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Such elusive creatures this place has. Estinien, in his inability to sleep, attempted to chase one when he saw the flutter of a wing pass by his window. The best case scenario was a dragon—a true one, not the primal kind Zenos had transformed into some moons ago when they were still stuck on that island. A hint of familiarity and a new friend in this unfamiliar land would have been welcome.
But once he takes in his woodland surroundings, he spots neither wyrm, bird nor even floating fish, but the Warrior of Light crouched naked on the ground. It takes an unblinking minute for his brain to fully register what he’s looking at, then another for his common sense to kick in and remind him that he shouldn’t stare. This is a married man in his nameday suit, for Halone’s sake.
Of course, the memo arrives too late; the moment he’s aware of his impropriety, he notices something else. Namely that the Warrior is staring right back—and making absolutely no effort to cover himself, which in this night chill on this icy shard feels positively criminal. Except Laku stares not with his own eyes, but through feline ones shining in the night. Not just feline, but vaguely draconic. The same look that has flicked lately when he’s spoken to the man, now unwavering.
He’s heard of Laku’s past life therapy, though much of it sounded like bogus. The pieces fall into place gradually.
He opens his mouth to speak—and closes it again. Finally, he manages to call out, “…Laku?”
The thing in Laku’s body hisses, then scutters off on all fours to hide behind a tree. The movement brings more to mind an insect than a person. That’s odd. Laku had mentioned his ‘centipede,’ yes, but unless he lied about the latest developments, his awakened past had taken a miqo’te’s form since then.
“Wait, don’t…” Estinien trails off as his friend’s body vanishes behind the bark. His feet carry him forward automatically, but he pauses at a respectful distance, peering around the trunk with a frown. The man—Kirimu, was it?—has now curled into himself, hugging his knees, rocking softly.
“Sorry,” comes a mumble Estinien has to strain his ears to hear. “That was weird. I’m weird.”
Estinien hesitates before crouching down beside him. His voice remains steady, neutral even, when he speaks. “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he lies. “Dragonblood does stranger things to a man.” His hand reaches out slowly in an unspoken offer to help the other man up.
“Dragonblood,” Kirimu repeats raspily. In lieu of accepting the hand, it raises his hackles higher… before he relaxes just enough that his ears rise in curiosity. Odd for Laku’s loppy pair, this movement more suited for cats. “You’re the Dragoon?”
“Aye.” Estinien retracts the offer and stays where he is, arms crossed over his knees, though ready to react should the other bolt again. “And you’re not exactly Laku right now, are you?”
Kirimu shakes his head. “Kirimu, of Draugr’s,” he introduces himself formally, though Laku had already shared as much from his therapy sessions. “And, me too. Dragoon I mean.” He sniffs. “You have a great wyrm’s scent on you.”
“Do I?” Estinien cocks an eyebrow, taking a pause to smell his own tunic. It reeks of sweat and small remnants of blood from an earlier hunt, though he wouldn’t call it anything remotely close to dragon. Then again, Kirimu doesn’t seem in his right mind, so he decides to let the comment slide. “You’re a Dragoon,” he instead seeks to affirm, the cogs in his mind already turning. “Can you hold a lance?”
Kirimu’s pupils widen, though not enough to resemble Laku’s. “Got a spare?”
“Might. If you can prove you won’t stick yourself with it.” Estinien straightens, sizing him up. Kirimu’s posture reminds him of himself in younger years, not entirely comfortable in his own body. Elezen puberty was one hell of an experience. “Of course, if you’d rather keep lurking in the dark, that’s fine too.”
Kirimu’s hand darts out ready to accept it, the look in his eyes between pleading and demanding. No words accompany it. Estinien considers him for long breaths, weighing the sanity of this decision before relenting. He rummages for the secondary lance in his inventory: an older model, but just as deadly in the right hands.
“Try not to kill yourself with it.” A pause as he holds it out, grip first. “…Or me.”
The second the metal meets Kirimu’s palm, he springs up with it and sprints.
“What the—” Estinien lurches up as well, but not in time to stop Kirimu taking off. Curses fly under his breath as gives chase the best he can. Though unsteady and crouched like he’s about to drop down again, the bugger is fast on his paws. He’d hate to lose another quarry so soon—particularly when he hears his growl in the wind:
“I’ve someone else to kill.”