Now I can't tell you apart [open]

F I D E L I A S ! !

Hot summer air swelled beneath his wings; one of a thousand thermals the glaring sunlight gave life to that day, and travel for Fidelias was a matter of nothing more than lazy hopscotch across the sky. The Mistress was cross with him again, this time for a particularly insightful thought in regards to whether or not she would appreciate the addition of some of the highland flowers he'd spotted the day before to the garden of sorts he'd been making. It appeared not. Nonetheless, he had every intention of collecting some that day after he finished investigating the sudden influx of reports of the odd half-creatures skulking around the junkyard.

He ducked into a spiraling dive to soothe the sudden rush of memories and emotions; his last encounter with the deformed monsters of the hospital had gone horrifically bad, his wing and leg still ached from where they had been broken. At least here there was open air for his wings to catch if the monsters were as wild as the others. Far below he could see the glint of metal, and he thought it odd that they'd be in such a place. Water had hurt them in the hospital, to the point his life had been saved by little more than a sheet of falling rainwater, blocking the hallway. This place seemed much more open as he sank downward, though he supposed they could use the metal to build shelters easily enough, and the roof of an odd building nearby looked serviceable.

As Fidelias got closer a splash of unusual color caught his eye, and he banked to approach it. His eyes were razor sharp, but the odd splotches of color threw off his perception frustratingly. Fortunately his nosiness was second only to his density in relation to danger proximity, and so he glided down near the thing and alighted on the roll cage of an ancient Jeep.

This one was an odd creature, to say the least. The colors were distracting, but the frame underneath was at least rather human. But the face... no matter which way he tilted his head, the face -or rather lack thereof-, made no sense. Neither did the way it suddenly struck a wholly unclean looking piece of metal into it's hand, which caused him fluff up in alarm, eyes wide. A moment later he shifted and whistled sharply, a perplexed scowl firmly in place as he pointed at it's hand and made an almost comical face of disgust and disapproval. Keeper monster or otherwise it did not need to be self-destructive around him while he was not actively trying to dismember it, and he knew all too well how infectious their blood was.

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ooc; suuuure she isn't u__u

He gave the creature a look of utter bafflement when it spoke, lip twisting up in a learned expression that bared his teeth as he very seriously considered the possibility that this one was insane. Leaping, frothing, oozing, snarling, and being a general force of mayhem he was accustomed to seeing. But he'd never been called their.. mate? He desperately wanted to insist he had not had such relations with any individual, much less an alarmingly splotchy and self-destructive something. The vastly disapproving scowl he settled upon would have to suffice, he decided. Unless it was proclaiming it's intent.. in which case Fidelias promised himself a prompt airborne escape.

To his infinite relief its attention turned back to the metal stuck through its hand, something he rather agreed with in terms of priorities. This time however he anticipated the coming action and dragged his eyes away to the right a heartbeat before it wrenched the metal free, though he was unable to smother a sympathetic wince. His peripheral vision informed him that the creature itself, though he reckoned he ought to think of it as female after hearing its voice, shared his distaste for the injury and turned her face skyward. He didn't much see how it would help, a puncture that deep would take a week or more to heal in ideal conditions; here with the risk of infection.... he wasn't hopeful for her long-term survival, to say the least. Not that he would have been anyways, all the various shifters in the dome were, to his knowledge, hostile to a one toward the Keepers' monsters.

He started slightly the next time the spoke, head snapping around to eye her suspiciously. The Keepers did not give presents, of all things. Which was why he was downright shocked when she held up her hand, rather conspicuously missing the gaping hole it should have had, to the point he very nearly fell off the Jeep he'd been standing on. He knew the Keepers could do strange things to them, how else would Anita hear his thoughts? But this was a new one, and his curiosity was ravenous. He was already mid-leap to the ground when she started to further explain it, intent on getting a closer look. Of all the abilities he'd seen; mind-speaking, breathing water, unnatural speed and strength, this was by far the best. He understood the need to injure herself now, and bobbed his head in impatient assent. He was cross with himself now for looking away, and he couldn't very well just go and stab her himself and see if she could do it again, though the thought was there. In fact he almost certainly would have, had the next thing she said thrown his current mental pegging of her as one of the Keepers' beasts into doubt.

He knew what a Nazi was, vaguely, from his memories of Harshul's classes, though he'd consider neither them nor the Keepers by any definition a doctor worthy of the title. And the only definition of a doodle he could fathom was of the artistic sort, and he was forced to give her a confused look, brows drawn together and down as he swept his hands open in a helpless gesture. At least the question that followed made rather more sense, and he turned and pointed South, toward Carna and much more relevantly, the mountain range, though it was invisible at this distance from the ground. Though he had very little hope for it, his hands then flashed through the signs for mountain and birds in an attempt to clarify, since even just the Carna was quite the trek from the junkyard. Then he walked closer, eyes roving over her in a curious fashion. She was even stranger up close, he decided, though not as grotesque as he'd first anticipated. The monsters in the hospital had been sickening, the smell along had nearly knocked him out. This one.. well while he certainly wasn't going to let her bite him, she seemed much more tolerable. Perhaps it was a new, better adapted version. A beat later it occurred to him that if she could talk, he could actually try to ask, and his expression brightened for a moment with childlike excitement. He fumbled for a moment with his pocket, and then pulled out a notepad and a black marker. Though excited he forced himself to write clearly, the words large and bold so she would hopefully be able to see it from several paces away, then held it up to her. What are you?

Fidelias was horrified, and it showed. His apparent upset only grew as she continued, until he felt downright sick. So she wasn't one of their monsters at all, not really. He recalled when UNIT had brought him in after the riots, he'd been barely alive. In an odd sense of fortune, it had lead to remarkably few tests being run on him; the bare minimum he assumed. And seeing her now as he shook his head no, he was deeply, desperately glad they had. What if it had been him they trapped between forms? Unable to fly, perhaps, and the thought sent a shiver of ice down his spine as he wondered what she might have lost. He hazarded a guess of quite a bit; she was nearly featureless in terms that he was accustomed to. She perceived him somehow, though he couldn't fathom the method. Some kind of telepathy, maybe, that let her see with her mind rather than speak. He was starting to suspect that anything was possible.

He wasn't sure what a sea slug was, but she could have been an ant for all it mattered, for the Keepers to bastardize their very forms, both of them no less, was nothing short of mutilation in his mind. Hesitantly at first, then more boldly he shrunk their distance by several steps, then paused and scowled as she continued. He could understand fearing or hating her at a glance, she was altogether too similar to the Keeper's monsters for this liking, but she spoke it as though the shifters understood perfectly what had happened to her. And hunting her kind down? His jaw tightened as a slither of anger wound it's way inside him. Had he the voice to he would have slapped down her suggestion that he steer clear to avoid criticism of the shifters; he may not be comfortable with her, but he certainly was not going to act anyway but as he pleased because someone thought he ought to. So instead he waved away her advice with a derisive snort and theatrical, almost childish eyeroll, then wrote once again.

There are more like you? Here? it said, and he gestured broadly with his pen hand at the junkyard. A heartbeat later he scowled slightly and yanked the pad back toward himself and scribbled a few words more, then presented it once again. The single addition, Fidelias, was bold beneath his first questions. To make his intention clear he edged forward once again, this time to within less than a meter, and warily held out his free hand. He was almost completely sure she was not going to bite him, almost, and the high-strung tension of long-tried reflexes showed in his posture.

As his mind busily scrambled for something to think about other than the appropriate wrist-smashing kata should the girl-thing get grabby, a sudden and particularly distinct memory flashed through his mind; a Fallen woman, red-headed and lean, with fluffy animal ears poking out of her hair. He'd not known what to make of them at the time, months ago, but now he wondered if it might not be the same thing on a much lesser scale. If so, why had she been able to live among the Fallen while this one spoke of being hunted and shunned? As it often did a new surge of frustration flushed though him in regards to his lost voice, how difficult it made his many questions.

His immediate thought was that he was enormously grateful that he was not a wolf, else his hackles would have shot up as the too-soft feel of her skin. It reminded him uncomfortably of dead flesh, softened and warmed by the summer sun. He kept the thought firmly to himself, what vanity Persephone had ever possessed had like as not been crippled by the Keepers experiments. Besides, he was not cruel, though perhaps he was a touch macabre at the moment. He laid the blame on the Keepers and their freakish tastes in science with childlike efficiently and finality; he was perfectly uplifting of mind at any average moment.

All the same, he was glad when she let go of his hand and he was able to draw it back against his side. He was grateful too for the information she offered, and he cocked his head as he pondered the implications. The Beastia, then, has been of this like; he knew the story of their near total extermination as well as most, though he'd simply thought them a fourth ring, small and hated. This news put an entirely new perspective on that memory, and the thought that they'd been slaughtered for these.. unnatural deformities both rankled and incensed him. Revulsion suckles fear, he remembered little Harshul telling him, and he felt shamed. His ward would have been deeply disappointed in him had he known Del's thoughts earlier, and insisted that he treat Persephone as he should for what she truly was; a lady.

The least he could do was try to answer her question to some manner of fullness, difficult though their communication was when it started with him. He firstly shrugged, indifferent to the distance, and tossed his open palm toward the broad sky beyond the choke of metal they were weaseled into. A day's treacherous hike for a human was but a glide for him and his sharp wings. Pride showed in his eyes and the mobile slant of his mouth as he thought of it; a pity she was trapped in such a form, he'd gladly have offered to carry her high had one of her forms been small enough. He was not certain what exactly a sea slug was, but it sounded as though it might have been small enough, though damp. Paper rustled as he recentered the notepad on his forearm and started to write again, he did not wish to tired her with charades that she might never catch onto. Rumors, it said, and he tapped the word with his marker then pointed the tip at her for a moment before returning it to use. More monsters. Wrong, probably. Do they want revenge? Do you? The first question was to satisfy the Leier's ravenous appetite for knowledge of happenings, the latter for his own curiosity and personal judgement. She did not seem the vengeful type, practicing healing alone in a junkyard. But he did not forget that the wreckage was also a tomb, and he though, a horrific reminder of what very well could come. Del could not have been forced to dwell in such a place, not by all the steel in the dome.

He found it impossible to judge her reactions as he normally might; Seph showed none of the eye cues he was so reliant upon and fond of. She made up for it in once again answering in curiosity appeasing depth, thorough enough that he wasn't even too put off buy how she had mutilated her arm while he wrote. They were flocking for safety then, something he could hardly begrudge them. The mention of a female leader surprised him, though he suspected it would please his mistress. It made him worry for his new acquaintance; the more fragile sex should not have to handle the stress of trying to handle this growing colony. He hoped this fearless leader had a man to assist her, much like he so faithfully did his mistress, with the more upsetting tasks. It did not seem prudent to ask, though, as he found women to be frustratingly distressable when it came to the subject of their frailty, and he was enjoying Seph's calm.

But that calm seemed to waver as she spoke of slain friends, lost at the hands of Fulsi, and the muddy dark of his eyes slanted as her grief infected his suggestible expression. He'd become quite fond of a Fulsi himself, and knew his mistress kept relations with one for her own entertainment and learning; neither, he thought, would have been the like to kill for little reason, but he had been wrong before. Likewise he longed to offer some manner of condolence, but Seph was no child to be plucked up into his arms or crushed in an embrace, and awkwardly, he kept his arms to himself. He was of a mind to ask about them, though the dead served little purpose to his mistress beyond feeding her wild kin.

Seph would not have it though, not easily, and inquired after, of all things, his hair. Caught helplessly broadside by her inquiry he jerked a hand up to his banded hair, eyes cattishly wide as they fixed more firmly upon where her eyes ought to have been. He lapsed through a moment of absolute stillness as his mind backflipped, and his immediate impulse was to shake his head no, though he restrained himself. It was not that she'd done him any harm, or that he expected her to at this point. It was that the last person to twist and knot his hair had been Harshul, and for a moment he was jealously possessive of the memory. But being reminded of him brought Fidelias joy as well, and so he nodded, turned, and sat cross-legged on the ground in front of her. His hair, ashen gold and dead straight hung to the muddle of his back, even tied high as it was on the back of his head with a strip of leather cord. He left untying it to her devices, instead focusing on repositioning his notebook on one knee, sharpie hissing across the paper in quick strokes. When he was done, it was easily held up and displayed over his shoulder.

"But aren't some of you Fulsi? And others? What about my wild kind? Are they loyal or desperate? Trusting is dangerous, P. And if you are not Bestia, what do you call yourselves?" She could not see the perplexed frown on his face, but perhaps sensed it in the lift of his shoulders. How could they hope to command the loyalty of those who'd only been forced away by law? By their alphas? Would they betray Seph's fearless leader in a heartbeat if it meant returning to their friends? The implications worried him, for more than just Seph's safety, though that weighed upon his considerations as well. A cohesive unit was monitorable, but one with possible turncoats just waiting to leap for their chance? Dark thoughts indeed.

The finality of her statement surprised him; she'd been so forthcoming before. Then again he supposed he'd been bound to hit a wall with her at some point, and kicking at it immediately probably wouldn't help any. And she was being nice; he'd feel horrible if he made her stalk off in a memory-soaked fit of angst. So obediently, he bowed his head forward to suit her. And a moment later he was rewarded with the name of this newborn group; Nakoma. It was good a name as any, he thought as he tilted his head this way and that in what must have been a most obnoxious fashion for her, though he was well under the impression he was trying to help. Seph was not five years old and the size of a peanut, and did not need his assistance in reaching his hair, but old habits died hard.

The question she presented him with a moment later frankly caught him off guard, and he almost twisted around to give her a ravenously curious look. No one had ever questioned his abilities to read or write or sign, nor his grasp of Hindi and English, though the reason they'd never heard him speak was obvious enough. He wasn't sure how to tell her, and a surge of irrational embarrassment coursed though him. Being reminded that everyone thought his kind, simply because they were born in animal form, were no more than wild animals that could talk was not something he enjoyed. He'd never considered himself a gyrfalcon anymore than he'd ever considered himself a human. He was a shapeshifter like Harshul, like Persephone, like all the others. But when he'd been set into the dome... it had mattered to them. What he was born as, and that discovery had cut bone deep. It distracted him thoroughly enough that he'd signed and 'spoken' his answer before he realized she'd not understand, and then took a moment to write it. School, it said, like everyone else. It wasn't entirely accurate, but close enough. Most kindergartens, he'd taken to understand, did not have bodyguards posted at the back of the classroom. And it was from there, then only a lanky teenager in body himself, that he'd learned, in addition to private tutoring the both of them received.

But his writing had not been enough, he realized, possessed of a sudden need to explain. He gingerly reached back and took the half-braided hair from her hand and stood to face her, standing vastly taller than her crouched form for a moment. He made an elegant gesture that implied patience, a hand on his hip to adjust the slouch of his khakis. He wished for a moment that she could lipread, but who did these days? Instead he flipped through the pages of the notebook to a portrait in striking black charcoal of a child, lovingly, painstakingly rendered. Then he pointed to himself, and made a shielding motion with his free hand, then wrote in harsh letters on the opposite page. "Teacher. Watchman. Brother. Fidelias. I am not a feral animal." Anger showed in the tightness of his shoulders, but it was not directed at Seph. He just wanted her to understand that he was not some little bird stumbling around in human form, not when he fancied her a friend. And then he stumbled back a step as a blow struck him square in the chest, and for a moment, he thought she'd hit him. Then the notebook with all its drawings and words tumbled from his fingers as he looked down, stupidly, at the three inches of fletched timber that protruded from the right side of his chest. Goshawk, he thought numbly as he released the end of the arrow and fell to his knees, deaf to the worried shouts of Seph's savior.

He wanted to laugh, he had an arrow through the chest and she was using the word caboose? At least she wasn't shouting for him to be shot again, which was pleasant. Or not, depending on how he looked at it. If he was going to die, long and painful was nothing he was interested in. But no, she was going off at him again, but it sounded encouraging. Maybe. She looked as crazy as a faceless person could, and he tried to reward her with a smile, though it came across as more of a grimace as breathing disagreed with him.

'Calm down or you'll faint, and then what?' he mouthed to no effect, but he managed to lay his left hand on her shoulder and remain kneeling. It wasn't in her plans though, and she started to push him toward the ground, terrified. Unable to speak as ever, his hand tightened painfully on her shoulder, teeth bared in a snarl of pain as the muscles across his chest and back flexed. She wasn't thinking, which was fair, she was female after all, and all he could do was make a jerking motion with his chin to the right. Only the very end of the arrow was showing on his chest, if was normal sized, there had to be a good length sticking out of his back. And I'm in no mood to lay on it, he thought faintly. Though it struck him then that he was actually thinking and not, say, dead.

It seemed like a rather awfully important thing to have been overlooking.

In fact, he wasn't even feeling an overwhelming need to collapse, though the pain was relentless as he forced himself to breathe. After a moment he sank the rest of the way down to sit on his legs, eyes drifting a bit as he tried to focus where he thought hers ought to be. That arrow needed out, and he had a good idea of how that was going to happen. There wasn't enough length on the end e could see to snap it and remove the fetching, she'd have to break it behind him to remove the arrowhead. With his left arm he tried to convey such, making a snapping motion as though holding one end of a stick. Just so long as she didn't try to pull the thing back through the way it came with the arrowhead on, he didn't care. He hurt too much to care. But she was right, she could do this. That's what she'd been doing for fun after all, when he found her earlier. Cutting herself up for practice. Though by the time she started, he suspected he might be wanting her skill with the crude blade more than her efforts at doctoring. Oh well.

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ooc; sexist pig even while his lungs are filling with blood >> Iswear

Here goes nothin' was not a view Fidelias shared. His was more a dizzying, nauseating twisting pain that was horrifically intimate and wrong. But inch by bloody inch, Persephone pulled the arrow out, and he tried and tried to scream. But then abruptly, it stopped hurting entirely. Or maybe his brain just got tired of processing it, or maybe it had just hurt so bad he hadn't noticed when it started to ease off. Probably the latter. It was quiet, though, apart from the harsh rasp of his breath in his chest. He cracked an eye just in time for Seph to ask if he felt better. He did, but he suspected that would end the moment he actually tried to move, and didn't answer. For a moment. A brief moment before he realized how insurmountably rude it was not to answer a lady who had just extracted an arrow from one's chest, and jerked his chin up and down in a stiff 'yes'.

She wasn't fit to notice, though, and he listened then watched with some distress as she babbled about finding someone to finish for him, which he didn't think was a terrible idea, then crumpled, which he certainly did. The sort of flailing-jerking-falling motion he went through to catch her as she went down was certainly unflattering, but at least Persephone didn't crack her head open. Could squishy half-shifts crack their heads open? He wasn't anywhere near curious enough to find out. His chest throbbed protest, but he was surprised to find the pain tolerable, if miserable. She'd done a good job, despite her hesitancy and his concerns. Of course, now it was her needing the help, which while more natural to Del, was still quite upsetting. But how to get her help? It seemed the idiot that had shot him had sulked off elsewhere, and if they planned to bring backup it had yet to arrive.

Carefully, he set her down all the way, then made his slow way around her, picking up his dropped things. She might have thought it was a fine idea to have her companions heal him more, but he was skeptical in his typical bull-headed fashion. She might have been kind, but the others... they might heal him, sure, but restrain and keep him, demanding information. A good idea to be sure, Lawaii saw more than any other ring, but he wasn't in a sharing mood. Unfortunately, his arm wasn't really in a flying one, either, and he was rather worried about Persephone. Who still hadn't stirred.

Worry turned to actual concern.

Del glanced either way, then whistled, sharply, and poked her arm with his toe. Silence, unbroken by his scowl, was all he gained. Closer investigation would be helpful, and he stepped carefully over her so her ribs were between his ankles, then keeled slowly. It hurt. A lot. He was definitely going to feel those teeth-marks in his tongue later, but at least it distracted from his chest. He let the pain ebb a moment, then shifted, landing lightly on Seph's chest with a graceless thump, wings spread awkwardly. At least now he could see close without doubling over, he reminded himself, and shuffled forward to peer at her face. Distressed by her lack of reaction, he pecked at her collarbone and whistled low, wings folding back up behind him with ponderous slowness. Wake up, you, he thought, and pecked again, belatedly wondering if he'd have to kiss her to wake her up. He was fairly sure that only worked on princesses, though, and he was unsure of the royal qualities of Seph's heritage.