The night had passed without further issue for the Baron. He'd reconnected with Emer, watched over her until she'd fallen asleep in her cot, and then moved to the deck to settle his thoughts-- taking his journal along with him as he sojourned upon the starboard rail and sketched the portside scene before him. Each stroke was a consideration; each smear of charcoal a choice. No matter how long he drew, or how desperate the distraction, however, he could not tear his thoughts away from the boy. And so he abandoned his sketch of the port, and closed his eyes. A deep breath settled in his lungs, and he turned to a new page upon the exhale, gaze turning to the distant horizon of the sprawling sea where he could better envision his subject. His thoughts were restless; they had beckoned him all night, and now, alone, he was helpless to resist.
And so he drew.
Emryk had not known Leo long-- though he'd known Emer just the same, really. And while the prospect of relief and safety had long-since been secured for the wisewoman since her kidnapping, there was only a burgeoning uncertainty for the boy he'd helped rescue from the Truth Teller months ago. It had been a nagging bit of guilt he'd harbored for some undiscernable amount of time, but it had grown-- matured, perhaps, into this ugly, gnawing thing at the back of his mind. He'd seen a fire in the boy, upon that ship. A fire he'd seen in Juniper's-- and one he'd held in his own heart, once upon a time. Hate. Vitriol, unending. A roiling flame tempered by apathy for consequence and reckless abandon. At times, it was almost as if he wished to be seen as an animal. As if that would justify the ire, the problematic disregard, the ignorance.
And now, he was afflicted with a curse that tempted him with the urges of beasts. From Emryk's own decision, Leo's fate had been sealed-- vampirism. A disease the Baron hadn't even heard of until he'd set foot upon the Nox proper, though hardly one that should consign him to the fate of a leper-- but only if he could make the right decisions. The Hard Nox harbored two sides of the same coin-- a creature of restraint, and a creature of indulgence. Nessa could hardly be associated with Lucien's ilk, and yet the two shared the same curse, the same affliction of thought and sustenance. Which would Leo learn from, then, and which path would he take? The path of a beast-- or the path of control?
Emryk resolved to help him, then. It was upon every man to decide his own fate, but the boy was young-- and deadly, now more than ever. If a guiding hand could help avert destruction, then what reason did the Baron have not to try? What man would he be if he did not afford Leo what Emryk had gone without-- a mentor, a means of better learning from mistake?
"Mnnh."
The boy was young. About the age the Baron had been when he had consigned himself to fighting pits and back-breaking work beneath the Fae. The era of manhood that him brought anger, uncertainty, and loss. If he could alleviate that-- if even for a second-- then perhaps there could be hope.
An apology. He supposed, perhaps, that an apology was owed. He would come in the morning with such a thing.
And so, when he retired for the night, he finished his sketch; drawing the figment of memory held within the mind's eye. He'd seen them, once, at the parties of the fae bourgeois. Decorations on high, displayed within their prisons of iron for patrons to gawk at. Circuses, too.
The sketch was of a lion, held in captivity. Emryk jotted down a quick caption beneath-- Boy in Cage-- and slapped the journal shut, standing with the soft sigh of an aged man and retiring beneath the deck of the Nox for the night. His thoughts were no less troubled.
"Emer."
He'd come to visit. Morning fog surrounded the Nox, and he pushed inside. Plenty to talk about in the aftermath of the ball, after all, and he'd told her he would keep her safe. Boots silent upon the floor as he entered, brow furrowing at the stench of copper wafting from the floorboards of the clinic-- a deep pool of crimson that had gathered beneath the surgery table and drifted into the room beyond. Emer's room. Where she'd slept. Where Emryk had left her.
Standing in the doorway, now, boots splashed with her blood. She lay still, silent, eyes staring heavenward at the ceiling of the room. Body shuffling, twitching as he loomed over her upon both knees. A half-masked face. Hunched. White hair stained with dollops of crimson as his mouth sank into her own pale neck. He'd told her he'd keep her safe. She was too pale.
Too pale.
Emryk must have made a noise. Or, perhaps, the vampire simply knew he was there. He had told her he would keep her safe. With a suckle, his fangs drew free, and he lolled his head to gaze at the Baron with an askance gaze, a lopsided grin.
The necklace he'd given her was around his neck.
"HRRHHNH!"
He awoke with a start from his bed-- arm shooting out to open air as he creaked the cot he was settled within. His heart was pounding, ears ringing-- his eyes wet. Another soft gasp wrested him back to reality, and he moved from the cot with enough haste to make the room spin-- arm wiping his face, mouth wetting itself with a draw of the tongue along a parched palate. The stupor of nightmare-laden slumber gripped him for another long moment before he quieted his mind, pushing along the steps to return to the deck and opening the door to the clinic; footsteps thudded along the wood as he drew a hand to the curtain, snout peeking beyond the threshold to see--
-- a wisewoman in slumber. No crimson. Necklace still about the neck. Safe.
Embarrassment gripped him as he withdrew, slinking away back beneath the deck to finally doff his salmon ensemble. A bit ashamed he'd fallen asleep in it, he quickly disrobed and settled the garments within the chest he'd been afforded-- quickly taking out a pair of simple trousers and Solren's jacket. The furred coat was looked upon with a momentary bout of guilt-- brow furrowed at a soul lost under his watch-- and donned the fabric all the same, pushing out to the deck with his chest bare beneath the open breast of the furred coat. His scales were muted beneath the winter overcast, though they bore a luster that'd been absent in his earlier days upon the Nox.
He was stronger, now, than he had been. His gut was firmer, arms filling out the coat nicely. Emryk had moved topside with the intent to lift boxes and put them back down, but the sight of Juniper with an unknown fellow stole his attention away. He was as inconspicuous as a man of his stature could be upon approach.
"Good morrow, Juniper." A hand settled upon her shoulder from behind, a moment, as Emryk stopped his pace behind her. His gaze fell to the man, brow furrowing. Skepticism was evident upon his knurled expression. "No issues, I hope? I can fetch Caleb while you talk to the chap." Or vice versa. He trusted her judgement, whatever the case.
