Bobby
Lyra Beaumont
Northwind 

Lyra watched Selkie, almost with bated breath. It was clear that no objective of hers would be met tonight. That knowledge annoyed her. Even as she watched the bat girl's forlorn gaze, it was hard for her to muster up much sympathy. Her arrival had delayed the party's return to the camp. It also threatened an unearthing of her identity, an act that would _actually_ send one of her siblings her way. And through it all, her mother's amulet burned with a desire that would not be sated. Once again, Lyra was pinned beneath Freya's wishes, bearing the weight of the woman's sins. 

Her mood perked a tad when she saw the shifter's unsightly body start to move... _toward_ them. Instinctively, she shuffled closer to Viper, the man also taking a more defensive stance. Selkie wasn't moving for an attack, but in their business, one could never be too sure.

"Interesting," He murmured, taking in the creature's disturbingly hybrid state. His gaze, though, remained fixed on the collar, the culprit for the poor thing's condition. He could only imagine how much the metal burned, in more ways than one. To know that such a small band was keeping it stuck in an unfortunate form must have started taking even an emotional toll on the creature. He could tell by the way it cast Lyra a compliant, but less-than-trusting side eye.

He stole a glance at Lyra, herself, who also seemed to be staring at the collar. Her own gaze seemed to carry a worry of her own. Indeed, Lyra beheld the collar as if it could speak. As if it could incriminate her, somehow. It looked like she longed to say something, perhaps a warning. But she didn't.

"Look," She whispered instead, lifting her hand to point at Selkie as the shifter tilted up her chin. The collar was exposed. 

Viper just grunted and drew his sword from its sheath. He moved slowly, gripping the hilt with both hands.

"I'll try not to hurt you," He called to Selkie, dropping into his typical fighting stance. He hoped to rush in and cut the thing in one swipe, using the momentum from the charge to boost the power behind the blow. He only hoped that nothing else would get lopped off in the process.

So, Viper closed the distance between himself and Selkie in two quick strides, lifting his sword up above his right shoulder. In one graceful movement, he swung the blade down to the left, metal clashing with metal as it struck Selkie's collar with a loud _ding._

Almost immediately, the collar snapped, a cloud of magic energy lifting from the silver band. However, Viper's blade was also now covered in blood and stray patches of fur. His sword had broken flesh.
Carlos
Selkie N'yenskor
Northwind

Selkie's heart hammered furiously in her bosom, as if sounding its every alarm, her mind screaming to flee. Her limbs were anchored in place; Selkie was wholly petrified by the gaze of Viper's blade. His comforts met deaf ears. Her pitch eyes were pinned to the steel that reflected them. Then, as he raised his sword, Selkie's muscles realized their paralysis and acted. She winced when steel met silver, and his heavy-handed cleave marked a deep notch in Selkie's sternum. A choked yelp escaped her involuntarily - that sting was a soft touch compared to what immediately followed. Her collar shrieked a terrible, shrill death rattle as Viper sliced it cleanly. A horrific scene unfolded thereafter. 

Instantly - like gravity had increased tenfold - Selkie dropped to her knees. There was not a moment to ponder her freedom as an unbearable, hellish agony ripped through every cord of her. Every muscle, every tissue, every fiber, every bone: Selkie's entire existence became one of white-hot torture. A blood-curdling, inhuman scream ripped free of her lungs, shredding her vocal cords in its agonized wake. Where it seemed a bat could not cry, she did. It was a squealing, grating sound. Her great wingspan began folding itself into measly, compact, human arms, dark membranes traded for pale flesh. It was a grotesque transformation. Like her flesh was the soil from which sprouts - what were her wings - grew, they wilted back into her. Fortunately, a curtain of fiery hair quickly grew to conceal her visage's - undoubtedly grisly - mutation. A nauseating crackling underlined her terrified screams, which were growing more human by the moment. 
_ _

Her screams subsided as the shifter before them stood a woman. Selkie's arms, which were propping up her torso, wearily collapsed with her body. She seemed disjointed entirely, laying on her side like a laboring animal. Gingerly, life stirred within the heap of her - made modest only by a knee-length mane of rusty hair. A young girl's face appeared within the fiery thicket. Lips as crimson and plump as autumnal apples sat beneath a narrow, mouse-like nose. Hazel, bewildered eyes glanced down at a human body. Selkie's hands shot up before her face, and she cautiously sat up, gazing at them incredulously. Slowly, methodically, she curled each one of her ten fingers. Hot tears gathered and blurred her vision. Never had she been more joyous to wipe the dampness from it - though she nearly speared her eye with an uncoordinated finger - as tears began flowing freely. She half-laughed, half-wept, drawing her knees to her chest and continually wiping her tears.
Bobby
Lyra Beaumont
Northwind

Viper stumbled back, startled almost as much by the sound of the collar's demise as he was by the blood on his blade. He swore beneath his breath, coming to stand next to Lyra, chest heaving. The sword in his grip slipped to the ground. It wasn't for its weight. His fingers were trembling. Wide-eyed, he watched the shifter seem to crumble under a punishing weight. The man's face was stuck in a perpetual grimace, stomach churning from the screams.

Lyra, too, was horrified. Gruesome as the sight was, she couldn't bring herself to look away. Oddly, the screams stunned her still. Lips parted, she only took in shallow breaths, shock rendering her otherwise motionless. 

_Don't you ever wonder what she looks like when she's not shifted?_ Lyra remembered her brother asking her once. Lior's curiosity of Selkie had always been different from hers. He seemed to wonder more about the conditions of her freedom, unlike Lyra's obsession with furthering the slave's torment. At the time, she remembered dismissing him — probably because the question had come after Selkie had scratched her. Still emotionally wounded, Lyra had simply scoffed.

_Probably just as ugly,_ she'd said. Lior didn't have much to say about it after that.

It was probably because he'd hoped Lyra was wrong. Silently, he must have hoped to see beauty from Selkie one day. He'd always been the optimistic type.

As Selkie breathed in her freedom, Lyra swallowed, needing to wiggle her toes to come back to herself. Her eyes settled cautiously on the girl's fair skin, shrouded by her rusty hair. The sound of her cries and laughter... It made something in Lyra ache. The mask kept her empathetic nature dull. But then, she'd always been a bit cold and skeptical of emotional realities apart from her own. They'd never felt as important. But now, Selkie's relief felt.. Contagious. Lyra's fingers felt numb, heart still racing. Were her hands even.. Sweating? The guilt felt stifling.

Lyra unclasped her cloak and started handing it to Viper, turning as if to leave.

"You can give her this to wear," She said. "I'll head back to Trip, and—"

But Viper gripped her shoulder, his grip firm even through her armor. 

"Unhand—" She started saying, lifting her chin to correct him with nothing short of fury. But he looked back at her, eyes set with as much intensity. He looked.. Disappointed.

"See this through," He said, his voice low. His grip didn't let up.

It was all she could do to stare him down, too. A small challenge. But it was clear he wasn't going to let her run away. It didn't seem to matter how long she stood there, sticking to her silent protest. 

Eventually, Lyra sucked her teeth, the short, sharp sound muffled just slightly by her mask. She yanked her shoulder from Viper's grip and released a pent-up breath, peeling her gaze away only to turn toward Selkie.

Her cloak felt like a meager offering, held gingerly in Lyra's hands. She approached the girl slowly, as if walking toward a wounded animal. A yard away, Lyra knelt. Only her eyes betrayed her mood. But they weren't unkind. Indeed, they seemed a bit fearful. If Selkie decided to run, now, there was no hope for a smooth(ish) return to Azarya. But for some reason, that outcome wasn't what made her feel so on edge. It was a similar feeling she'd experienced as a child, after being scolded to apologize to Lior for some menacing act of hers. Of course, he'd always forgive her, probably just as threatened under the stern ire of their mother's stare. But what if he didn't? That possibility had always made Lyra say her sorry's through tears. 

There were none, today. Just a similar anxiety.

"You can have this, if you want," She said, trying to strike a gentle tone. Still, she wanted to seem indifferent. Not ironically doting, like Freya. It was hard to tell if the attempt was successful. "The walk to our cart isn't far."
Carlos
Selkie N'yenskor
Northwind

For some time, Selkie was immobilized by her relief. She was unable to comprehend the world beyond the sensation of touch, the feeling of her warm skin like a peach, the feeling of her own dexterous, *Human* Fingers. Her digits were splayed out across her cheeks, gently pinching what fat deposits were there. Her right hand hastily moved to the fiery tresses of her hair. She weaved thick strands through her porcelain fingers, combing through a years-unfelt mane - proud as a lion's - marveling at its immense volume. Incredulously, she lifted a heavy loc. Selkie seemed unperturbed by the forest debris her hair gathered from the ground. Were it not for the context of her beastly form, Selkie would have been a portrait of beauty: of freckled skin, of youthful innocence, of gentle eyes and a doe's heart. 
_ _

The last time she assumed that form was in a cage. The last time a human had known her visage - her own humanity - was through bars. As the immediate, blinding elation subsided, Selkie was left with a bittersweet, gnawing nostalgia. Now what? Selkie never considered herself beyond the collar and never plotted beyond its removal, like it trapped her rebellious thoughts alongside her body. She was human and alone on a foreign stage with a phantom of her past. She was liberated, yet she never felt more stagnant - more isolated. Could she survive alone? Selkie had not met the world without company, had not existed without supervision. Selkie's teary gaze flicked onto Lyra. She attempted to rise, but her legs were flimsy, still weak from her shift. Those unreliable muscles quivered before Selkie collapsed forward. A humiliated, furious flush quickly spread across her face. Grunting, she pressed her palms to the ground and strained to stand. Stabilizing herself on all fours, she began straightening her legs, leaving her hands planted in the dirt. In this tripedal position, Selkie gingerly managed to ease herself onto her feet. She was notably diminutive, far shorter - and more petite - than both Lyra and Viper.

She dared to place one foot in front of another. However, she was so unacquainted with walking - especially without counterbalancing a heavy top half - she immediately stumbled and toppled. Sighing, Selkie looked up to Lyra disgracefully.