Daniel
"Madam, I am a scholar. I do not mean to brag but I have acquired much knowledge on a variety of subjects, including medicines and herbology." Eotum crossed his arms, confident in his deduction.

"Did you not think that at some point in history someone had, say, captured several of your kind and performed experiments on them?" He asked. "Admittedly, it was an interesting read. One particular physician who was... Racially selective... Really did a number of tests. To put it simply, he found out that opia did not work when he tried to still a subject in pain. As you would expect, the subject was immune and eventually died of asphyxiation."

"Anyways, shifters' bodies are constantly in flux, always at the ready to change into a new body or appearance at a moments notice. Due to the constant yet unseen work, your body is less susceptible or even immune to consumables that possess narcotic or soporific effects."

"Only a select number of creatures are immune to plants similar to opia." Finished Eotum. "Shifters are among those included in the list. And given the fact that the men had called you a 'kitty' doesn't really help, Madam."

But he raised both of his hands, making them level with his head.

"However. Please do know that I mean you or your companion any harm." Assured the scholar. "As I said before: I am a scholar. I only seek accurate knowledge."
David
After the crying horrors of death came the silent crackling of human skin. The fire sunk deep into the flesh to burn bone and organ, twisting the anatomy of the four bodies. When it was over, the smoke and the stench lingered. The stench itself would prevail for hours. Rekkan crouched under a tree and laid his right hand on one of its uprooted tendrils. The spiral tattoo began to whirl. Its black ink oozed onto and inside the root, taking its length in hand. The base of the root has a charred look to it when Rekkan reels his hand back and on top of his knee. He looks at the charred corpses around the rock and feels the size of it will do. With focused mind and a willing spirit, he commanded the Tendrils crown to rise from under the earth. It stretched past the rock.


He requested each to be harvested at a time, but all together the same. The crown used the weight of most of its body to elevate its head, looming over the farthest corpse and wrapping around it. It followed suit with the next, until counting five. Then coiled them all up in a dragging stride. The roots crushed the remains of bone and flesh, which was all mostly charred paste or ash. It was easy for the wanderer without great strain, followed by dumping the crumbled remains in the clearing. None was salvageable unless it was for the most desperate beasts. The stride of the root had new destination in homely underground, slithering back the way it came from the holes and cracks in the earth. As for the man, he closed his eyes and let his mind relax. He wet his lips and turned around, away from the clearing in the woods and back to the village.

His path was uneventful and it was unsure if he had passed Eotum and Marsila through some other road of the forest's many. It didn't bother Rekkan that he hadn't seen them until now, knowing they could take care of themselves, let alone each other. It was Priscilla who caught him first and ushered the man to the side of a house, away from the main road of cobble. "There you are. Some men arrived, they handed out some posters." She spoke with a worried tone, but also a hint of resentment. "You made that fire happen, didn't you?" She pursed her lips and nearly cried in front of the man. She felt betrayed, even though he had helped her. There was the lingering thought that if he hadn't, she would be enjoying a quiet life with her husband, Bran.


"Yes." He muttered cold. 


Priscilla let out a silent cackle and buried her head on his chest. She pummeled the taut skin with a closed fist, breaking up in tears. It wasn't because he caused the war of gangs, but because she had another question sprouted from a doubt that was most likely true. "D-Did you burn my house...?" She sulked, gritting teeth and scrunching his shirt with her hands curling to fists.


"Yes."

Priscilla looked up at Rekkan and saw the stoic face hiding sorrow that only his eyes revealed. The mirrors to his soul made her wipe her eyes clean, one at a time by left hand on left, right hand in right. She cupped his cheeks and chin in her palms and shook her head, her round eyes centered on his scarred features. "Rekkan... Someone told them about the old lady. I saw them go inside. Bran is there too." Everything made sense when the poster she was carrying was shown to him, for it lacked true detail on its information. Apparently, Rekkan was being hunted by arson, murder and disrupting justice. These werre fake allegations, as fake as the wanted poster in his hands. But it didn't bode well for Bran. He was by no means a part of any of that, but what did the men care about? None of that. 


A peek out of the corner saw armored men taking over the town. It seemed that a whole group of bounty hunters had come and caused a stir. By Rekkan's logic, they were disguised as a band of mercenaries applying the law from some lord or another from down south, towards the capital. They had money to spare and more invested in their suits, with swords and armor of one type or other. The wealthiest or most experienced seemed to carry their weight with a different posture, a different walk.

Rekkan kept his right hand holding Priscilla as he leaned his body left to peek from the corner. He reeled his head back and turned to her, using his left to push her onward, towards the back of the house. "There are things I should tell you." He said, drawing her away from the side and to the back of the house. His mood was heavy, much like how his shoulders slumped in his guilty walk. 


At the old lady's house, the head of the band was relishing in the fear of the elder and the young man. He had a clear taste for violence, for torture and applying pain in general. His hair was long and curly, with bleak black eyes and thin black eyebrows. His slender face and lithe body were mischievous in the fact that he was quite strong, perhaps more skilful and agile than most. Atovar was his name, an impoverished noble that turned to a life of crime among rogues and thieves. He wanted coin above all else, and wanted the sum that made many turn greedy on the capture of the wanderer. But the torture wasn't to know where the man was. It was to get more information, to know who his companions were, who he had interacted with while in the village. There was pure malice in his words, lying about Priscilla, how she had been captured already and tortured. "But women get other kind of treatment." He made sure to press the issue. The elder was tired, clinging to life by a breath. She had bruises scattered over her face and her hair was unkempt, more like torn and undone. There were cuts behind her ankles and on her wrists that were in the process of bleeding her dry.


"Please, I told you all I know...!"

Bran's pleading did not matter. Atovar was convinced that the man knew more than he was letting on. The mercenary was cautious, borderline paranoid. There was a chest he carried around with him and opened for free use of its content when he was striking for a big mark. Open that chest was, full of weapons of silver. "A shapeshifter accompanies him, isn't that right?" He would not find answers to his questions, only denial from an oblivious man. 


In a fit of unexplained rage, he pummeled Bran over and over with his fists. Maybe it was because the man truly knew nothing and all the time breaking him was wasted. But in the end, there was no other use for him. "Make a burning pile for the evening." He said with a sadistic smile. The figures in the shadows behind him spread out.

Outside of the house were many more soldiers. They seemed to be well trained, which meant they were no common bandits. Some had already taken the advice of their leader and carried silver weapons, ranging from blades to bolts. They were, in all effects, a mercenary band, even if made out of outlaws that sought to reap the bounty reward. Things started to feel strange when they went around gathering wood and forming a large mountain out of branches, firewood and twigs.


Priscilla looked down with her eyes bloodshot and stared at nothing but the ground. She couldn't believe it, but bit by bit was making sense of some of the marks on the body she treated. She also still felt admiration, for the guy had sure reason to do what he did. But what exactly? What compelled him to burn down not one, but two buildings? Rekkan decided to come clean, telling her much of what came to pass, even about the thugs that were around in Hogcock. The young woman looked back at him with wide eyes as she discovered Rekkan saved Bran more than once. It is sad that Rekkan's circumstance would draw Bran to a fatal finale. But she did not know that yet. 


Words felt hollow to the wanderer, but they cast a shadow off the woman, who ended her sulking and hugged him. She could not bear to see any of her two heroes hurt, nor see him different in any way. She accepted her pain as being collateral, but the wanderer did not let her going without him scolding himself. "I drew you and your husband into this. I am to blame. I am sorry." Priscilla did not stop holding him. She felt his warm body and strong back in between the hug she could barely close with locking her fingers together. "Priscilla... These people don't take hostages. It's not common." He said.

"Please, hold me." Her voice was weak, fading. She didn't want to resume crying, but the tears swelled her eyes against her will. Rekkan couldn't deny her. His arms rose from the sides of his body and wrapped around her torso. Priscilla's shoulders, her arms and her back were covered in a hold of arm over arm, drawing her to his chest and abdomen with a squeeze.


The wanderer held her head and craned it up to look down at her face. He wiped her cheeks and under her eyes with his rugged thumbs. "We can't stay here." He told her. She was still crying. She felt her knees tremble, so did Rekkan. "Very well." The wanderer turned around and reached behind his body with his hands, grabbing the woman and hauling her over his back. "Hold on." Priscilla was not used to being carried. She climbed her hands to his shoulders and held tightly. Her face drowned in tears and the apex of his spine, just below the nape of his neck. Snot was a part of it.


Rekkan walked away from prying eyes, trying to find Marsila before the men scouring the village found her or him. He was carrying Priscilla on his back, somehow turning her attitude for the better as she actually began to enjoy the ride, the height at which she reached and a sweet nothing that made her forget the most pressing issues. Was she star-struck?
Leon
Even though Marsila was a shifter, she never attempted to learn more about her kind besides the necessities. She hadn't gained any knowledge in her years when it came to the situations her species had been placed under as the Scholar was describing. She knew they had been forced to a close extinction, some could say it was naivety when it came to her own kind that made her unaware of the experiments and torture. Turning to face the Scholar, she studied him carefully, unsure on whether she could trust him or not. Sure he had contributed towards Rekkan gaining his health and strength back but her parents had always taught her the more who knew about her, the more danger she placed herself under. 

Marsila didn't bother to question his explanation as to what lead him to believe she was a shifter, knowing it was pointless. She could only hope he would keep to his word. So instead, the shifter remained silent even though it could be seen as a confirmation of his beliefs. 

"She fits the description..." A male's voice had barely been audible enough for Marsila to understand the rest of what had been said. If she hadn't decided to go silent at the time she did, the shifter would have never heard them as they closed in on the two. She wasn't sure how to feel about having to deal with another group of bounty hunters, especially now the Scholar was also placed in harm's way.

"Great, more problems." Marsila's gaze snapped towards the source of the voice, landing on a man who had a recognizable burn mark on the bridge of his knows leading to his right jaw. She could only assume he too had been part of the fire. He stood similar to her height though his defined muscular build and the large sword he wield in his hands contrasted him from the rest of the group. Meanwhile the other men prefered the crossbows they had drawn in the the Scholar and Shifter's direction. From the stories they had heard about previous interaction with bounty hunters and the warehouse, they found it was a smarter idea to hold weapons that didn't rely on them being in close range compared to the one with the sword. 

"Where is your friend?" It was obvious whom they questioning about. It made Marsila feel slightly at ease about the situation they were in, knowing they wouldn't have been asking if they knew themselves so in her eyes, he was safe. The shifter was silent as she took a step towards the men, showing she wasn't fearful or threatened by them, oblivious to the fact that the weapons contained traces of silver such as the arrowheads. Her features were apathetic as she faced them, mentally preparing herself for an oncoming fight. Impatient, the bulked male turned his gaze momentarily towards one of the men who understood what he wanted and released an arrow into the shifter's shin. "We asked you a question."

Her leg felt like the arrow that struck through her leg had been dipped in some form of acid. It burned through her flesh as the shifter dropped to the ground in pain with a cry. "You asshole!" She yelled towards him through gritted teeth, looking at her leg to notice the silver that mocked as the arrowhead. Her heart felt like it had stopped, these men had silver weapons which made fighting almost impossible if she wanted to remain undetected as a shifter. If it hadn't been for the pants she wore that covered the skin on her legs, the men would have noticed the burn marks created at the entry and exit points of the wound.