The thought of snapping at Cyran for landing on his nose and being dramatic does cross Zarius' mind, but he refrains. The predicament was frustrating for both of them.

While Cyran goes to try and get help, Zarius keeps working on trying to get his head free to no avail. He hopes that Karize isn't the one who ends up finding him in this predicament, as he'd done well to never let his younger brother forget about the time he got his head stuck in the banister as a child. Eirynor had to saw the uprights apart to free Karize, and both Zarius and Eameia had teased the younger fellblood relentlessly for getting his horns stuck in the first place.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

Meanwhile, Cyran finds an occupied room and starts his attempts at getting someone's attention.

The room looks like a small personal library with a desk in the center and bookshelves fully stocked with tomes lining the walls. The level of light in the room does not seem appropriate for reading, yet the individual in the room does not seem to mind. They’re standing toward the wall opposite the window, holding a smaller book open as they flip through the pages.

The scrabbling does catch their attention, and they glance over their shoulder toward the window.

It's at that point that Cyran would realize that the individual is certainly not Eameia. They're taller, broader in the shoulders, and much older. Not to mention masculine in appearance, more similar to Zarius though his horns curl like rams horns rather than swoop towards the back of his head like a gazelle.

The man’s eyes are sharp and scrutinizing as he snaps the book he is reading close and places it down on the desk. It looks like he is about to approach the window when he stops short.

At that moment, Cyran comes face to face with a familiar feline with wide-open eyes. Ebony jumped up on the window sill and was now staring at the much smaller winged creature on the other side of a pesky pane of glass. But the physics-defying creature is no stranger to these minor inconveniences. Her tail flicks back and forth as she starts making odd chirping noises in response to something she so desperately wants to hunt.

The fellblood looks unfazed by that cat’s appearance but acquiesces to her desire to go on the hunt. So he steps over to the window and opens it just enough for her to dart out at Batran.

To Cyran’s surprise, the figure that turned their attention to the window at the sound of his claws scraping against glass was not Eameia, as he’d perhaps hoped for. Zarius seemed to think that she would be here, or at least someone who could help them, and he had no reason to doubt that - out of the both of them, Zarius was the most impatient to return to their regular form, so there was no reason for him to lead them astray. But the individual in the study, from what Cyran could tell, was not Zarius’s sister.

For one thing, he was male. And far older than the young fellblood. Perhaps he looked irritated at the source of the noise, but irritation would get the job done just as readily as curiosity. All Cyran needed to do was get that door open, just a fraction, and he could slip in and find someone who could help.

Batran let out a little sigh of relief that sounded more like a squeal as the ram-horned fellblood shut his book with an audible SNAP of the pages, pulling himself out of the chair to investigate the source of the noise. Finally, something was going right for them -

Oh, no.

Not her.

Anyone but Her.

Cyran has stared down the gods in opposition of divine will before. He is no stranger to the sensation of being subject to the scrutiny of an infinitely powerful being, made to feel like an insect pinned against a cork board where escape is a futile, mortal struggle. Yes, he was woefully acquainted with that sense of mounting dread, the cold fluttering sensation that you were about to be plucked apart by an unknowable, unkillable ever-living ghost, and there was nothing you could do about it. This was the sensation that gripped him now, as he stared deep into the eyes of this void, this non-Euclidean being who masqueraded around as Zarius’s bewitched pet. Ebony.

It was only a frail piece of glass that separated them, and yet, Cyran’s poor little skittish bat heart did somersaults in his chest when her cat paws batted at the window, demanding to be set free. Her eyes were held on him with pinpoint focus, the unhurried sort that knew that she would get what she wanted eventually. And right now, while her size comparative to his own was akin to a massive rhinoceros staring down a human child, there was only one thing she wanted - to chew on his little bat bones and make a snack out of him.

And who was the fellblood to deny Her wants?

Cyran squealed in protest, flapping his wings to get away from his impending doom. Unfortunately for him, Ebony was much more familiar with being a cat than he was a bat, and as the floodgates were opened, it would be far too easy for her to snatch him out of the air before he could make his escape.

The window opens just enough for Ebony to slip through and launch herself full force into the air as Batran tries to escape. Her paws flail in the air and manage to smack him off balance and down the ground where she pins him down. Her tail flicks from side to side with the excitement of her fresh catch, but then her ears perk backward as the sound of the window closing distracts her for a moment. 

Mrowr~

She protests being locked out but then looks down at Batran, her whiskers twitching with interest and her little nose getting a good whiff of his scent. Her head tilts to one side. This little flying mouse smells familiar. It's a scent that lingered around an old haunt of the feline's, the wonderful tower filled with all manner of darkened corners and crevices she use to lurk about and terrorize any unsuspecting victims within it. 

The cat's mind filled with images of the bar, the stairwells, and a well-kept, plain room and the well-kept plain two-legger who used to reside in it. 

Ebony starts to purr loudly and kneed little biscuits on the edges of Cyran's wings, careful not to hook him with her sharp claws or crush his tiny bones under her weight. 

Her eyes stay locked on him, the narrowly focused slits of a hunter widening into circular pools of the void that could swallow every bit of light in all of Charon.

Mrowr~

She tilts her head to the other side as if questioning the prey beneath her little kitty paws. What exactly her question is though is difficult to discern given the lack of ability to communicate across species. At least for this moment, she wasn't hellbent on devouring the little bat and was more curious than malicious. 

Meanwhile, Borzarius is still trying to twist his head free of the fence with little success. All he can do is wait and hope that Cyran manages to find and communicate with Eameia before someone else finds him. Or, Gods forbid, the transformation ends and he returns to his fellblood form while still having his head stuck between the bars. 

The moment that one of Ebony’s ferocious paws batted him out of the air like a human swatting a fly, and pinned him to the ground, Cyran accepted his death. Partially out of survival instinct - he was not the best with cats but he understood that the lack of a struggle made things less fun for felines. Perhaps if he stayed absolutely still, rather than write and squiggle around, Ebony would quickly lose interest, and he would be able to get away…

Was. Was she making biscuits on him?

Oh, nine hells. Apparently he’d had the adverse effect. Rather than leave him alone, it seemed that she now found him rather amusing. Her purring felt more like the rumble of a distant volcano, her eyes like gazing into the abyss. And yet, she seemed quite content to play with him rather than eat him, almost like Batran was a fun little toy. A small mercy she saw him as a friend rather than food. Batran let out a little squeal, wondering what she was going to do. Was it possible she’d recognized him? Either way, he’d seemed to earn her favor, somehow.

An idea occurred to him.

Cyran couldn’t communicate with other humans so easily; but perhaps he could convey their predicament to Ebony? She was a rather intelligent creature, though her capricious whimsy meant you were just as likely to meet her claws as you were her affection. Still… a slim chance was better than nothing, wasn’t it? As Ebony tilted her head to the side, as inquisitive as a cat could be, Cyran nuzzled his head against one of her legs, hoping to convey as much as he could to her.

SQUEAK!

Meant to say, ‘Please help, Zarius and I have been trapped as animals and need to find someone who can fix us so we can destroy an ancient forest-god-spirit!’ He doubted Ebony would be able to understand that much, though, so that was a moot point. Perhaps if she were to let him go, he could try drawing Zarius in the dirt…? He doubted he would be free anytime soon, though. He was no longer a man of free will. He was no Ebony’s for the ferocious she-devil to do with which she pleased, and Cyran was just along for the ride.

Ebony's ears perk forward at the sound of Cyran's squeaking. It is highly unlikely that the noise communicated anything complex between the critters, but Ebony's curiosity is on Batran's side.

She sniffs him again and picks up another familiar scent. Her personal scratching post! How she's missed sharpening her claws on their sloping horns. The other posts in this new weird house aren't nearly as good. One of them shrieks too much for her delicate ears. She sniffs at the air and picks up the trail. 

Mrowr~

Much to Batran's likely dismay, she does not simply get off him and allow him to lead her back to Borzorius. Nope. Instead, she gently picks up Batran between her teeth and carries him like a freshly caught mouse. She bounds off through the drifts of ash. Oddly enough, no matter how much ash lands on her pelt, she never stops being just a pitch-black fuzzball darting across the yard and around the other side of the house. 

She leaps and bounds up onto a windowsill and starts pawing at the glass repeatedly. The curtains are closed, but there is the slightest bit of lantern light filtering through from inside. After a few moments of being jostled around as the cat tries to annoy her way in, the curtain shifts, and standing there is another charcoal-skinned fellblood.

She's older than Eameia, similar in age to the man who unleashed Ebony on Cyran. She's dressed in a beautiful dress that has aspects of Zeinavian casual wear to it but is embroidered elegantly with gold thread and turquoise beading. Her horns curl back and wrap around the back of her head before rising into four sharp points. She has the same gold eyes as Zarius, Eameia, and the man from before, but there's a softness there that is absent from the others. 

Ebony continues to paw at the window until the woman waves her hand and a ripple of magic unlocks and opens the window to allow them in. 

"Ebony, what do you have there?" She asks the chaotic cat, closing the window behind her once she's jumped down onto the floor and raced over to leap up onto a plush chair.

The cat makes biscuits on the red velvet upholstered furniture, leaving little ash paw prints all over its surface as she purrs loudly with Batran still held gently between her teeth.

The woman steps over and reaches down towards the cat, carefully freeing the tiny bat from her jaws. 

"Oh, poor thing," she inspects Cyran for any wounds. "You must be scared to death."

"Lady Zewala." A disembodied voice addresses the woman from somewhere in the room. "You should not be letting creatures in from outside."

"It is alright, I will not make a habit of it."

The silence from the voice is telling enough that she has already more than made a habit of it. 

Being that they were animals and could not communicate psychically to one another through some universal animal language, Ebony did not understand what Batran was trying to communicate. But she was intrigued nonetheless. She opened her gaping maw in a meow, letting up on him just enough that he no longer felt the pressure of impending death. Cyran let out a little sigh of relief - perhaps she’d somehow known what he was trying to say and was going to show him mercy? Such hopes, however, were dashed when he was picked up by the scruff like a young kit, the little black figure darting further away from the gate, and by extension, Borzarius, with her new toy clutched in her mouth.

Cyran remained still, resigned to his fate at the paws of the ferocious creature. What lay in store for him now? Cyran did not pay much attention to what Ebony did back in the Rookery, if only because she savored her privacy and Cyran respected that. But now that his life was on the line, there was a sense of dread mounting in his poor little bat heart. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, watching the mansion blur around them until Ebony approached a nearby window, summoning a fellblood woman to open it.

This one, Cyran did not recognize, same as the last one. Given her appearance and the striking similarities to the two members of the family that Cyran had met, he could only assume that this woman was the fabled Zewala that Cyran had heard about. The woman whom had influence all the way back in Zeinav, though Cyran had yet to meet.

… He suddenly felt quite aware of the fact that he was a bat and not his regular self.

Ebony made her way to the floor, leaving no discernible trace of ash and dust where she moved, like a specter rather than a real, living cat. A firm, rather large - or, well, large to him in his current state - reached out for him, fussing over his tiny animal form. Cyran wished he could say he felt humiliated but if he were being honest his well of shame had run dry hours ago. Cyran writhed, a touch uncomfortable as she observed him. Did she understand morse code? It was not an especially common method of communication, though Cyran knew it to send messages to his apprentices. It was a long shot, but he could only hope that a family of criminals and information gatherers would be able to understand. With his wings held, Cyran reached out his little leg to tap against her leg, a steady rhythm.

P-L-E-A-S-E - H-E-L-P

The woman does not find any wounds on the tiny bat as she gently checks his wings. Her touch is soft, but also unnaturally warm. There's also an odd smell about her as if the hints of flora perfume are attempting to cover something more pungent and acrid up.

"Lady Zewala, I must insist that you put that creature back outside," the voice prompts again. "It could be diseased."

"Oh hush, you worry too much."

"I believe I worry an appropriate amount. Your safety and wellbeing is our priority."

Zewala isn't listening though as she notices the odd behavior from the small mammal in her hands. Her eyes narrow a bit as Batran attempts to communicate in morse code. It's unclear if she understands or not, but she does seem to glean some sort of insight from the intentional rhythm. 

"Aubrey, please step out of the room for a moment."

There's a long silent pause from the unseen voice. "A moment." With that, the door to the room opens as if someone was passing through it before it closes. 

Zewala steps over to the table next to the chair Ebony was making herself at home on. She sets down Batran gently before waving her hand and muttering a familiar incantation under her breath. Magic which bends space and time itself ripples through the air, coalescing around her fingertips before she leans down and boops Cyran on the top of his head. 

In an instant, she knows all she could ever know. 

She pulls back a bit in surprise, and her face darkens with embarrassment. 

"Oh, my. Apologies, Master Cyran. Uhm-" she clears her throat to keep herself from laughing at the predicament the hunter currently is in. "It is good that you managed to make it here relatively unharmed."

She considers for a moment what is the best course of action before walking over to a bookshelf and scanning the spines of several tomes. "Let us see...transformations, transformation." Pulling a few books one by one from the shelf, she quickly skims through each, searching for anything that could be of aid to her son's ally. "Oh." She pauses for a moment and goes over to the door, peaking her head out after cracking the door a few inches. "Aubrey, there is a jackal stuck in the fence, could you please go free it without causing it any harm?"

"...Lady Zewala, what exactly is going on?"

"Pleeeeeease."

There's an audible sigh of surrender followed by quiet footsteps that head away from the door and down the hall. 

"Thank yooooou." Zewala closes the door quietly and goes back to searching for a spell powerful enough to revert Cyran to normal. 

"I have to say," she says to Cyran while she reads. "I was hoping to meet you, but not under these circumstances. It is a bit funny."

As Madam Zewala cast her spell, a myriad of information would flood her mind at once. Centuries of information in the span of seconds, likely a flood she did not expect from such a diminutive creature.

---

SPOILER: Click to show

The first thing you get is a name.

A full one, this time.

Cyran Fenastra is not a name you have ever heard him say of his own volition before, though not out of lack of trust on his part. It is because the name of the Fenastra Clan, the cutthroat merchants of Eclipse City, is no longer his to claim. You will learn the details of exactly why and how later, should you choose to delve deeper.

Of course, you have no say in the matter.

You learn other surface level things, at first. It does not take much delving to learn that Cyran (formerly of Fenastra) is adept with the blade, a master of stealth, and a shadowmancer with command over space and shadow itself. You, of course, already knew these things. But what you might not know is that Cyran was not born with this magic, nor did he grow up training with the blade. In fact, one might have once considered him quite incapable of harm at all.

A byproduct of his upbringing, perhaps.

Cyran Fenastra is born under a meteor shower, right at the cusp of dusk to Lormundel and Cyrilla Fenastra (née Dattachaudhuri of the Southern Crescent Isles) in the Fenastra manor. Lormundel is the old fashioned sort - he comes from a long line of moon elves ascribed to older ways of thinking, believing that Moon Elves deserve an equal place on the throne in Sol City after they were so cruelly wronged in the elven wars. As such, he keeps their family motto inscribed in old elvish on the fireplace for all to see-

THE MOON WILL ECLIPSE THE SUN.

Lormundel Fenastra’s views are unimportant to this story. Or, perhaps they aren’t, as from the moment Cyran is born, the sole heir of the Fenastra Clan, he is trained in all manner of subjects befitting of a future merchant and politician. By his father, Cyran is trained in economics, history, and modern politics. His mother, on the other hand, instills any language she deems useful, and parades Cyran around galas, determined to teach him the ways of socialites, and how to mingle and make alliances.

The Fenastra family is young and hungry, and they are willing to do anything to get their hands on more money and power.

For the first years of his life, Cyran is an asset, not a son.

And sure, there are some areas that Cyran excels at. He is a quiet young man, keen and observant. He is good at reading people, uncannily so. Lormundel thinks he sees promise in his progeny - but it is all undercut by the fact that Cyran is soft, shy, and doesn’t seem especially interested in the family business at all.

What is to be done about this?

Lormundel has an idea. If Cyran is unwilling to listen to his lessons, or learn from the corporal punishment carried out behind closed doors (these memories are fuzzy, blurred with pain and tears), then there is only one use for him. As a bargaining chip in a political alliance. And Lormundel has been awfully interested in the Pavyre Family as of late.

The Pavyre Family is an… odd one, all things considered. They are a family of old mages, with deep, powerful magic. Worshippers of Lunala. They both represent everything the Fenastra Family is against and everything they are for. Most importantly, they are deeply ingrained in Eclipse City, with limitless funds and influence and an interest in rare and arcane curios. The Pavyre family also, interestingly enough, has many, many children, all of whom are available for marriage.

Lormundel Fenastra has an idea.

Cyran Fenastra and Rowan Pavyre, youngest daughter of the Pavyre Family, are engaged within the year.

They are married within the next half.

Cyran and Rowan are given a smaller home a little ways away from the Fenastra manor. Neither is especially happy about this arrangement, though Cyran is willing to make the best of things. Rowan, on the other hand, wants nothing to do with Cyran. She resents this man for what he represents, though for reasons Cyran cannot understand. And so for years, they play a doting couple in public, pretending that everything is normal while the Fenastra-Pavyre alliance flourishes. And at home, they are strangers, distant. They play this game for a little over two centuries, memories that are a blur in Cyran’s mind, a haze of the same day over and over again, going through the motions but not quite living.

And then Cyran finds her laboratory in the basement.

He does not care to know about what Rowan is doing. Not until he finds the remnants of experiments conducted on people for the sake of furthering her dark magic. Scared, he grabs her notebook from the desk and confronts her that day. That he will expose her for her crimes. But rather than confess, she merely laughs.

You could try, but no one would believe you. No one would care to. If you take that journal to the guards tonight this will all disappear by morning.

And there are some truths, Cyran knows, that will never see the light of day. So he does something he is not particularly proud of - he makes a deal.

“I look the other way,” He starts, “And you help give me something in return.”

He has always wanted a family of his own. Different from the cold environment he grew up in. Children he can show love himself. Rowan agrees, not because she fears what he might do, but because his attempts are annoying. Within the year, Marlow Fenastra is born, and Cyran loves her more than life itself.

Marlow is an exceptionally bright child. Already babbling in common and elvish and toddling around by a year old. With her in his life, Cyran has purpose for once. And he takes to the job with as much love and affection as he has been denied in his life. Marlow grows up happy, cared for, and she is Cyran’s sun.

Until she turns twelve, and the thin threads that are holding Cyran’s life together snap and crumble apart.

He does not know what Rowan has been doing over these years. Perhaps he should have been paying attention, because the creature standing in their living room when he returns home one afternoon is not Rowan Pavyre. Whatever creature she has invited into her body, the being she has made a bargain with for power in exchange for dark magic, she cannot resist it any longer. And it takes over her body. She smiles at him, and says, “You’ll do.”

Cyran tries to run. He turns around and attempts to make a break for freedom - for the door. But not-Rowan is faster and stronger, and dark-magic claws rake down his back before he can flee. Cyran screams, collapsing to the floor. Rowan steps over him, a miasma of dark magic growing in her hand as a wicked smile grows on her face.

And then she turns to look at you. Madam Zewala.

“Oh, my, you’re not supposed to be here. Why don’t we skip past this part?”

Cyran’s eyes close, and the memory shifts to the hospital, where Cyran lays as still as the grave, and Marlow, barely twelve years old, sits by his side -

It shifts to him, growing feverish as the rot begins to set in -

A ghostly woman, manifesting above him as he walks the line between life and death, a smile on her face as she pats his head. She has died before she could finish the job, her body unable to bear the power she held, but that does not mean her plans have stopped. Merely… delayed. “Oh, I suppose you’ll do just fine.”

And then -

“Oh, yes, this one is far more interesting.”

Cyran stands in the middle of an empty foyer. He is healed, not fully but enough to stand - bandages poke out from under his tunic, and bruises cover his face. His lip is split. But more prevalent is the hatred and hurt burning in his eyes as Lormundel Fenastra speaks, armed men on either side of his father. He does not even look at Cyran. His eyes are trained on the insignia on the fireplace. Marlow plays with toys in the corner, unaware of what is about to happen.

“You understand the consequences for this are serious. The Pavyres demand recompense for this error.”

Cyran opens his mouth to object - thinks better of it. He straightens, resigned. The scars in his back tear. Gods, he is so tired. “So it’s to be exile, then. That’s the only solution you were willing to come up with?”

“The Pavyres demanded your death. An eye for an eye. This was the most merciful solution I could think of.” Lormundel does not turn around, still. “What else would you have me do?”

“Side with your only son, for once in your life!”

“And burn one of our most lucrative alliances to the ground?”

“And give a damn about something other than money and power!”

… Silence. Still, Lormundel remains trained on the insignia and the crackling fire in the fireplace - his choice has already been made.

And for the first time, something inside of Cyran snaps. For years, he has spent standing in his father’s shadow, desperately trying to be good enough, to be someone worth a damn. He tried so hard. But it would never have been good enough, would it? And now his father cannot even stand to gaze upon this disappointment, darkened stain on the Fenastra name.

Look at me.

Look at me!

“Look at me!”

Coldness seeps into Cyran’s bones - and inexplicably, around him, the shadows begin to shift, grow deeper. Plunging the room in darkness. The fire in the mantle is extinguished in a puff of smoke.

Alarmed, Lormundel turns around, finally acknowledging his son now that Cyran has forced him to look. And all he sees, in that moment, is a wild and desperate man.

“For the love of Lunala, get control of yourself, boy.” He snaps. “This is unbecoming of you. A Fenastra doesn’t lose their head.”

Then again. It is not as if he will be one for much longer.

He never really embodied their values, anyways.

Cyran takes a step back. Defeated. He feels fifteen years old again, a fool because he has lost daddy’s approval. “Fine.” He whispers, and it feels like the end. “I will take Marlow and be out of your life by the end of the day. You’ll never have to see either of us again.” He doesn’t care about the money, not really.

“Oh, no, you misunderstand me. Marlow is not coming with you.”

“What?” Cyran’s eyes narrow. “Of course she is, she is my daughter.”

“She is the future heiress of the Fenastra Clan.” Lormundel walks over to the corner, where the young girl is playing, to pick her up. Cyran, still injured, cannot move fast enough to stop this. Can only watch as his father makes his way to the door. This conversation is over.

“No, not Marlow, anything but her, please-“ Cyran is growing desperate, the edges of his voice tinged with anguish as he realizes what he is about to lose. He doesn’t give a shit about the money or the name, or the house. He would be fine losing it all, as long as he has her by his side.

Anything but her.

And so he begs.

“Please, she’s all I have left-“

“I expect you to be gone by the time I return.” Lormundel informs him, cold. Marlow watches Cyran, tears beginning to run down her cheeks, unaware of what is going on aside from the fact that her father is sad.

“Daddy?”

That thing inside of Cyran breaks further. It does not matter that he is injured. It does not matter that he has never raised his fist against another person in his life. Cyran runs forward, murder in his eyes, and a scream leaving his lips -

“Give her back you bastard!”-

- And one of the guards steps in smoothly, kicking Cyran to the ground. Marlow lets out one last anguished scream, or perhaps it is Cyran himself. Maybe both. Those wails echo through the empty halls as the door shuts behind Lormundel’s retreating back.

From the ground, Cyran rolls over to glower at the guards who have been left behind to watch him. “I hate you.” He hisses, the words burning in his core. He is not sure if he’s talking to them or his father, but in that moment it doesn’t matter.

One of the guards takes pity on him. A squishy noble’s son, ripped from his family and cast out into the world with nothing to his name. Cyran will die in a week, he thinks. Before he can think better of it, he plucks a dagger from his belt and tosses it in front of Cyran.

“Here.” He barks. “Do with it what you will.”

Either he will use it to take the quick way out, or he’ll try to buy himself a couple more days of survival. Either way it is a mercy.

Cyran glares at the dagger. A shaking, hesitant hand reaches out to grasp it.

You would recognize this dagger as the one that Cyran has always carried around with him, this reminder of his failures. The small, unassuming weapon that has since been enchanted, rarely used, but kept all the same.

Nothing.

And so Cyran takes this dagger and leaves. It does not matter where he goes, at first, only that he gets the hell out. The first few months spent on his own are a blur of grief, regret, and pain as he heals from his injuries. Perhaps he should die a thousand times over, but inexplicably, he survives. And he grows stronger.

And so does his magic.

He tries taking odd jobs for money. But somewhere along the line, he gets a particularly… odd request, for a lot of money. To dispose of a rival member of a political faction, for a lucrative reward. The client probably thinks that Cyran cannot handle such a thing. That he will die a scapegoat. But Cyran takes his dagger, and his natural inclination for stealth, along with that kind of… emptiness inside of him that prevents him from feeling guilt when he takes a life - they get the job done, somehow. He feels nothing.

And the beginnings of the Specter are born.

Cyran does not set out to become an assassin. But it is something he is good at. It is him or the others, and Cyran finds that he wants to choose life. Life, for the daughter he has failed. Life, for the father he vows to kill one day. The only man whose life he will ever take for his own sake. Not because he wants to survive. But because death is too easy a punishment for him.

And ten years pass. And Cyran grows deadly. Alone he wanders, drifting from place to place. His name does not matter, nor does his person, as he takes job after job. Cyran begins to lose himself, with only his memories and a cold ghost whispering in his ear to keep him company.

---

… Though perhaps that information was unimportant to Zewala. Though it would interest her to learn that the tiny bat was in fact the assassin that had been working with her son for the past year, and that the son in question was also stuck as a jackal right outside the grounds of her property. Yes, that was probably more useful.

If Cyran could look put out at the sign of laughter from the madam, he did not show it - namely because his little bat face was too cute and fuzzy to convey human expression. He nodded his head, hoping he didn’t look too mortified at this chance meeting with Zarius’s mother in this form. Hoping he didn’t look too mortified at the fact that she’d just glimpsed into his past, seen every detail, secrets he’d yet to even tell Zarius. Not for lack of trust on his part - because he wanted to confide in the fellblood - but because he was too ashamed of his own shortcomings. How could he be a good friend and ally if he’d proven that he couldn’t even take care of his own family? If Zarius knew that he’d not come from a criminal background, but rather, a stable home with a roof over his head?

Assuming she let him go, Cyran would move to perch on her shoulder, watching while she poured through her times for a solution to their predicament.

M-E T-O-O. He tapped out, unsure if she could understand the series of pauses, but hoping she understood that he was replying to her and communicating nonetheless. He hesitated, as if wanting to say more. Shook his head. That conversation could wait until he was human again.

Besides, if Zewala had any reason to doubt him based on what she’d seen, he could only hope that she saw that above all, Cyran had Zarius’s best interests at heart. Not just as an employee, but as a friend.

And there was no measure he wasn’t willing to take for his friends.

…. Yes, even if it meant embarrassing himself like this for them.

Oh.

She is pissed.

Zewala Rha'Esandi is a fairly patient and well-mannered individual, but when it comes to beings of darkness, evil spirits, and fiendish entities pulling strings behind the scenes and meddling in her magic, she grows absolutely livid.

Reaching out with her will, she pulls and twists the strings of magic in an attempt to bend them to her will in defiance of the entity. The resistance is intense, enough so that she risks ripping apart the arcanum of the spell itself which would be very bad and possibly harmful to Cyran. If Cyran wasn't a friend to her son, she would risk it. But given the circumstances, she frustratedly allows the scenes to play out at the whim of this dark and corrupted entity. Clearly, its hold on Cyran is incredibly deep and it will not relinquish him so easily.

As tempted as she is, that is a whole can of worms that they would not be able to dive into at this time.

Zewala is no fool, nor is she a stranger to occult practices and dark dealings. Coming from a family line bursting with political radicals and cultists dealing in necromancy meant she was more than familiar with just how complicated it was to undo a pact without causing extreme harm to the mortal soul bound to it. Given enough time and resources, perhaps she could be of assistance to Cyran, but for now, she needs to focus on unraveling the transformative magic that is currently gripping his physical form. 

Parsing through all the information she gains, or at least what the being will allow her to see, she also continues to flip through book after book. Many of them are written in long-dead languages that even Cyran has never come across before. The tomes are old and fragile, each page threatens to crumble under Lady Zewala's delicate touch as she searches for magic powerful enough to break the Ur-beast's curse. 

She pauses only for a moment when the more recent memories flit through her mind. The soft smile returns to her face.

“Oh, your fiance is very beautiful,” she comments.

While she would love to linger on those tender moments because she is a sap for that kind of romance, she continues to pick through the memories for more useful information. Still, there are some curious tidbits that give her pause. 

The Crucible.

Something about that rings a bell as does the strange cult that tried to perform some profane ritual on the elven pair. It's like a memory, but not from Cyran and also not necessarily one of her own either as her cult ties were soundly in the desert sands of Zeinav. It’s not even a full recollection either, more like a whisper. Odd.

She shakes her head, clearing it to focus on the task at hand.

“Thank you for looking after my son. I often worry that he is under too much pressure with the burdens he carries for our family and business. It is wonderful to see he is making such good friends who are willing to support him.”

That is a genuine sentiment, she would be lying if she said she didn't carry some level of guilt for the situation she and Anselm have put their children in. While they've done what they can to provide for their children to the best of their ability given the circumstances, she can't help but wonder if they would have been better off living a simpler life with less inherent danger.

She puts those worries to the side as she steps back over to the table in the room and places down one of the dusty old books she pulled from the shelf. 

"I think we can try this. Ur-beasts are very powerful and ancient creatures, their ties to the primordial energies is much stronger than any mage's manipulation of the formulae arcanum. Still, we can try."

Gently scooping Cyran off her shoulder, she places him down on the armrest of the chair Ebony was curled up on. The noblewoman then goes about the room moving other furniture to the side and clearing a space in the middle of the room. Shockingly, she hikes up the skirt of her dress so she can kneel down on the ground and start to carve arcane sigils into the polished floorboards with a knife that was hidden up her sleeve. 

Midway through creating a very elaborate spell circle, she starts to hum a little tune, completely engrossed in her work and clearly enjoying every moment of it. 

Meanwhile, outside, the invisible guard whom Zewala sent outside appears on the grounds and starts looking around the perimeter fence. It doesn't take them long to find Borzarius still stuck there. 

Zarius's ears perk and he glances towards the guard, one he recognizes well as his mother's trusted personal guard and Eirynor's mentor. The wizened elven woman has seen much in her centuries of life, each bit of experience leaving a crease in the skin around her eyes as age catches up with her. Her sun-elf skin and long golden hair have long since lost vibrancy from years of living under the clouded Ash Land skies. Her gaze is stern and her hand rests on the hilt of her longsword, ever at the ready. 

She approaches the jackal before assessing the situation and coming up with the best way to free the jackal without causing any harm. 

Zarius stays docile, he's not sure how much Aubrey knows about the current situation given Cyran cannot talk, but it's clear the swordswoman is here to help and not just do some pest control. 

Aubrey cautiously and wordlessly puts one hand on the top of Zarius' head while using her other to gently start nudging his bunched-up fur back through the bars.

Zarius winces a bit, getting pinched here or there, but puts up with it until she gives a firm push on his head to make it squeeze through the bars. He jumps back once he's free and shakes out his pelt. Gods. This is humiliating. 

The swordswoman stands back up and gives a skeptical look at him before turning and leaving back for the manor, her task completed. 

Well, that helped, but Zarius is still outside the perimeter fence while Cyran is on his own on the other side. He can only hope that the assassin has managed to find some help and hasn't gotten into any trouble. Heaven forbid the tiny bat runs afoul of Ebony while defenseless. 

Cyran couldn’t help but feel at least partially responsible for the tense mood that had washed over the room. It was not difficult to tell that Lady Zewala was upset; she was a woman of composure, but even that control was not infinite, and when you were as accustomed to reading small tells as Cyran, you could pick up on hidden emotions, concealed in the slight grimaced and pursed lips. The elf-turned-bat wrapped his wings around himself as if it were a cloak, scuffing his feet along Lady Zewala’s shoulder. Yes, the mood had grown entirely sour, and it was all because of what Zewala had gleaned from Cyran’s memories.

Not for the first time today, he wished he had a human mouth, if only to offer an apology. For what, he wasn’t truly sure. What she’d seen in his memories? An apology for being a bad father, or because she’d just been subjected to something rather unfortunate? Either way, it didn’t matter. Zewala was focused on the tomes in front of her, and Cyran was, unfortunately, still a bat. So he could only watch while she gently flipped through the pages of her books, pouring through research to find a spell powerful enough to undo the will of a godbeast.

He perked up when she mentioned Del.

Yeah, he thought in agreement, she is.

It was probably lucky for Zewala in that moment that he could not speak, and therefore not make a lovestruck fool of himself in the process. Nevertheless, if it was possible to read the expression of a bat’s little fuzzy face, Zewala would notice he looked quite proud. And the expression only softened with Zewala’s thanks for watching after her son. Truly, she didn’t have to offer such sentiments. Zarius was - well, Cyran could not rightfully call him a good person, but morals aside, he stuck to his own personal code and looked after his own. His values as far as family and loyalty - those were things that Cyran supported.

Truly, Zewala did not need to thank him.

But from a parent to a parent, Cyran understood the gratitude.

Where he was perched on her shoulder, Cyran placed a little talon on her cheek, nodding, as if to say, I will look after him as much as I can.

He allowed himself to be placed on the armrest of the chair, tapping his little feet in anticipation, hoping the spell would work; and that Miss Aubrey had managed to find Zarius. With any luck the both of them would be free of this bad dream soon.

Zewala continues to work on the arcane circle diligently. The tune she hums seems like it could easily accompany a waltz and each mark she makes on the floor goes in time with it. 

After a few moments, the door quietly swings open as an invisible individual enters the room. There's a long pause of silence before there's an exasperated sigh and the door closes with a soft click. 

"Lady Zewala, what are you doing?" The same voice from before rings out from near the door with a tired tone. 

"Do not mind me, just going to try a little spell on this little definitely-just-a-normal bat."

Footsteps cross the polished wooden floor over to where Cyran is. "I will mind you, it is my duty to protect you from any threats." Cyran can feel the presence of the unseen figure looming over him. "Even tiny fuzzy ones."

"Oh shush," Zewala waves dismissively while continuing to scrawl elaborate runes across the floor. "I know what I am doing."

There's a scoff from the invisible person and a slight creak from the chair as they lean against it. 

Ebony's ears perk and her eyes widen as she looks around like she's hunting for a fly buzzing around the room. There were many unseen people within the family manor and that made for many challenging hunts. 

With one last stroke, Zewala removes the knife tip from the floor and sits back on her heels. She surveys her work and gives an affirmative nod. "This will do." Rising to her feet and smoothing out the skirt of her dress, she then sweeps over to Cyran and gently picks him back up. 

"Now, you must stay right in the center and concentrate on staying calm. Maybe try focusing on the form you are trying to return to. Though, if I tell you, be ready to jump out juuuuuust in case something weird happens."

She places Batran down in the center of the circle before stepping to the edge of it. She takes the tip of her knife and carefully runs it from the tip of her thumb down to the palm of her hand just enough to draw blood. Kneeling back down, she places her hand against the arcane runes and starts muttering some incantation in a strange tongue under her breath. 

The air in the room grows heavy and the shadows seem to lengthen and suppress the lantern light. Small motes of magical energy start to rise from the circle and there's a crackle that runs through the air and makes Cyran's hair stand on end. Zewala enters a trance-like state as she continues to repeat the incantation. 

At one point it feels like something is pulling on Cyran, trying to stretch and change his form. It's not painful, but it's an odd sensation all the same.

In her trance, Zewala connects once more with Cyran's memories, though only the most recent ones. She sees through his eyes the Deadwood, her son, and then the Ur-beast. The epitome of primordial magic taken physical form, creatures of myth and legend with ties to the divine. It stares through Cyran into her very soul and rejects her. 

She returns to her senses just as a crackle of magic breaks free from her control and rips through the room, shattering glass and splintering wood. Aubrey springs into action and shields Zewala the best she can while all Zewala says is "Oops."

Ebony poofs up to double her size spooked by the sudden loud noises. She hisses loudly and makes a mad dash for the window while picking up Batran on the way. 

"Oh! No! Come back!" Zewala's voice calls after the cat, but the black creature is already gone with its captive in tow. "Oh dear."

Hearing the raucous, Borzarius anxiously races around the perimeter fence to the other side of the manor. He just catches sight of a streak of black fur sprinting away from a now shattered window towards the fence with a little bundle in its mouth. 

Gods. Damn this cat. 

He gives chase, which, being a dog, only makes Ebony run away faster. 

Lady Zewala seemed to know what she was doing… Cyran thought. In this form he did not have the same keen vision he normally did - in fact, his vision was so blurry that he was beginning to truly understand the phrase as blind as a bat - but she sounded confident in what she was doing, and moving like a woman with a purpose. Time would tell if she had figured out the proper ritual to break the power of a god-beast. Cyran watched her with silent interest, unable to comment on what she was working on, or make small talk, or even mention the weather. Goodness, this was awkward. At least Lady Zewala had her hands full, scraping a rune into the ground and muttering in foreign tongues in preparation of what she was about to do.

Yes, she seemed like she knew what she was doing.

Cyran had to trust that this would not blow up in his face, given that his own life was on the line here.

Well, it was either this or spend the rest of his life stuck as a bat, and he’d be of no use to anyone like this. He very well couldn’t hold a knife to carry out contracts and put dinner on the table for his kids, and what about his fiancée? He didn’t think Del would be very pleased if her soon-to-be husband was less than half a foot tall and covered in fuzz, and forced to eat, well, come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure what kind of bat he was and what kind of dietary restrictions he was now bound to. Would she have to just feed him insects for the rest of his tiny, insignificant bat lifespan if Zewala couldn’t fix him? Despite his best efforts to remain serene, his teeny little animal heart began hammering in his chest.

Staying calm was easier said than done, given the strange sensation that overtook him only seconds later.

It was not necessarily painful, but that didn’t make it pleasant. He often made bread for the kids at the orphanage; a cheap staple and easy to make when he could get his hands on a little bit of yeast. He often lost himself in the motions of kneading out the dough, stretching it and folding it over itself until it had been worked into an entirely different shape. That was how he felt while Zewala attempted to unweave the spell that had been woven - stretched out dough. Batran grit his fangs, hoping that this feeling would end soon and he could go back to just being a person…

And then everything exploded.

Cyran let out a squeal, the sheer pressure of the magic making his fuzz fluff up like he’d been given a dose of electricity. Ebony, from a good distance away, had fared no better. The eldritch cat let out a noise of derision before dashing towards Cyran, and the assassin, who was most definitely still a bat, was helpless to stop her from scooping him into her mouth and dashing out the window, effectively kidnapped once more.

Oh, hell.

This was his life now. To be carted off wherever Ebony willed him to be, and was that Zarius chasing after them? It was hard to tell in the pandemonium, and Batran was far too small to angle himself around and get a better look at the jackal that was chasing after them. He squeaked, flapping his wings in an attempt to do something, but he was so mournfully little and Ebony was so horribly chaotic that he had a better chance of diverting a river from its course. And so they ran through the streets of Darkveil, Borzarius hot on their heels, leaving behind the nice residential area to more familiar surroundings.

Wait, he recognized these streets.

Was Ebony following his scent? Because from his perspective, it looked like they were getting closer to…

Inside, Oriole was futzing around in the kitchen, one of the windows open to let out some of the smoke. Master Cyran was off taking care of matters, Miss Del was at the forge, and Andromeda was off brooding, so there was nothing for the poor, anxious young man to do but make use of the ingredients they had on hand and bake something! There was a smile on his face as he pulled a pie from the oven, standing dangerously close to the window while he assessed it. Yes, this was perfect! Master Cyran would certainly enjoy it when he returned from his mission.

Or at least, he would have, if Ebony had not chosen that very moment to jump through the open window, landing right on the pie in Oriole’s hands and utilizing it as a springboard to leap away and land on the ground, breaking Oriole’s baked good into mush.

“Aw, what-? I worked so hard on that!” He groaned, turning back to the menace currently getting cat paw-shaped cherry marks along the ground in her trek through Shade’s Valley. What the hell was that? A little black ball of soot? He would have chased after it, but he was in the middle of a pie disaster, and there were plenty of animals around that would take care of the problem for him. The thief turned around to lament his fallen pie, utterly missing the Borzarius sitting outside the window, fixing him with an intense stare.

…

Inside the orphanage, at the scent of something new and horrifying, and the hints of something familiar, the animals stirred.

---

Joining the party:
Umbra - Mimic Moth (not against pet cap)
Aruna - Water Pixie (not against pet cap)
Commander Peepers and Admiral Peepers - Griffon Songbirds (Don’t count against pet cap)
Nightmare - Nightmare steed (counts against pet cap)
Yeux - Vampire bat (counts against pet cap)

How does something with such short legs MOVE SO FAST??

Borzarius has a hell of a time keeping up with the little black puffball that is Ebony as she races through Darkveil's streets like a devil is chasing her. Well, technically speaking he's chasing her, so in retrospect that comparison isn't that far off.

The surroundings blur by, but Zarius knows these streets. He knows them well. They pass by the back alley that leads to the wreckage of the Rookery, which he would have assumed Ebony would dart towards because of familiarity. But no. The cat continues down the street to the back of the orphanage just a block or two away.

He's just about to catch up when Ebony leaps through the open window.

Gods. Dammit. Who just leaves a window open in Darkveil of all places?

Borzarius skids to a stop and looks at the open window. He nearly bunches up to jump through when he spots Oriole.

Ah. That answers his question. He gives the apprentice an unimpressed look for a moment before his attention goes back to the task at hand. 

There's a bit of a dilemma with this situation. Mainly, he's outside while Ebony and Batran are inside. He doubts Oriole will let a wild animal into the orphanage where kids are present. But...maybe, just maybe, he can trick Oriole into it.

Gods. Is he really going to humiliate himself further?

Yes. 

Yes, he is.

He sits down a wags his tail back and forth while he lifts one paw and tilts his head to the side. His tongue lolls out to the side in an attempt to mimic a friendly dog to the best of his ability. He's still clearly a wild animal, but maybe this will be enough to give Oriole the idea that something is out of the ordinary.

Meanwhile, Ebony rips through the orphanage, darting between the legs of children until she dives under a couch in the common area. It's only once she's safely out of sight of any kids that she finally releases Batran from her grip. 

Oriole wiped his hands on a towel, getting the remnants of his pie corpse off of himself before turning around to close the damn window. He’d left it open for the smoke, but Master Cyran was going to kill him if he learned that Oriole had let some stray animals inside the orphanage, where they could get to the kids. He moved to shut the window to make his way after that damn cat -

“Oh, shit!”

Oriole yelped, immediately flinching away from the window. Was that a damn jackal? What was it doing, just… sitting there? Oriole moved to grab the broom to shoo the dog away when all of a sudden, as if it had been waiting for Oriole to look at it, it flopped down, tail furiously wagging while it held out a paw. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth, looking so derpy that Oriole couldn’t help but fall in love with it immediately.

“Oh. My. Gods.”

Oriole leaned forward, immediately moving to shake the jackal’s paw. It even knew how to shake! Did this puppy belong to someone? Oriole bent over the windowsill, moving to pick up the jackal and bring it inside. It didn’t look like it had any collar… well, either way, even on the off chance it did belong to someone around here, in a place like Darkveil it was finder’s keepers, and he was a thief…

Well, maybe it didn’t matter if he had a pet of his own, did it?

He scratched behind the jackal’s ears, a smile on his face.

“Are you a boy or a girl? I guess it doesn’t matter… I’ll pick a gender neutral name for you. How do you feel about Pickles?”

Yeah, that was perfect!

“Alright, Pickles. I’ve got my first task for you. Go and take care of that stray for me!” Oriole said, placing Pickles down on the ground to let the Jackal after the cat. Where had that pesky critter gotten off to…?

Meanwhile, the kids in the main parlor were growing curious about the cat that had been darting under their legs. One of them picked up a large, black-winged moth and shoved it underneath in an attempt to scare the stray out from her place of safety. The kitten-sized moth scrambled underneath, sniffing curiously at Ebony, and the weirdly familiar bat she was with.

How do you feel about Pickles?

If a jackal could look beyond unimpressed, that's exactly what he would look like right now. Luckily for Oriole, such expressions are hard to gauge with wild animals. 

Borzarius refrains from growling at Oriole when the apprentice picks him up. This was beyond humiliating, but it worked so he'd bite his tongue a hundred times over if he had to. 

As soon as his paws hit the floor, he trots off to find where Batran and Ebony went. He's not terribly familiar with the orphanage's layout given that he has done his best to keep his distance from the place. Appearing in person here too often would draw unwanted attention to all the vulnerable kids who call this place home, if only temporarily. 

It doesn't take too long for him to find them as many of the kids gather around out of curiosity. Well, at least like this they haven't caused a panic. Though, there's no way he's getting close to them while there's a barrier of street urchins in the way. Not wanting to get mobbed himself, he skirts around behind the group, weaving between the furniture to avoid their attention.

Just as he passes by a chair, however, a youngster who sitting up on it reaches out and grabs his tail. He yelps, tucks his ass, and pins his ears. He manages to restrain himself from baring his teeth, but now his cover is broken and the other kids take notice. 

Gods have mercy. 

Ebony drops Batran on the floor again and looks back at the kitten moth. Her whiskers twitch and her nose wiggles as she sniffs at Umbra, slowly raising a paw until she strikes out and baps her on the head just to establish who is the boss around here. The nerve of this little fuzzy moth thing to think it rules the roost around its own home. 

Her ears perk right up at the sound of the yelp and rather than hiss, she purrs in delight.