[.Eira.]

Their time was running out.

Soon the scampering, hollering masses of Alteronian youth would be gathered at Lynx's proverbial skirthems, lead away from this idyllic paradise back into what could only be described as Azuhel's hungry maw. The prospect was not a happy one for the little hellhound. And so she curled in a tiny nook between some bushes and a tree, her paws over her face, her one broken antler jagged and asynchronous with the other. She wasn't crying, no, she'd tough it out for a while. But she did feel a sense of deep sadness. 

One paw ran lifted from her eyes and moved upwards to touch the fragile antlers projecting from her skull. They were her curse and equally as much her identity, and she took a moment to wonder, as she often did, what her life would be like without them. How much easier things would be. She'd be spared physical pain, of course. The shame of being different. But part of her also knew that whatever had made her bony antlers had also made her visions. And her visions had caused her nothing but suffering. 

She could feel the air becoming chiller, and she knew that Alteron was even further north. That at least was some comfort at least. By the time she reached that dreaded place, the feeble glow of her antlers now would be bloomed into a broken foxfire torchlight, her strange form finally becoming something useful. 

Of course, her visions wouldn't warn her about what would come spring.

[Setebos]

Nighttime was especially cruel for the doctor. In the impermeable darkness outside his den, he could perceive only faint suggestions of things.

And that was what his brain did: it suggested.

It suggested, and then those suggestions became impossible truth.

It was one of those nights where Setebos simply couldn't sleep, and the relaxing concoction that he brewed from chamomile and lavender did little to soothe his restless thoughts. It eventually became a matter of how long he could remain in one place until he either bored himself to unconsciousness or let his wandering mind tire itself out. Neither option was particularly appealing to him at that moment. He was as tired of the solutions as he was with the problems, and currently, everything felt so very tiring.

In a fit of pique, Setebos glared at the interior of his den; all the little marks and characteristics that distinguished the dwelling as his own. All the little things that so vexed him: the mangled roots of stockpiled milk thistle that, in pitch darkness, resembled groping claws, or the overhanging bundles of chamomile that transformed into faces leering from above. Setebos left his den and departed into the darkness that he feared, maybe as an ill-considered attempt to spite his own nightmares.

The deeper he ventured into the forest, the more he started to doubt his confrontational approach. He bristled at every snapping branch and every looming tree. He walked with his hackles up. Eventually he settled for a certain numb blindness; that by keeping his head down and his peripherals blocked out, he could focus on a linear path, and not be distracted by outside stimuli.

That backfired, of course, when he passed the faintest flicker of firelight, just barely enough to draw his attention. It was originating from within a bush, streaming between the leaves. That, he knew, was not a figment of his imagination. Setebos at first thought it to be a firefly nest. But it wasn't time for them to emerge, was it? Setebos pushed through the foliage, inquisitive, and was greeted not with a cluster of insects like he expected, but something far more curious -- what appeared to be a young wolf curled in on herself, but that light, it was radiating from a single crooked antler protruding brokenly from her crown.

Setebos made sure not to gawk. He suddenly felt like an imbecile, having intruded on her space. If she was an adult, he would have left immediately, but because she was still just a child, her solemn demeanor concerned him, and he inquired further. "Hey," Setebos said, gently, "Are you alright?"

[.Eira.]

The leaves rustled, and Eira tensed to bolt - her instinct was the same as every creature that had ever been prey: run as fast as you can from every noise or footfall. She scrabbled to her feet and pinned back her ears, that one unbroken antler still glowing. Months in Alteron had done this to her. She remembered Antaeus. Bad people didn't a need a reason to hurt you. It's just what they did. Eira glowed and Kekkai laughed and Amen solved mysteries and bad people hurt other people who were too slow to run away. That's how it was. It's not like it could actually be different in Inaria, even if they pretended it was. 

But before she could dash, he spoke in that way adults had, that 'I know best' and 'Let me help you' voice that Eira did not want to hear. What had adults ever done for her? Except Cuff. But Cuff didn't count. "Hey," The man said quietly, gently.  Who was this guy?"Are you alright?" The hellhound narrowed her eyes and took a cautious step back. The man had scars on his belly, she saw. She didn't know exactly what that meant. She felt a headache coming on. 

"None of your business." The girl snapped back at him with an adolescent growl that sounded noteably un-wolflike. Softer and breathier. There would never be any passing her off as an ordinary dire. Her angles were all wrong, her fur too shaggy and dense Her tail, long and flicking, was not dissimilar from that of a large cat. Her ears flicked forward and she gave him a huff of breath not dissimilar from that of an angry stag. And then, not dissimilar from any overreacting teenager, she turned tail and tried to run from someone who was legitimately only trying to help.