The lovely smell of his wine-red fabric was enough to draw Fedafyr's loyal attentions as he stepped from the howling room with a grin on his face, the look on Grimmel's woman's face had been alluring and almost seductive, and the way he merely had to remain silent and allow his body to do the talking to set them both ill at ease was even sweeter than the prize he placed upon his slender shoulder with a strength granted only by the darkest gods. The air outside was like still ice and silence reigned in his fox-fur ears.The broken fell around him like dust and the creatures of the night drew back from his presence as if he were walking poison, and as he crossed the cold water of the river, sandals touching the surface but never falling into its icy depths, he could have been the darkest antichrist from the first world, with eyes like molten rock and hair that blew to the billows of only the howling winds. He was beauty in perfection and fell short not a bit--pure evil that walked and was more dangerous than Lucifer himself. He kept his souls, too..

On a wall, in a hall--a place she was closer than any living girl had been yet to seeing. He trekked through the dried, fallen leaves and the vines that wrapped themselves around his ankles drew back in fear of the wrath of his katana and claws. Fedafyr felt the very forest tremble to its cores as it moaned its laments to bear shelter to such a vile and disgusting creature. No matter where he turned--and he turned often--he smelled a familiar scent... It had been hidden to him when he first stepped out, the presence that was silent as a butterfly but smelt of a woman. His tail swung irritably behind him, but his silent ascent toward his cave was always haunted by the steps of another almost as silent as his own. Perhaps they even were so silent--for he could not tell if he heard them or if he made the footsteps up in the back of his relentless imagination.

The smile that broke his face was invisible in the shadows, sharp fangs framed by perfect lips that were found beneath a shadow cast by his long, luxurious bangs. He watched the soft forest weave and relent to his movements as he slowly heard the hard beat of a faint heart and the breath of one who felt she must follow him or die. She was not a normal woman--some women followed him for his looks, expecting to earn some favour or merely find themselves in his bed, but she was not after him with any of such fickle determinations--there was blood... blood was on her mind and he could smell it as if she bled herself over it. Her wounded mind was determined to escape him and she thought that beauty could destroy the beast... Fairy tales died in the last life, Pet.

The rocks loomed above him and the cavern opened to his slow, lulling voice. He was cautious to enter without her, though he did leave one rug behind so that, if she were awake enough to catch such a blatant hint, she would not be discouraged. He couldn't have her seeing his humble home without a rug on the cement floor. He slipped past the rock and it fell back into place with a sullen clash, but he would not keep his guest waiting long. The blood red of the carpet spread itself out as he lay it down upon the floor, fitting itself to each crack and crevice as he stepped down the hall behind it. He moved through the darkened halls and candles lit themselves in his wake. He found himself in his office, where he settled the tome of his life's sufferings, something he could not read nor remember--perhaps he would use this woman for something else. Paris would not get the chance to free her before Fedafyr found out what he wanted... who cared if blood was spilt when one's life could be redeemed. The ideas were new, though bloodlust attempted to push them from his mind, some shadow lingered that held him steadfast to his plan...

He would have the woman read the book.. then he would sleep and give Paris the chance to see if he himself could break his feeble magic seal as easily as Fedafyr had. Paris had indeed miscalculated when he merely created a lock strong enough to hold himself in. Fedafyr was not Paris. He was not a weak, mortal man. If Paris could save her, he would have her... unfortunately for her, the chances were slim and dark.

A scream pierced his ear and he hissed to the darkness, feral eyes narrowing as his ears perked to the joyous noise. Hurt herself, did she? Dumb bitch. His lithe body carried him over the wine red carpet and moved toward the entrance, rolling the stone back with three powerful words... and he stared at the woman who lay before him, and his eyes narrowed. Fedafyr could not recall her, but he sensed some air of familiarity--it had to have been impossible, though, because Fedafyr did not dabble with his prey. His small body knelt beside her and he lifted her gently, cradling her to his chest. A serpent momentarily tried to claim its prize, but Fedafyr growled and it was relenting of its prey. The poison was merely a sleeping toxin for a human, though deadly for smaller creatures. Fedafyr carried the body inside with the tenderness of holding something that might break--something he could not comprehend and therefore did not question.

He brought her to his bed and lay her down upon the feather matress, content to look at her curiously for the moment and wait for sleep to take its leave. His hands came to rest upon his book, staring down at the leatherbound cover. His tail twitched, and he looked back toward waves of red hair and felt the simple lust choke him. He was too pulled by something else, though--maybe more than one other thing kept him... Someone else watched Merrin on that bed. She was soon disarmed.. and disrobed except for a silk chemise, stained with blood in a few places and torn in others, but not too revealing. Fedafyr didn't do laundry, and Paris could never find the source...

He settled himself upon the corner of the bed, staring down at the ivory features with narrowed eyes.

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