirement when greeting you. He suffered a fair bit of injury to his neck when he met you earlier."

"A precaution?"

"If you will." Arwyn looks around and takes note that the soldiers they sent are fresh recruits. Little more than boys with sticks.

Intertwining his fingers in Illy's, he gently drags her even with him and motions for Gradius to lead the way. The armed guards neither bother nor threaten Arwyn as they follow the advisor through the Barbican and into the inner ward.

The inner ward separates the curtain wall and the inner defense wall. It's nothing more than dirt and sand. No trees, flowers, or even grass. Arwyn takes notice of the area almost by instinct, constantly on alert. The stables are on the far wall near the other entrance. At a quick glance, he estimates about 100 horses. Without knowing the make-up of the army the prince employs, Arwyn goes by his general knowledge and guesses that there are about 100 men for every horsed commander. Roughly 10,000 strong army, not a small enough number to make an enemy.

A few hundred of the soldiers are training on one side of the inner ward and, though rough in some areas, Arwyn can tell the skill in their commanders. Their training is precise and harsh. There isn't one trainee that doesn't look on the verge of collapsing but they continue to follow instructions without complaint.

Gradius continues to lead them further into the inner ward toward the entrance through the inner defense wall. Stepping through the gate is like stepping into another world. Where the inner ward is all about desolation and harsh life the inner sanctum of the castle – that houses the keep and actual living quarters for the prince and his servants – is about life and color. The road, which is wide enough to fit a horse and carriage with room to spare, is lined with flower bushes and trees that form a canopy above it. There's a fountain in the center of a small island in front of the door. The courtyard on either side of the road is a vast display of finely manicured grass and flower gardens. Not quite as big as the inner ward on the other side of the wall, but easily able to hold a few hundred soldiers if in need of them.

The dwelling itself is also something to behold. The keep is a tall cylindrical tower surrounded by various buildings. Though the keep is the tallest thing here the other buildings have from four to six stories, there are a few more towers taller than the buildings but not as tall as the keep. Every window is stained glass; alternating banners depict the prince's coat of arms – a raptor holding a shield flanked by twin dragons. The shield displays his brother's crests in it and the family motto lines the bottom: Modo vivant in aeternum fortibus.

Gradius leads them through a grand hallway lined with paintings of great men accomplishing valiant deeds. They take a large staircase up several flights before reaching another grand hallway with windows on one side and rooms on the other. Copious amounts of crimson silk line the massive windows that overlook the inner ward, Arwyn notes that he had underestimated the amount of soldiers training. There at least twice as many he originally thought, possibly even more.

Stopping in front of a set of massive doors, Gradius motions them inside. He pushes the doors open and Arwyn follows an awestruck Illy into the room. Gradius once again informs that dinner will be in a few hours and someone will be by soon to lead them to the dining hall before closing the door behind him. Illy swings around, fascination on her eyes, and runs to Arwyn, throwing herself into his embrace.

"This room is bigger than ours and my parents' huts in the village combined," she points out. Arwyn takes a quick evaluation and smiles at her.

"It seems that being of royalty has some perks," he says.

Not long after they finished exploring the room, and the bed, a soft knock comes from the hallway. Arwyn answers the door as Illy sits down and remains quiet. The orderly seems nervous and stutters his words.

"The P-P-Prince beg-g-gs your audi-ence in the di-i-i-ining hall." Illy feels sorry for the poor kid, he can't be much older than 11 or 12, but keeps her thoughts to herself as she follows Arwyn and the orderly through the hall.

The dining hall is as impressive as the size of the room. The vaulted ceiling holds giant hanging chandeliers and arched rafters. The table, in the middle of the room, looks closer to a giant tree stump, but it's polished to a shine. Its legs are rooted in the floor as if the table grew from it and it's completely covered with decoratively carved animals and shapes. The entire table, which could fit 40 diners with room to spare, is full of guests. Illy immediately starts to get a bad feeling about this meeting. Arwyn tried to calm her fears by gently guiding her to the seat next to the prince, with his hand on her back. The gesture is enough to make her feel safer about the meeting, but not nearly enough to expel the feeling of dread.

"There they are!" the prince announces loudly with his arms out in welcome. Illy recoils slightly at the outburst but hides it behind an unemotional face.

The prince is young but accomplished and his eyes display wisdom beyond his years. He's a wearing a simple leather vest with a minimal of jewelry adorning his person. One piece of jewelry, a chained medallion, hangs from his neck. Illy takes a special interest in it as it brings an interesting and fearful emotion to the surface.

Danger.

Prince Lekon Adway is the youngest of the four princes born to His Majesty Brayf Adway. His Majesty was a tough sovereign, but fair and well loved. His death left a vacancy in the world that violence and war have filled. He neglected to name a successor and now the four heirs are in a race to kill each other in order to claim their father's throne. The oldest and youngest have already merged the middle children's territories respectively. Now they're both stuck in a stalemate; their armies have gained no ground in over a year.

Prince Veloth Adway has already been declined their aid and now it's Lekon's turn.

"Come, come, sit and eat," Lekon motions to the chairs next to him, "I had a special feast prepared for you." Illy and Arwyn reluctantly take their seats and immediately servers start swarming the table with covered plates and drinks. A server places a dish in front of Arwyn but leaves Illy's seating empty. Once everyone is served, the servers remove the covers.

A few patrons lose their stomach on the floor as they all take in the meal in front of Arwyn. The collective gasp is ear shattering in the pin drop silence of the hall. Adway smiles proudly at the meal. Illy isn't able to hide her shock and horror and Arwyn's anger is clear across his face.

"Was this a foul attempt at a joke, Celsitudo?" Arwyn's turns his rage-filled glare at the young leader. Lekon looks surprised at his reaction and a little saddened that it wasn't received as well he thought it would.

"But I heard that human is considered a delicacy in your culture," Adway answers innocently.

Indeed at one-time humans were considered a delicacy, but the Elders forbid the practice, unless under extreme circumstances, a long time ago. There is not one man nor child in Arwyn's tribe that knows the taste of human flesh, nor are there any that would easily decide to feast on it.

Even if the meal is presented as tastily as this one is.

Yet here Arwyn sits facing a pile of entrails and organs. The torso, obviously female, is untouched except where someone removed the limbs. The head is conveniently devoid of the top of her skull for easy trespass to the gooey mass inside. The limbs placed, as best as possible, in a fashion to make the whole ensemble more appealing. The chef, the butcher, went without any special garnishments, just covering the pile of meat with the blood that most likely leaked, splattered, and dripped from her as they cut her apart.

Based on the color, the victim was alive when they started carving her up.

Arwyn licks his lips without thinking as he continues to stare at the savory plate.

Illy notices a small body standing between her and Arwyn. The little girl, no more than nine or 10, dressed in a tattered sheet, continues to stare at Illy when not looking at the gore on the table. Illy finally turns slightly to face the little intruder, some of her horror and shock fading away now that there is something else to focus on.

"Can I help you, Little One?" Illy asks softly in her nicest voice. The young child shakes her head but continues to stare. Illy starts to get an uncomfortable feeling from the scrutiny of her gaze. She scoots herself further onto the chair and a startled squeak whistles from the little girl.

"Tell me why you're here, puella," Illy demands. The little girl looks into Illy's eyes and the hunger that's constantly churning inside her growls in anticipation. The world slowly grows dark, save the gentle bluish white light covering the girl in front of her. Illy wills the hunger to remain at bay but is unable to remove her gaze from the frail little thing. Need courses through her veins and she violently grips the girl's arms preventing her from escaping. The dark cloud filters out all noise and the little morsel becomes more delectable as the bluish light grows whiter. Illy slowly leans into her captive, never losing her eye contact, her eyes a solid inky black and shiny at the right angle.

The girl's eyes roll so far into the back of her head the whites turn red with blood.

Come and nourish me pure white essence of life.

A hand covers Illy's eyes, breaking her eye contact before she's able to give into the hunger fully and completely lose herself in the need. The craving fights the intrusion and Arwyn tightens his grip on both her eyes and body as she tries to wiggle free from his grasp. The inhuman screeches send shivers through the crowd and the ones closest to the couple fall to the ground, paralyzed. The language is incomprehensible to human ears, but the insults spewing from her mouth lash Arwyn like he's being whipped.

The pale little girl collapses into a heap on the floor, the glow in her eyes fading fast. She will live, but never see again and will never forget the creature that nearly ripped the life out of her. She's shaking uncontrollably when an older woman rushes to her aid.

"The seizures will pass and she will be fine," Arwyn informs her, "though she will never be able to see again. I am sorry for this." Arwyn bows at the waist still holding the significantly calmer Illy in his arms. The older woman shoots him a glare, but quickly lowers it when she sees the guilt on his face. She holds the girl protectively in her arms and Arwyn knows without a doubt this is the girl's mother. A twinge of regret and envy for the one thing he never got from his real parents shoots through him, but he quickly shakes it off.

Illy draws Arwyn's attention when a soft sob escapes her throat. Tears wet the inside of his hand and he slowly releases her. She forgets her training to remain unemotional as she buries her face into Arwyn's chest and cries quietly.

"Did I change?" she whispers. Arwyn shakes his head.

"No, I was able to intervene in time." Illy nods her head. Arwyn squeezes her tighter into his embrace as the rage of the evening's events starts to build. Embers start to smolder and he turns to face the orchestrator, the young Prince Lekon Adway.

"I know what it is you wish to request of my people and there is not a single thing on the earth that will make us become your sacrifices on the battlefield." A slow evil smile creeps across the prince's face. The look is as much of a threat as words would be at this moment.

The young prince doesn't know that the Abitanti Ombra do not take kindly to threats.

"Timeo salus populi mei," Arwyn finishes his speech. Lekon starts laughing a big menacing laugh that fills the room with nervous energy.

"Your mistake, Princeps, is thinking it's a request," Adway growls.