Viktor's shadow bled like rogue ink across the bed as he turned back to Mischa, towering over him, muscles pulled taut like perfectly chiseled stone. Even Mischa could not deny the raw power etched into the lines of his oppressor's body, lines drawn by years of training, fighting, and killing. He did not know what to expect as the silence stretched between them, and he found it almost easier to expect both nothing and everything at once. Perhaps Viktor would punish his insolence with violence. Perhaps the warlord would abuse Mischa's naked body, use him as a bit of warm flesh to sate his carnal needs. Perhaps he would do neither of these things and instead choose to simply walk away, return to the tribalistic festivities of his countrymen. But no, Viktor did not select any of these imagined possibilities, and Mischa was left gasping as Viktor tore the linen away from his tense frame.<br/><br/>The young man bolted up, scurrying from the bed in fearful anticipation of what Viktor might do. The warlord's words cut into him, stoking the fury that seemed perpetually burn inside of him. “This offering of yours is nothing more than a game to tempt fools,” Mischa spat.<br/><br/>Fingers dug deep into the contracted muscles of his shoulders, eliciting a slight hiss as Viktor hauled him forward, forcing Mischa to stumble. The carpenter tripped over himself, his clumsy feet causing him to crash onto the floor in a pile of limbs. The young man grunted, embarrassed but not deterred. Collecting himself, he stood tall before Viktor. Though the men did not stand eye to eye, Mischa caught the dark, cold glint in the onyx pools of the warlord's pupils. He held onto that glint, refusing to let go.<br/><br/>“Perhaps I am prideful and naive, but I am not dumb,” he began, squaring his shoulders against whatever retaliation Viktor saw fit to bestow upon him. “You are a warlord. You have made a living out of fighting. In my anger I attempted to strike you once, and even when taken by surprise you were not affected by my pitiful efforts to harm you. What chance do I have now with your attention pinned onto me? I cannot accept your deal, for I know I cannot win.”<br/><br/>Viktor came close now. Mischa could feel the heat radiating from the man's sand-colored skin. A desert people, Viktor's kind, and the warmth made Mischa recall the cool, refreshing breeze of his village by the sea. Viktor had said something about Loma not being so decimated as Mischa was led to believe... was it possible his home still stood? For one long, excruciating month Mischa had believed his quiet home had been raized to the ground, but perhaps<i>something</i>still lived on there, preserving the memory of his countrymen. His neighbors. His family. Oh, how he<i>ached</i>to wade into the blue of Ilimos' oceans, the cool waters lapping at his naked body and cradling him close as an old friend. Perhaps there was still a chance, however slight.<br/><br/>“Where are we to go?” Mischa inquired, unsure what Viktor had in store. He had hoped the warlord would accept his rejection as a quiet defeat, an admission that he was in no state to physically contest the muscled man's wishes. It seemed he had no such luck, however, and Mischa wrapped his arms about himself as he exited the smokey little bungalow, exposing himself to the thick Aiemlan air.