make haste

He moves slowly through the jungle, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The shadows on the blade stir, hungry for action, but he keeps them contained for now. There is no use making more noise than necessary, and the shadows are wild. Chaotic. Hungry for action.

Maybe there's a part of him that is, too. So much pain, heartbreak, change had happened in what felt like such a short time. He doesn't know where to go, what to do. He couldn't go home. Not yet. He could still hardly show his true self in the countryside. He lives purely in the shadows now, lurking like some kind of… monster.

And he can't say he hates it.

A faint rustle in the brush catches his attention, and perhaps he is a little more on edge than he thought he was. He whips around with the grace of a dancer, ready to draw his sword, but something stops him. Instinct, maybe, a gut feeling.

Wraith is there, looking at him like he's stupid. He's slowly getting used to the way she looks at him, but it's still… unnerving. She certainly makes use of her alias.

He opens his mouth to question her, but she puts a finger to her lips to shush him, and he remains quiet. It doesn't take him long to realize why she had done so.

There's another snap in the bushes, this one careless for the noise it makes. One of the afflicted stumbles across the way, jaw slack, and arms swiping at low hanging branches as if they are trying to slow it down.

Basileios feels a tug on his sleeve, and he leans into it to follow. He hadn't realized he had been staring too long, memories of the one he had killed flooding in. They were sick, he had to remind himself. It had been for the best. But perhaps he had to think that way to try to stirr some sort of emotion- he didn't like how he regarded it with such little guilt.

He wasn't ready to lose his humanity so soon, and he could already feel it slipping through his fingers.

But where there is one, there are plenty more, and he doesn't have time to dwell. The further they slunk through the jungle, the more cross their paths. They'd avoided them fairly well, until…

An arm reaches out to stop him, and he does.

"Do you hear that?"

"Yes," He mumbles back.

The shadows are stirring, whispered screams as if trying to speak, but the connection is foggy. He can't understand what they are saying, but they are distressed. That can really only mean one thing.

Basileios turns on his heels just as a hand reaches wildly for him. He is not quick enough, though, and grimy fingers dig into his coat sleeve. He is able to rip away, but at the expense of the fabric.

He doesn't feel the pain right away, no, doesn't feel the blood. His magic rages, and he's sure Wraiths is too, for the entire jungle becomes… black.

And now, they are both in their element.

Neither of them have to speak to know they have to run. There is too many of them, attracted by the sound of the scuffle. A simple nod between them, and they part, but they both know where they are headed: a small town is not too far from here, known for their sturdy brick buildings and underground tunnel system that was once used for smuggling.

Now they just have to make it there in one piece.