The Blind Leads the Blind

The Mood is Write

Mom-de-Plume
Original poster
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Invitation Status
  1. Looking for partners
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per day
  2. Multiple posts per week
Online Availability
It varies wildly.
Writing Levels
  1. Advanced
  2. Prestige
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Nonbinary
  3. Primarily Prefer Female
Genres
I'm open to a wide range of genres. Obscenely wide. It's harder for me to list all I do like than all I don't like.

My favorite settings are fantasy combined with something else, multiverse, post-apoc, historical (mixed with something else), and futuristic. I'm not limited to those, but it's a good start.

My favorite genres include mystery, adventure, action, drama, tragedy (must be mixed with something else and kept balanced), romance (again must be mixed, and more.

I'm happy to include elements of slice-of-life and romance, but doing them on their own doesn't hold my interest indefinitely.
Twiggy seemed to meander through HQ's stone halls. His cane tapped in front of him, seeking obstacles: subtle dips and bumps in the floor, objects, or people. His head turned side to side, scanning, as though the blindfolded man tried to see his surroundings. In truth, his attention was on his ears as he listened to all around him, trying to form a map.

His footsteps echoed off the stones in the narrow hall. His own breath quickened as something in his stomach tightened and yanked, and he picked up his pace slightly. He'd stopped questioning the strange urges that pulled him into and out of strange places and events at their whims.

The cane jerked as it struck something, and Twiggy stopped to feel it out through his socked feet. Instead of the expected wall, he found a step, and above it another. Three steps.

The tall man edged forward with caution, but regardless of intent, something clonked against his head and sent white stars into his mind. Twiggy grunted, then rubbed at his forehead with a quiet curse of "Frig". He ducked as he tried again, and another smack to his noggin nearly knocked him over.

At six centimeters short of two full meters, the massive man began to use his hands to feel out what was before him. A few moments found it was a tunnel, but much narrower than the hall he'd been walking. With a heavy sigh, he collapsed his cane and stuck it into one of his many pockets, then lowered himself to hands and knees. He crawled forward and forward. The sound of cloth rubbing stone accompanied him. The ever-present scent of ancient dust and his own sweat tickled at his nose.

His hands crushed some sort of dried film on the floor, but he kept on until his knees and the heels of his hands felt wet, and the scent of blood accompanied the stagnant air. Despite this, he kept forward, wishing he had some idea how far he'd come and how far he had still to go. His arms, shoulders, hips, and back burned as the urges sent him still forward.

The change came abruptly. An abundance of new scents and sounds surrounded him, clawing at his mind, demanding attention he wasn't able to give, and the floor underneath felt different, but the urge continued. He wasn't where it wanted him yet, but he had a strange feeling in his gut he couldn't identify. He paused, trying to explore the sensation further, but one hand shot forward, and the rest of him followed to keep from falling onto his face. A growing sense of anticipation gnawed his nerves raw, even as he felt the brushing of his hair against the ceiling cease as it grew taller. The urges kept him on hands and knees, anticipating and leading—wherever he was going next had a low ceiling.

So this time it warned him.

Twiggy tried to keep his commentary away, but a sudden jerk in the urges sent his face into a wall.

Sorry, Sorry!

He fumbled, dizzied, and began to follow the urge again, still trusting it to lead.

The ground changed beneath his bleeding hands and knees again, and more scents came. His mind couldn't comprehend them all. They felt so different from the place he lived, where most of what he could smell were stones and people, and sometimes the scents that the other Hunters brought home with them, of strange and faraway places that smelled so foreign he had no understanding.

He stopped still and turned his head around again, scanning for sounds, scents, anything to tell him where he was. The urge was gone. He was at his destination.

To someone who had vision, Twiggy crawled from the inside of a closet, a box on its side, a cupboard, from under a table, or any other strange place a strange person could crawl from, but never from anything tall enough for him to walk, no.

On hands and knees, he looked tall, but not nearly as tall as he truly was. The man looked as narrow and thin as a needle, and as awkward and gangling as an adolescent. His smooth face was offset by a startling square jaw, and his blindfold was tied in place behind his head, the knot rested against his short, buzzed undercut.

He wore colorful and mismatched socks and soft flannel pajama pants. Over his torso and most of his legs, he bore a long, dark leather jacket with too many pockets. As he remained on hands and knees, any shirt, if he wore one, was only visible as light-weight, dangling cloth that hung in front of his belly and between his arms.

The stranger turned his head side to side still, listening around him as his shoulders and back slowly stiffened, and his hands formed into trembling fists. Underneath him, smears of blood from hands and knees marked his path, disappearing mid-smear somewhere within the object from whence he crawled.

The man held still for a few moments, save the turning of his head and nervous gnawing at his lip, before he finally swallowed his unease and spoke. "Hel... Hello?," he called, his voice high and choked with panic.

"Oh," a woman's voice came from nearby, "Oh, no, you shouldn't be here, civilians should have been evacu—"

Her voice, scent, and all sensations faded as something like a punch to his collarbone registered to the thin Hunter's mind.

He woke suddenly with a jerk, wrists and arms bound to afford him none of the leverage a typical Hunter could have used to escape. His fingers were curled around something, and metal surrounded all sides of his arms and forced them bent behind his back, perhaps inside the cold metal at his back.

Cold metal on his back, wrapped around his arms...

They took his clothing! A quick squirm confirmed the presence of coverings on his lower body, but the lack of jacket left him defenseless. "Jacket!" He shouted, voice high and desperate. "Jacket! Please! I want my jacket! I won't struggle! I promise!"

His screams seemed to fall on deaf ears as he trembled in captivity

"Be quiet. Twiggy, is it?" A strange voice spoke nearby, calm and relaxed. "Doesn't matter. Your new designation is Subject H9421-dash-eyes. You have a week to memorize it. In the meantime, please remain still. Extraction is about to begin."

"Wha—,"

Twiggy's scream ripped and echoed through the room, only to fade with his consciousness as the Gift took its place at the fore. Twiggy's mind traveled away from the pain of his body, and when he opened his eyes, he saw before him the bleeding purple moon as a sea of blood flowed away from it: his own blood.

Without a thought, he began to walk towards the moon, and as he neared it, he split and his path branched toward other moons. Every step brought flashes of imagery, places and people he'd never seen and never would, but whose names he knew.

Jade. Kanna. Rare. Crow. Ygvaine. Shiloh. Silver. Aspa. Violi. Kibiira... The names went on, until finally he came to stand beneath the moon. Its silver-purple blood fell upon him, and he fell upward toward it.

On its surface, he saw the future rather than the present.

Outside, in the 'real world', Twiggy's face remained slack, with a hint of rebellion to his pale, unseeing eyes as he murmured nonsense.

"Behold, the ground brings ruin as its children rebel, oh Seekers of Paradise. The coming of the Vessel brings death and tears in a rain of agony that leaves a marsh in its wake. The coming of the Useless heralds the Unknowable, and likewise the Many-Armed heralds the Doll." He trailed off, and a shock to his lower stomach twisted his body as his muscles' forced contractions sent fire along his nerves, and he felt organs perish within himself

With a shuddering breath, the Gift continued to speak through him.

"Those who bring ruin damn themselves. The Uncollared and the Collared come one after the next and they bring no mercy upon their enemies. They come. They herald your end."

The Gift possessing Twiggy's body smirked as it witnessed the torturer call a superior and report. Oh, they were clever: they realized both prophecies were for the same event, and—

There it was.

The order to continue. The Gift's smirk fell, though he'd known it was coming. It was the only prophesy he would willingly give them, but the silver knife in the tormentor's tray niggled at his stubbornness, and as the knife lifted from the tray after the sixth repetition, he spoke before the tool could touch him, ready to give what they needed to keep Twiggy's skin intact.

Even inhuman Powers had things they would rather not deal with, one of which being finding a new vessel with unscarred flesh to take the tattoos.

"Fine. A new one," he growled, then began the brief process of scrambling before he began to tell.

"Red river flows and brings madness. Magic's essence from the moon brings power unnatural. To seek for survival is to Extinction and to seek for conquest is to Ozymandias. Draw upon the source of life in this way and bring poison to the waters of all—"

Burning pain seared through his body, and a scream ripped from his throat.

"Fuckers, that was a new one!" His voice boomed. "And I wasn't done! Hurt him more and I'll abandon this vessel and take another!"

The torment stopped, and another phone call began. Orders came to leave him for now, and the Gift sighed. Twiggy's body healed rapidly, and by the time the tormentor left, he was bloody, but whole, and the Gift pulled Twiggy from the moon and back into his body with gentle arms, though an outsider could only see Twiggy's body grow tense and begin to tremble and slouch.
 
A beautifully round full moon shone upon the planet, its blue light lending an enchanting touch to the woods, making even a simple road such as the one Shiloh was walking feel like a magical getaway. Shiloh himself did nothing to defy this fact, currently a figure in a brown robe that could very well belong to an aged master of magic on his wandering ways to extend his knowledge.

Reality, however, would have nothing to do with such an image - Shiloh was no mage, but a half-aboleth; and the only way he would further his knowledge in this particular mission was by torturing some poor victim. As for the moonlight itself, it wasn't meant to lend an enchanting look to what would definitely be an unpleasant task, but rather make the half-aboleth's be less conspicuous.

Which was all great, because he needed every help he could get in that regard. His natural ability to shift the colour of his skin from blue-green to a more human colour worked wonders, yes, but it couldn't hide the thick slime covering it with an unnatural, almost toxic sheen; nor could it hide the fact that his eyes were solid grey orbs right now or that his teeth were sharp and jagged, much like a lamprey's. But that didn't bother the inhuman too much, for all of those were useful traits that, combined with his born mental abilities, made him confident that he was the most dangerous thing in a mile's radius.

Which was unfortunate for the intruding base that was within that radius. It had been a great many years since anyone had dared defy the foothold the Masters had on the coastal areas, and while this base wasn't exactly near the coast, it was close enough to make them believe it could be the staging point for an invasion. Even more so when one considered how these outsiders had just appeared one day, with their promises of helpful cooperation and unity - an affront to the Masters, by suggesting they could need help from an ape like themselves; and a threat to their plans by offering to unify mankind. The only unity humans needed was met in service to the Masters, after all.

Shiloh didn't quite share the views of his leaders, but he was in no position to argue against orders, or even consider rebelling against them, so he'd set off for the base, staking it out for several droll days, broken only by the brief excitement of hunting for his meal, and then the brief dismay of having to eat it raw. His patience in the hunt had paid off this morning when the base had woken up turned to some commotion. What exactly was going on he'd been unable to tell, but guard turns had been shifted around, and there were less guards going around the base now. Almost as if they were guarding something new, perhaps something that they'd received through one of those portals of theirs - something that would definitely be of interest to the Masters.

Slowly, almost like he was indeed an old man, Shiloh made his way to the base's gate, where two guards were attentively looking at his every motion. Strong, tall, confident, excellent examples of manly demeanour in a rather eye-pleasing teal tone. The brightest of the two stepped up and forward, planting a massive hand in front of Shiloh's way as the other guard raised his weapon.

"No civvies allowed, sorry." His tone was much nicer than his body language, and neither were welcoming. The halfbreed smiled, stepping forward until his face was merely an inch away from the man's hand.

"I'm warn..."

Shamefully bad as last words, but there would be no redos for this particular guard as his neck snapped, his head ripped off as it shot towards his partner and slammed into his chest - the strength of the blow pushed the man's weapon aside, and that was all Shiloh needed to close the gap between them and make his skull collapse upon itself. Messy, but effective.

With a sigh, Shiloh looked at both their uniforms. Not large enough to fit him, even if they weren't, well, soaked in blood. Still, there was some worth to be had in not revealing his hand just yet. A brief flicker of his trained mind had spheres of earth rising up into the air, barely touching his robes. And, with that, he put his hands to the doors, and bent them out of shape to let him in. Slowly, because he had to trace each inch he wanted them to open with his hands, and because he wanted to make the process silently.

As he stepped in, his main target was pretty clear - erradicating the facility - but it was prioritary to reach whatever they'd chosen to give extra guards to, before the alarms were sounded and they destroyed it, so he started walking towards it. The fact that the entrance was on the other side of the base meant reaching it would be inconvenient, yes, but it also meant that the guards could not see the mess he'd made of the main gate. Time was ticking now, though, until one of the outside patrols saw it, so no longer did Shiloh move like an old man, but rather he simply ran through the base.

His footsteps, while not heavy, were enough to warn the guards that he was coming, and when he turned a corner he found them facing him, raising their weapons in alert as they found an unexpected intruder in their base, shouting out "Halt!". Shiloh froze instantly, hands raised up. The spheres of earth, however, did not, and before the guards could spot them in the night they'd shot off him. For each guard, there were three attacks - one to the throat, two to the hands - and a moment later the men were disarmed and choking in their own blood. The aboleth blinked, surprised. This was turning out to be too easy, but he wouldn't be the one to complain for some good luck going his way. And so, he finished off both the men by snapping their spines, and turned his attention to the building they guarded.

There was really no clue to its purpose. Storage area, war room, prison, bedroom of some high ranking officer... anything was possible. The robed figure extended one hand to the door and forced it open as carefully as before. When a quick glance inside revealed that the most threatening thing in the first room was a door further in, he dragged both the dead guards in, and then wrenched the door back in place after him, making sure they wouldn't open. It wouldn't fool a detailed inspection, but during the night... it might just do.

A more detailed inspection of the room he was currently in revealed a suprising absence of everything - nothing beyond the door, one contraption on the ceiling, and another on the wall. Changing the position of the one on the wall made the one on the ceiling emit light, and the half-aboleth couldn't help but toy with it a few times. Intriguing! But definitely not what he'd come for, so he walked up to the door, laid his head on it, and listened intently. Breathing on the other side, and it could even be ragged... or perhaps it was just his imagination.

Whatever the case, he'd have to deal with it sooner rather than later, so the halfbreed forced this door open as well, as silently as the previous one. The image he was met with was unexpected, though he wasn't too sure what he was expecting. Certainly not a tattooed man in a cell, with some torture instruments in a tray nearby, outside. Next to them, a written report, that Shiloh briefly glanced at. Different alphabet, no way to know what it said without breaching one of the guards' minds. Perhaps more interestingly, despite the guards and the multiple ways of shackling someone in the room, they hadn't really put too much effort into holding the prisoner. So there was only one thing left to do, really.

"You. In the cell." His voice was low, quiet, but definitely audible. "Who are you, and why are you jailed?"
 
Trapped with his back against the wall and his arms encased inside it, the metal sucked the heat from his body more and more as time passed. Someone sprayed him with water at some point and wiped his body. He felt cleaner for it, but also colder, and as the quiet around him grew, and the scents of people faded, he allowed himself to shiver.

The first sniffle caught him by surprise, but after that, tears and sniffs and quiet whimpers grew frequent as he mumbled to himself, whining about how wrong it was.

The usual pattern was that when he arrived, he crawled out of a box or something. Next, someone should have found him and taken him home or gotten him to a safe place. After that should have been him protecting that person who found him, but instead...

Instead, the person who found him was shot dead the moment she found him.

"Wrong, wrong, it isn't supposed to work like this...!" His throat felt so tightly closed the words barely emerged as more than a squeak as his shoulders shook. Ragged breaths in and out, unsteady and without rhythm, replaced his sounds as his throat refused to open again.

Time passed, seemingly without Twiggy, and he heard footsteps, four or five thunks, a pair of cracks, and the quiet sound of metal shifting. He grew tense, tears stilled, though their paths remained visible. The metal sound ceased, and footsteps. Lightswitch... lightswitch, lightswitch, lightswitch, lightswitch. More footsteps. A soft impact against what Twiggy assumed was a door, and his chest felt constricted. Wide, violet eyes stared sightlessly forward as he tried to quiet himself.

Metal moved again, and Twiggy flinched. Each moment the sound continued on, he tried to curl tighter around himself, even despite trapped arms. A breath of outside air pushed into wherever Twiggy was, and he smelled something... wet. His nose began to drip blood from his right nostril, and every scent fought his own blood as he cowered against the cold, metal wall.

To Shiloh's eyes, he wasn't trapped against the wall, but seated against a metal block that rested near the wall. He was tall, thin, and entirely unclothed, with dark purple tattoos that covered the visible parts of his arms, legs, torso, and even what should have been hidden by underwear. His face and feet were free of the ink, however. If his hands bore tattoos, they were hidden within the metal and unseen.

Blood stained the floor around a drain at the center of the room, though the blind man bore only a singular fresh injury: a small nick between his tattoos that looked more burn than cut.

"You. In the cell. Who are you, and why are you jailed?," an unfamiliar voice asked, and Twiggy flinched.

Wait.

He didn't know why Twiggy was there, nor who he was?

The seer's eyebrows lifted along with his head as he faced the direction of the voice. "I... my name's Twiggy," he whispered back despite the tightness in his throat. "They're... they're trying to get information, be... because I got... I got away from them before."

Not the full answer, but only an idiot declared himself a seer to someone he didn't know, and though rattled, he was no idiot... he liked to think.

"What... what are you doing here? Could you help... help me get out?" He leaned forward, then winced as the bars deep in the metal block dug against his fingers. "I don't... don't know how to get my... get my arms out. It.. it's probably something stupidly... stupidly obvious to someone who can... can see, though."

And it was: a horizontal pin secured the block shut, with a hinge on the opposite side—it wasn't even locked.
 
Twiggy, was it? A fitting name for a man that looked decidedly non-threatening, though the halfbreed knew appearances had the bad habit of deceiving. Those tattoos, particularly, were as suspicious as they came. Did they channel some kind of magic to enhance his body, did they protect him from other magics? Let him see to compensate his lack of sight? Would they block his mindreading? With some luck, he wouldn't need to find out.

But he was getting ahead of himself. He listened to the prisoner as he looked about the room - not excessively tidy, as if they didn't think him dangerous even with access to tools. The tray with "instruments" had been left as it was - the halfbreed grabbed the only bloodstained knife, frowning at the lack of care. The tool was warm against his skin, and while the slime's heat-conductivity made it so the tool was not burning his fingertips but rather warming his entire arm, it definitely didn't keep him from recognizing the material. Silver.

He put the knife back on the tray, pondering what exactly Twiggy was. He didn't look like any pure or half breeds that Shiloh knew. He said he knew things. And he looked both harmless and was blind, which was a point in his favor. By now, the prisoner had finished asking his questions, and the half-aboleth had not given any answers. Soon, perhaps.

There was one last thing to check out. A couple of steps took him right next to the prisoner. A brief pause had him wondering whether there was enough hair to grab, before decidint to just grab the man's head and hold it still, simply keeping a grip on an unknown factor. Shiloh knelt next to him, ignoring whatever complaints or requests might be thrown his way and instead looking up and down the man's body, searching...

The loud blaring of a siren almost made him jump - a sound-magnifying spell of some sort had the entire base warned of the presence of "an intruder". Shiloh sighed as he let go of Twiggy's head, leaving a handful of slime on his har. Well, he had been fortunate enough getting here without the alarm sounding. Reaching over to the side, he released the horizontal pin and pushed the block that trapped the prisoner's hands open, wincing slightly when it clanged loudly on the floor.

"I'm here to make this place disappear." He explained as he stood up, his voice barely louder than the siren. He could've helped the blind man, perhaps should have, but instead he chose to watch how he fended on his own in a simple task like standing up. "Are you in fighting condition?"

While Shiloh had a dozen questions for Twiggy, there were priorities, and right now everything was secondary to the fight- there'd be time for questions around a campfire, later.
 
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Despite Twiggy's quick answers, his own questions met only silence. His nose continued to drip. The red liquid fell freely to drip down his torso. He could hear every faint movement and smell someone nearby. The Hunter fell silent as he began to think this was another of his captors, and he slowly sagged, shivering, against the metal block.

A grip to the longer hair at the top of his head forced him still, and Twiggy flinched, fearful. Something cool and liquid seeped among his hair from the stranger's grip. The shivering from cold became fearful tremors as, rather than someone friendly or at least someone predictable, he was discovered by a complete unknown. He kept silent, hoping the so-near scent and body sounds of the stranger weren't aggressive. He couldn't identify the species, so no experience with the scents left him worse than blind: his other senses were useless as well.

Finally, a tiny whimper escaped. "Please don't... don't hurt me..." His throat tightened to strangling as he tried not to cry.

The blare of the siren caught his ears, and he jumped, only to wince. The metal block held him too firmly to allow even that much movement, though the metal sound of the pin as it scraped what held it, and then the release of pressure around his arms with a great creak, and then...

He yanked his arms free and hugged himself, if only to keep his arms away from the block, to try and prevent being trapped in it again. The clang shortly after of the block hitting its lower half made his ears ring. With unknown snot in his hair and nude, he sniffed around before the answer and question registered, and he looked toward the strange being that freed his arms.

"Be... Before you do, I n-need my jacket. It... it has artifacts in it t-that... they're too im... important to... t-to leave." Only after he managed that did he work to stand, careful to adjust his feet under himself before he rose. Burning needles, figurative and imagined, nearly sent him back to the cold floor, but he held still instead of force himself further upright, until he felt his heart calm slightly, and then he rose fully to his feet. Tall, but slouched with fear and uncertainty, he finally answered about his ability to fight.

"I... I can't... can't fight. No weapons and... and I can't—can't see... S-sorry..." His head hung as his cheeks burned with shame over something every Hunter should have been able to do, but he never could, even before he had his knife taken from him after too many suicide attempts.

Thankfully for the blind man, something fit the description of 'jacket' nearby: dark brown leather, stuffed into a bin haphazardly, as though they doubted anyone would come to save the blind man. "Are... Are there papers nearby? We should... should take those... They were... were torturing me, and..." His voice trailed off as he almost admitted to his singular useful skill, the same that left him with the first scar in his life. Even the ruthless Council didn't scar him with silver when he volunteered for torture for a chance to feel like he had some reason to live.
 
Well the man painted a pitiful image for just one day of torture and the simple use of a knife: whimperingly asking to not be hurt, sniffling, stuttering, easily scared, blind and unable to fight. Hugging himself and keeping a wary distance from his 'saviour', holding himself in a hunched posture that made them both seem the same height. But, on the bright side, at least he was able to stand on his own. Maybe even walk. Shiloh couldn't really be angry at the man, not when it was obvious he was as unhappy with his limitations as Shiloh was.

But, of course, it wouldn't be complete without the man needing some kind of thing before being rescued. It took the half-aboleth a few seconds to realize that staring in disbelief at a blind man was not going to get any sort of message across, and by the time he was halfway through putting it to words he decided it wasn't worthwhile to kick the man while he was down. Needed his jacket, did he? A quick glance around didn't reveal much, but when the halfbreed took the actual time to look at things he quickly noticed the brown tones of the leather on the bin, and with a single motion the jacket was out of its container and flying towards the blind man. Perhaps he should've warned him.

"Right. Well get your clothes on, princess." The half-aboleth's voice was possessed of a strange resonance, sometimes feeling as if two people were speaking at once - an artifice of his odd vocal chords that allowed him to speak on the same frequency as normal people. For a moment Shiloh considered just ditching the helpless man to his own devices during the fight, but it was hard to make himself believe that the man would be okay if left alone. And he knew it, judging from that embarrassed, shamed look. Well, no choice then. A silent bubbling began inside the robe, as the strands composing it came to life and started undoing the weave, fluidly releasing themselves as they turned from brown to green-blue, slime starting to accumulate on them. As the robes unwove, the strands formed into thick, solid tentacles coming out of the half-aboleth's shoulderblades, lower back, and forearms. Five seconds was all it took for the robe to reveal its true nature as part of Shiloh, and for the halfbreed himself to reveal his own inhuman nature. A small, lopsided grin revealed thick, sharp, jagged teeth that formed an almost perfect wall of white in his closed mouth.

"Perhaps it's best that you're blind. Hold on." The aboleth extended the tentacle growing from his left shoulder forward, placing it on top of of the prisoner's. For a moment, it stood there, still, slimy. Perhaps, if Twiggy was particularly sensitive, he'd notice something coursing through his body. And then the blind man was rising up into the air, flying towards the half-aboleth without any control with the tentacle wrapping tighter around his torso as he closed. As that happened, Shiloh's other shoulder-tendril reached towards the ground in wide sweeping arcs, with the ground rising to his touch with a rumble, chunks of earth sliding upwards and towards both the halfbreed and his probably terrified charge, compressing as they rose to form a heavy protective layer around them both, warm from the pressure that was being exerted on it.

The half-aboleth began walking as the ground rose under his feet, adding to his armor, and heading towards the door, seemingly paying no attention to the blind man's request for papers. This wasn't the case, though, and were the circumstances any less pressured the half-aboleth would've been far more willing to put the man slightly more at ease, perhaps reassure him that he wasn't going to be hurt needlessly. But the circumstances were what they were, so Shiloh simply reached with a telekinetic tendril towards the papers as he walked towards the door, briefly opening the oppressive earthen shell Twiggy was in to shove them in there, and then closing it again.

"Your papers." Came the curt reply as Shiloh's mind already began to focus in preparation for the combat. "Anything else you need, now's the time. While we're fighting, stay quiet and let me focus." It would probably take something very major to break his concentration, all things considered, but it was best to not tempt luck. Minor factors could add up, after all.
 
Though he couldn't read expressions and didn't know the stranger's species to know which scents meant what, the tone and wording was unmistakable. He flinched, and as the jacket hit his face and chest and fell, he scrambled and bent to pick it up, then pulled it onto himself, half-certain he'd be left for sure now. Twiggy's cheeks burned vibrant red as he fastened his jacket and tried very hard not to cry—at least, not in front of the irate person who'd just freed him and helped him find his jacket.

"T... thanks," he managed in a meek voice. A moment later, his rescuer spoke, and Twiggy's head lifted in confusion. Something rested on his shoulder, not the shape of a hand, but it remained there, and as weight shifted, Twiggy wondered if there was more slime on him now, and tilted his head. YEP. He shuddered at the slickness, and something ran through his body other than the creeps.

And suddenly, he rose and moved, separate from the ground as pressure wound around his torso. The scent and sound of earth as it moved set him to flinching again, and Twiggy cowered and covered his head.

Papers flew at him and jabbed at his bare skin, and he grasped at them, then shoved them into the pockets he could reach, missing most attempts as he stammered his 'thank yous' repeatedly before he cut off at mention of being quiet. "Y... yessir..."

Outside, Unifiers mobilized against the nonhuman threat. One took to a small jet and into the air. Two teams went to tanks, and several slid into their turret seats along the walls. Most simply pulled their weapons, preferring semiautomatics as a whole.

One person in the Unifier teal clicked his tongue as he watched the emergence of the half-aboleth, and he shook his head. "Fuck that," he murmured as he slid backwards through the solid wall of the compound, unwilling to toss his life into the path of a creature so clearly powerful, and now in possession of one of the few of the multiverse's true immortals. Worse, this one was a seer.

The deserter, once outside the solid wall, began to run, headed away from the territory. He joined only to avoid losing his head a world over, and he had no plans to let himself lose it like this: in some backwater to a creature using the ground itself as armor and tool. As he fled, he stripped away the teals of his uniform, damn certain they'd damn him if he was found. The mythical True Eden would be useless if he was dead!
 
As he walked towards the door, Shiloh moved the defenseless man now bound to him in his earthen shell to his back, turning him into an oversized literal backpack in what he found a rather amusing turn - though now was not the time for rather amusing turns. Steady strides took him towards the door, straight into it. The metal shattered right before it touched his barrier, the fragments joining concrete and earth, first red from the pressure, then white. Above, clouds gathered in what had been a clear sky - the Masters were watching, and as the clouds blackened rain started to fall.

A smattering of gunfire welcomed him - even prepared as he was, the halfbreed had not expected this kind of assault, and for a brief second the bullets and lasers struck against his physical armor, threatening to knock him down with their simple impulse, making his figure flinch in an increasingly dense cloud of dust. Seconds passed, clips emptied - eventually, the gunfire subsided, with the teal guards lowering their weapons just slightly, waiting for the dust to dissipate, some having the good sense to reload; others celebrating already.

There was no warning sound, no gunshots, only a quiet whizzing and the sudden disappearing of the dirt cloud as the vast majority of bullets returned to their senders. Screams of pain gave way to panic, yelled orders from sargeants, calls for medics - gunfire once more, though it quickly stopped as any shots were returned with equal force by the psychokineticist, focusing his attention on those weapons that fired immaterial shots, sending shards of his armor after them. He started to walk once more - calmly, silently, though his mind was all but. There was something in the moon tonight, perhaps, something in that made him feel like a banshee, forecasting death, something that made blood sing to him, red rivers pouring from his enemies, the feel of slick gore mixing with slime atop his skin as the rain turned from drizzle to a downpour.

As he stretched his tentacles, maximizing the surface of armor he could use as a weapon, several roars dominated the sound, even louder than gunfire before. The half-aboleth's advance slowed as he focused further on his shields. Fool me once. And it wasn't like he needed to run much to deal with infantry. They'd tried various things - shooting from longer ranges, getting close up. None of that worked, and they seemed to be helpless against...

A clinking sound, almost soft in contrast to the battlefield's chaos caught the creature's attention for barely a moment - and then a blast sent him flying backwards, forcing him to his knees, lowering his tentacles to grip the ground harder, more surprised than annoyed. Well. He'd know better for next time. A momentary pause to crack his neck, and Shiloh was standing once more, walking once more. Maybe this time he'd make it past the first corner in his way, before these intruders brought another surprise his way? Seeing him stand back up after this last attack seemed to have finally driven the uselessness of their efforts home, at the very least, and for the next few seconds nothing struck at Shiloh.

He had barely a second to realize why as he turned the corner, sitting face to face with a large tube, mounted on top of a metallic beast. The crackle that marked the strengthening of his barrier to its upper limit was completely swallowed by an echoing boom, and it took all the self-control the half-aboleth had to stay still and maintain focus - something big, strong, hard-hitting crushed into it an instant later, and the crackling returned in a much louder version, as the massive projectile slowed down in midair, slamming into the earthen armor a moment later - which fortunately held on, albeit pushing Shiloh a couple of steps backwards.

Panic at something crushing through his shield would have to wait, as the clunking inside the machine predicted nothing good was coming, so the halfbreed sprung back forwards, under the cannon's muzzle, and wrapped a tentacle around it - a single loop that crushed the tube shut with some telekinetic aid. A heavy thump and a screeching noise meant he'd acted in the nick of time, as the clunking began again as the tank started to pull away, trying to get its sights on him once more - but Shiloh had latched onto the cannon, slipping along it and on top of the tank, quickly scanning its surface. As the vehicle moved, Shiloh's position was ever more exposed - and though he barely got a glimpse before he ripped the hatch open and jumped into the tank, he could've sworn he'd seen another one like it.

He scarcely spared a thought for the tank crew he tore them to shreds as he landed, more worried about their twin outside. The heavy rain gave him an option, though, and the half-aboleth spent the next few seconds drawing in every single drop of liquid in his range, blood and rain alike, all compressed into a small sphere no bigger than an egg as he noted the positions of the corpses inside the vehicle.

Then he ripped a hole in the tank's side, leaving through it and putting the dead vehicle's bulk between him and its still-alive twin expecting it to be patiently waiting for him to show up to shoot at him. Seconds passed, and with them the sphere accumulated more and more water and yet paradoxically grew ever smaller. Splashing steps, the roaring of motors - his enemies were growing impatient. Good.

Ten seconds was all the time he had, but they were enough. He quickly shot dead the infantryman that had had the misfortune of finding him first, and started running, almost gliding over the splashing water, turning the sphere towards the tank, now the size of a marble. A brief flicker in the field around the sphere released a jet towards the tank, two, three. The cannon stopped turning, the vehicle stopped advancing, and the halfbreed smiled to himself as all that was left were infantrymen, which he started mopping up pretty quickly, ignoring both screams of pain, revenge, and pleas.

Above the stormy clouds, a plane turned after an almost vertical takeoff, diving back towards the ground. The maneuver was dangerous, but there was no time to lose after what he'd heard on comms. The clouds parted under him, revealing a dantesque scene on the ground - for a moment, he was stricken by the blood-covered base, the infantrymen who'd been cut, stabbed or simply exploded, the wrecked tanks, torn ground. And, in the center, standing almost triumphant, the stone-covered abomination that was responsible for it all. He grit his teeth. It was all up to him now. With roaring acceleration the jet shot forward, the pilot pressing the thrust as far as it would go, and then some more. He would've prayed, if he had the breath for it, but even in the pressurized helmet he felt breathless, terrified - but he had to do what he had to do.

Shiloh, who had already believed the enemies defeated, turned towards the approaching noise. He barely had time to brace for impact before the plane was on him - a still-frame image that stretched forever as he searched for ways to escape the living projectile, found none, and had to make do with a hasty reinforcement of his shields.

A fireball bright as the sun, sharp pain in his legs, arms, tentacles; his body tossed backwards like a ragdoll, rolling on the blood as the earthen barrier collapsed like wet mud when his focus finally wavered, dropping Twiggy on the ground with no ceremony. The half-aboleth was left on the ground like yet another corpse, but his breathing, while labored, distinguished him from them. He gingerly touched his torso with a tendril, a sharp pang of pain. Well... it'd set in a few minutes, but for now that was a broken rib. He sighed, took a deep breath, winced.

"Princess? You still alive?" He shouted out.
 
The seer's ears rang violently as blind eyes stared skyward. What damage Shiloh's shield did not prevent was already healed as he laid there in the bloody mud. The whole slaughter, his silent terror left him entirely unable to scream and barely able to breathe. Heat and smoke drove him, coughing, away from the wreckage of the jet. Moving on his elbows in an army crawl, he whimpered until Shiloh's call and breathing caught his attention and he stopped.

Trembling as he remained in place, he swallowed. "Get... get some distance from... from that wreck! They can—can have sec—secondary explosions if the fuel d-didn't go off!" He followed the scent and breathing of his obnoxious, scary savior and began to reach toward him. Suddenly, he threw himself over top of Shiloh.

The second explosion came as predicted, and the seer gritted his teeth as hot debris landed on him. What his jacket covered remained untouched, but his hands, parts of his legs and feet, and his head were unshielded.

"Ow..." His small groan emerged. "S... sorry. I... um... Coat is—it's resistant." The excuse for throwing himself atop another male (or at least, assumed male) seemed stupid at best and emasculating for Shiloh at worst. He hoped the person who saved him from the Unifiers wouldn't take offense.

On hands and knees over Shiloh, Twiggy trembled visibly. He wanted to ask a lot, to know what came next, to know if he should be scared or feel safe with the one who slaughtered the Unifiers, but he could barely breathe as the events of the past minutes, the scents of blood, piss, shit, and armaments finally registered.

It took all his willpower to keep from going into a fetal position or begging a gemstone to take him home.
 
Twiggy was a good person, if not very skilled. That was a conclusion Shiloh didn't expect to reach, but judging by the man's behaviour there was no other to take. The warning would've already signalled that he cared for the halfbreed's survival, even if perhaps only because it was tied to his own; but Twiggy had gone above and beyond - he'd flung his likely frail body onto Shiloh's to protect him.

The explosion, as warned, came a second later, with the man's body soaking up a good part of it and Shiloh's shields dealing with the rest. He would've shielded Twiggy properly, too, if he'd had the time to do so, but the gesture was so unexpected the shield barely came up - definitely not in time to block all the debris, though it probably softened the blow.

And so, Shiloh was left looking bewildered at the man on top of him, an amused grin appearing in his face in what would've been an unsettling display of teeth for anyone that wasn't blind. He shook as he laughed, silently for a second or two, before he let an uncontrolled chuckle that sounded much like air escaping from a balloon, so high-pitched it was, until it died after a second or two - broken ribs and laughter did not go well together.

"And so you thought the creature that's just taken down the entire base needed protection." Shiloh sounded as amused as he looked. Carefully, his shoulder-tendrils split and wrapped around Twiggy's body, cool slime covering his wounds as the halfbreed pulled the man off him and stood up. The amusement vanished from his tone, turning direct and sincere. "Thank you. Even if I didn't need it, your good heart speaks well of you."

He put the man down carefully, tentacles ready to hold him if he couldn't hold himself up, glancing around. Perhaps it was best not to mention they were treading on blood or that there were bits of people all over the place. Best give him something else to think about. "Are you well enough to walk? If not, I'll carry you. We're going to my camp, sort of. And then I'll have questions for you. Answer them as sincerely as possible, please."

He didn't say it, but Shiloh would rather not torture this one. Or anyone, really, but this one in particular - though with how mellow he was, it was likely he wouldn't have to, fortunately for them both.
 
Still cringing, more from fear than pain, Twiggy forced one eye open as he heard Shiloh laugh. Though he couldn't see, he remained confused, until the one beneath him spoke. Twiggy's face reddened, but he was relieved—amusement rather than bitterness or resentment. Slowly, the tension left, only to whip back as slimy tendrils wrapped around him. The man shuddered, but didn't struggle, even as the slime touched at the near-healed burns on his bare hands and feet, and what of his neck was left unprotected by the long jacket.

As the stranger thanked him, he also set him onto his feet. The wet ground brought a shiver, and the movement of his feet onto it kicked up more blood-smell. How hungry it made him left him more disturbed than its presence itself, but he quickly adjusted his position to stand on his own as the tentacles loosened.

"Y... You're welcome, and... and I can walk. I'm... I'm not hurt, not badly, except a little... little nick that isn't... isn't healing." Now relaxed—or at least not panicking—his stammers weren't quite so bad as before. "I—I'll answer anything I... anything I can. I do um... have a few rules I c-can't break, though—as... as in I won't... won't be able to even if I want to, because my... my vocal chords, they—they'll stop working."

Whoever this was who saved him was clearly more powerful than Twiggy could comprehend, and likely could find ways to make sure any partial answers or lack of answers found some answer, or would if not for Twiggy's issue with vocal chords not working if he tried to speak something he was forbidden. He hoped that maybe if he understood, he wouldn't grow frustrated. Frustration in someone powerful, in Twiggy's experience, lead to suffering for him, except in a few very fortunate cases, such as with Lady Jade.
 
It couldn't have been an hour since he'd met the man, probably closer to fifteen minutes, and Shiloh was already starting to see a pattern in Twiggy's behaviour. The man could do with an injection of self-confidence, but at least he tried. Shrugging slightly to himself, the halfbreed ignored the shuddering from the man as he lifted him up - not an unusual response to him, really, and goodness knew what the blind man thought he was.

The man's reply to his question was a completely different matter, however, and Shiloh did frown slightly upon hearing it. Not being able to answer questions didn't mean he didn't know the answer, and if push came to shove he'd have to violate the man's mind... which given the state he was in without his intervention would very likely break him.

"Let's hope that's enough, then." For a moment he pondered whether letting the man know what awaited him if it wasn't would be a good idea, but given how shaky he was chances are he wasn't going to hold back much. "Or that you can point me to someone who will answer them for you, if not. Let's get going."

The half-aboleth started walking, his feet splashing happily on the mixture of blood and rain that covered the ground, listening for the sound of the blind man's steps following him, making his way to the gate he'd come in by, and making sure to lead Twiggy in a way that wouldn't lead him to bump into any walls. Unless the blind man made an effort to talk, the walk would be silent, since Shiloh was saving his questions for later.
 
Twiggy swallowed and scratched at his head, along the dent where the knot in his blindfold usually rested. "It... it usually doesn't. I mean, I... I've been interrogated be... before. Most times, it—it doesn't come up." His fingertips brushed against the dent, and as he heard footsteps moving, he turned his head a few times before he honed in on the direction and began to walk.

His progression was slow with so much wet and so many obstacles on the ground. Cooked flesh and sticky blood mingled with burnt hair and cloth in Twiggy's nose, and a strange and familiar combination of hunger and revulsion churned his empty stomach. He lagged further and further until he noticed, then began to hurry forward, arms stretched and alternating between forward and both sides as he tested for walls. Sucking and splashing accompanied every step, and as the blood stirred about, the scent grew stronger, until his stomach snarled as he passed a corpse.

Twiggy continued as his cheeks began to redden and he closed his eyes tightly, as though that might hide him from being judged.

It took a long time after the mighty snarl in his midsection for him to work up the nerve to speak. "What... what's your name?" He paused, then added a quick "If you d-don't mind me asking, I—I mean."
 
Progress was slow with the blind man in tow - they'd probably take twice as long to reach the camp supplies as it'd taken Shiloh to get to the base after hiding them. But where other people would fear reprisals and try to rush, the halfbreed felt no urgency. The base had been wiped out and, judging by the mounting howling of the wind, some kind of meteorological event was forming to finish it off - the only sound in the deathly silence that had befallen the base other than the steps of the two men.

So Shiloh patiently guided Twiggy, without rushing him, but without stopping either, always five or six steps ahead of him. The alternative would've been to rush ahead then wait for him, but that only would've served to make the blind man feel worse, and if anything the human seemed to be good enough at finding things to feel bad about without his help.

For that same reason he held back from helping him, despite the fact that it was painful to just watch him stumble, arms stretched forward. It only took a few seconds before he just decided to stop looking and simply move forward. There were more pressing matters at hand than whether one blind man stumbled onto the ground or not, like what the interrogations would be, how he'd manage to keep him mostly comfortable in a camp made for someone who cared not about being wet, food concerns...

He missed the man falling behind until he heard him splashing forward once more. Not even past the main gate and he was already having trouble keeping up, but perhaps the forest would improve that. Or perhaps it wouldn't, but no sense worrying about that just now. A loud growl from the man's stomach was a bigger concern. To be fair, the ancients only knew how long the man'd gone without eating a proper meal, and being unable to see Shiloh meant that he probably had not lost his appetite either. Well, perhaps that was more urgent than interrogating the man once they got to the supplies.

They moved on silently, slipping past the base's gates without conversation - the ground around the base was wet, yes, but it wasn't a bloodied, muddy sludge like it'd been inside the base. Ahead, the country road, covered in small puddles and irregular footing - and still an improvement despite that, in the halfbreed's opinion. He let his mind wander, trying to think of a way to rate the quality of a road, how it changed between when it was wet and not, how the various methods to deal with it could be rated for the various types of users of the road...

He was brought out of his thoughts by a stuttered, hesitating question from Twiggy, and the man's complete lack of confidence made him smirk in a way that way that suggested pity - fortunately there would be no reading that.

"I don't. My name's Yscll'o" The half-aboleth's voice split into two tones on opposite ends of the hearing spectrum, each vocalizing a completely different set of sounds to produce an unpronounceable result for a human. "But most people call me..." He paused, thinking, and shrugged before continuing - a useless gesture to a blind man, but he was just used to it. "Most people don't call me. But when humans need to talk with me, they call me Shiloh. As you probably have guessed by now, I serve the abyssals." He talked casually, almost neutrally, but his tone turned slightly towards the mischievous." My turn now. What's your story?"
 
Thankfully, the road was much easier on the blind man, as Shiloh expected. He walked more steadily, the lack of obstacles and churned mud a clear improvement, even with ruts and puddles. Movement grew slightly quicker, and his balance grew better as he slowly became more confident about where he placed his feet. He continued to feel forward, but finally stopped and reached into a pocket for his stashed cane.

His feet moved though, before he could flick it open, and his head lifted as the stranger answered him. Shiloh, Yscll'o, served abyssals. The name 'abyssals' sounded frightening, but Twiggy kept his fear to himself as best he could, and gripped his cane tightly.

Shiloh's question pulled Twiggy's attention back forward, and the blind man flipped his cane open. Quiet taps along the ground led him forward more quickly, enough to almost catch up with the halfbreed.

"My... My story's pretty, uh... long." He started. "Did you want uh... just why I'm here or uh... from birth? Cuz if you want the whole... whole history, that'll take—take a while. I've... I've been alive a v-very long time." The words came out with difficulty, but they came out. "The uh... the being here stuff, that—that's a lot um. That's a lot shorter." Even as he spoke, his nose continued to drip blood from one nostril until he stuffed a tissue into his nose.
 
The sound of the cane flipping open had Shiloh suddenly stopping, turning around to check what the noise was - without moving his feet, because if the blind man was turning on him he didn't want him to realize he'd been heard. He was left with a bit of a dumbfounded expression when he saw the cane, shook his head, and chuckled quietly to himself. Well, that made sense.

Twiggy's reply was as hesitant as ever, but it was informative. Not as much as the halfbreed had hoped, but at least he learned his interlocutor had lived for a long time. Didn't look the part, but neither did Shiloh himself - or perhaps it would be best to say that he was terrible at judging ages, since human contact was not his forte.

"Well." The half-aboleth hummed briefly, almost musically. "The important bits are how you were captured, and what you know that made you worth capturing. Anything else will only satisfy my curiosity - which is not small right now." The halfbreed stopped, suddenly turning to face the man, grinning widely, almost predatorily as he stared into the other's sightless eyes - another empty gesture, but he couldn't really help himself. "After all, you were subjected to minimal torture before you broke, yet you blocked the metal-bird's attack." All seriousness vanished from his frame as he turned back around and continued walking. "And you don't seem any worse for it. You are an unknown factor. And that makes you a threat. So the sooner you stop being an unknown factor, the better for us both."

Speaking of injuries reminded Shiloh of his own, and he cautioutly poked at the cracked rib. A small pang of pain - still injured, though not as bad as before. Few more minutes would likely do the trick.
 
The chuckle brought a blush to Twiggy's face, but he kept going, despite the lack of footsteps from Shiloh, until he thought he smelled pretty close to him. Still, as they continued, the creature, who seemed pretty friendly given the circumstances, asked questions that Twiggy really, really didn't want to answer.

He wasn't forbidden from it, though.

With a deep breath, he began. "W... well, first, they don't... they don't leave scars on me often, be—because if they mess up, it... it deprives them m-more than it hurts me. I—I'm used to torture," he explained as his grip on the cane tightened and his slouched shoulders tensed. He bit his lip as he thought of how best to explain the rest without admitting he was a seer, then sighed as he gave up. "I... I showed up somewhere. A woman was there and tried to protect me, but then—then she died, something was um... attacking, I think. I fainted, maybe."

More awkward shifting. "As... as for why they captured me, it... it's the tattoos. They prob—probably recognized them." He opened his coat to reveal the dark purple marks, halfway between circuits and clan markings. "They um... I... I'm the only one with these tattoos, cuz—cuz the ones that know how to do them right, they're all... all dead. They were stuck in a desert and-and starved."

He breathed in, then out as he forced himself to remain calm. "If the tattoos are dist... disturbed by certain things, they... they don't work right. They give—give me visions if I'm in-in danger." There it was. He flinched and tried to fold in on himself as his pace slowed slightly. "Nobody ev—ever used silver before on me, b-because they'd lose the reason they... they were torturing me in—in the first place. The tattoos... they got r-really angry. R-really angry about this." Pain was nothing, but he really couldn't afford a scar. A scar that interrupted his tattoos meant he became worse than useless—it meant he was no longer worth even the air he breathed.

Metal-bird, though?

The jet!

"T-the jet, though. T-that... that wasn't made of silver, so it was... wasn't that bad. I mean, it—" he paused for a breath, "It hurt, but um... it wasn't that... that b-bad."

Finally, he trailed off and bit both his lips. His posture remained heavily slouched as he listened for any sound that Shiloh might lash out at him. Would he be angry at only finding out Twiggy was a seer now? Perhaps fearful of his abilities, or want to use them for himself? A person who could manifest slimy tendrils at will left terrifying ideas swirling in Twiggy's head, and his tremors betrayed his fears.
 
Shiloh listened attentively - Twiggy's speech patterns could be a bit frustrating, sure, but he couldn't help but pity the guy. If he was frustrated by it, Twiggy was probably mortified. Once more, the general idea of "let's not make things worse for him unnecessarily" triumphed.

He just shook his head hearing the man talk about being used to torture. He wasn't sure what was worse, the fact that it sounded true, the fact that he was just talking casually about it, or the fact that he knew that, if needed, no amount of being used to torture would save Twiggy from being broken if Shiloh was ordered to do it.

Parts of his story didn't add up - he just showed up somewhere, randomly? And a woman tried to protect him randomly? That didn't make too much sense. But in all likelihood he was talking about before, when he left the people that made his tattoos. Fools, really, to live in a desert. Inhospitable territory if there ever was one. The rest of it, the gist of it though... It fit. It made sense, if he'd been kept prisoner for a while, that he could say he was used to torture. If he was a seer and they could force predictions out of him by putting him in danger. The fact that there was a silver tool, which was a crime in almost every place over the seas.

It also meant, as he suspected, that the boy was more than human, and his next words about the "jet" just confirmed it. It meant, as he'd suspected, that the terrified man was interesting, useful even. That he'd been sent to that particular base with some sort of purpose - because being fair, just sending the tornado would've been enough. The wind whipping up slowly around him might not have had the same effect as a bloodbath, but it would've made the base disappear regardless. Then again, these were aboleth - and he wouldn't presume to know their minds. Their logic went far beyond what he could comprehend.

"That's... not too bad." His tone was casual, but his words were careful, and he stopped a moment to think before speaking further. "I don't think my masters will be interested in keeping you, but I wouldn't presume to know them well enough to guarantee it. This does mean I'll have to ask... which is always unpleasant. And means you'll have to be my 'guest' until I get around to that." He sighed, shaking his head. They were close to the bridge, and there wouldn't be much more time for talking. Or, at least, not for properly interrogating the man.

"Of course, as any good answer, yours that only raise more questions. Like how your tattoos can be angry. Or what exactly you are, since you're clearly not human. But those are questions for later. Perhaps for dinner. Breakfast. The next food-related event." He sighed, shaking his head again. Working at nighttime always messed up his internal clock. "Can you even eat dried fish? Because that's pretty much all I have in my field rations." He paused to think for a brief moment, then broke into a wide, amused smile. "It's not often that I come out of these operations with an extra mouth to feed."
 
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Twiggy wiped at his bleeding nose as he felt the blood begin to fill the tissue already. Shiloh admitted that his answers brought more questions, and the seer fidgeted slightly. Did that mean he wanted more explanation? The question of dried fish seemed to imply that not knowing was, for the moment, acceptable. Still, it might be wise to be forthcoming.

"I... yeah, I c-can eat dried fish, as l... long as I can get it to my mouth wi—without it f-falling apart," he offered with an uneasy smile, hopeful that it was more humorous than sad.

Still, he moved on, cane tapping along the ground to seek obstacles. "A-and... when you want a... an answer about the tat-tattoos, I... I'll have to be a little—a little indirect, because t... the voice thing, so um. It might be hard—harder to understand me than... than usual." Left unspoken were the words 'not that it's easy to understand me at all with the stammering'. Shiloh was very right to assume it was a source of deep, deep shame.

A scent of water, thicker than the rainfall, teased at his nose—specifically the unplugged nostril. He lifted his head and sniffed the air. "I... s-smell fish. Are... are we near your—um—place?" The man swallowed as his stomach snarled, reminded of its emptiness by the scent in the air. Twiggy swallowed as he tried to fool his stomach into thinking his saliva was nutrition.
 
Knowing Shiloh could share food was a relief. Of course, he didn't have enough supplies for two people, but he'd cross that bridge when needed. Fishing wasn't usually a problem, after all. The rest of Twiggy's reply was a bit more concerning - was he there by choice, did he want to be a seer? Or was he a captive of those tattoos of his, unable to get free? Was there a chance he was being controlled by them, to the point where he literally could not ask for help? How far did their control over his speech go?

That... was concerning. Because much as the seer's wellbeing was not the halfbreed's business, if the man could not ask for help, say the words, write them down, then his only option for help was someone with Shiloh's capabilities. And there weren't that many of them around that expecting him to meet another was reasonable. But on the other hand, if your only option to get help was through Shiloh's mind-reading, that was the point where you ought to consider if the cure wasn't worse than the disease.

Before he decided what to do, though, the seer mentioned smelling fish, and Shiloh just turned around, eyes wide open for a moment in surprise before he recovered control.

"Y-yes, we are close." A slight hesitation. Had the man actually managed to smell his bag of supplies? How? It was in the river, in a waterproof bag! Not even a bloodhound could smell that!

And then realization dawned upon him, and he burst into a brief moment of laughter - the sound was odd, almost as if it had an echo, and at one point it just vanished, but it was clearly human laughter.

"That's probably me you're smelling! Oh, Lords below." The halfbreed was thoroughly amused. "Never thought about that before, really. Look, over there..." He caught himself. "Well, no, you probably won't now that I think about it. But believe me when I say that over there in the horizon there's a stone bridge over a rather calm river. My supplies are under the river itself, waterproofed. You can't smell through water... can you?" Shiloh's tone was more curious than wary, all in all. There were other options, of course, like the man smelling a fisherman who'd chosen this particular spot for the day, but it seemed very likely that he was just smelling Shiloh now that the smell of blood had cleared up.