The bustling city sprawled before the group, a metropolis of wonders and accents. Despite how early it was, dozens – if not hundreds – of people of various shapes and sizes moved about, attending boats tither and hither, their efficient motions complimenting the monumental works they set themselves to. There, in one of the docks, a smaller version of their Chaos Ship appeared to be set to; all black wood, veined in red, tendrils of alien flesh extending from the wood to literally pluck stuffed cargo crates up from the nearby docks, then ingesting them through sphincter-like holes that irised open and closed along its sides.<br/><br/>A truly magnificent, if unnerving sight.<br/><br/>Dean watched, awed. He and his Knight had traveled long and far, but new cities always evoked a sense of curiosity and passion in the man. He wanted to know the city in the same way that he wanted (when he was in his normal form) to know a woman. From her cleanest, most decadent boudoir, all the way to her most debauched charnel house. He wanted to meet the whore mistresses and the assassins alike, know them by name – ingest them for his pleasure. And then, when his dark spirit rose – when his Knight tapped into the Glory and his spite rose up in him – use that information against them all.<br/><br/>Delicious, being him. Only, he wasn’t.<br/><br/>He was vulnerable, human now. Just a boy, with a boy’s grace and a boy’s strength. Sure, he retained his training and knowledge, and those accounted for a fairly significant amount, but they knowledge did not come close to balancing the powers at his disposal when his Darkling Glory was at his behest.<br/><br/>Glancing at Donovan, Dean wondered how his Knight fared. He suspected the other man was recovering at a vastly quicker pace than Dean was. Normally, a single nights’ rest would have seen Dean back on his feet. What he and Aza had done, however, had sapped him impossibly. What they’d accomplished – however fun – had carved out a chunk of the man that might never regenerate. It was a valid concern.<br/>Looking toward the dock, Dean’s sharp eyes flitted across rooftops, spying shapes crowded close to obstructing objects – chimneys and the like. “Assassins or sweepers, one of the two,” he murmured, indicating the shapes with a tiny, subtle gesture. “I have heard rumors of some of the guilds that work across the ocean – we’ve skirted more than a few in our journey, but I won’t be able to provide any certain information through my usual methods while I am so…drained.” He turned his head toward Aza, as if to ask if she – or the wolf she bore – could conduct a subtle inquiry, then stopped himself from voicing the question.<br/><br/>Why would a princess want to risk her neck to find out details? The ‘bad guys’ would come when they would, right?<br/><br/>Shaking his head, all lean-featured and pale now, Dean nodded his chin toward a slowly shrinking pile of boxes near where they’d pulled in. A dozen or more big men stood there, looking as if they were trying to find work, yet ignoring all calls for their attentions. An obvious trap.<br/><br/>“Cat’s paw?” he murmured. “Avoid or attack?” Despite himself, Dean found himself preferring to avoid confrontation right now, in broad daylight, when the local constabulary might be called to deal with them and complicate things.<br/>