~ Chapter 07: King and Country ~

“Get up."

Breeze coughed himself awake, scowling at the boot prodding none-too-gently at his ribs. “Hope you enjoyed your night, damn savage." He looked up, his mind wondering briefly if it was time to fight. The air smelt of shit and hay, of moist dirt and stale feed, of feral horse and heavily-perfumed snow leopard. Inquisitor Claude Morgan glared down at him, arms crossed fitfully, his black Inquisition garb comically out of place in the Keep's rustic stables.

Breeze knew men in the north who would have gut a man for waking them like that, and not so long ago he would have done the same.

Not worth it, not for naught but your pride. Pride's cheap, and you get what you pay for, that's a fact. Breeze climbed up with a groan, paws slipping on the grime as he went. He rolled his neck as he stood, rubbing at his chest and meeting the Inquisitor's icy glare. He brushed some of the loose strands of hay from his shoulder, working his tongue to get spit going in his parched mouth. The air in the barn was stuffy and oppressive, tiny dust particles floating in the air tickling at Breeze's nose. The southern cities might look pretty to newcomers, but it seemed the civilised folk had all the same problems as any other village.

“We spent most of the night discussing you." The snow leopard spat, scowling at the feral horses locked in their pens. “I meant what I said, Witchborn. Do what I want, and I dare say I'm prepared to give you just about anything," He whiskers twitched. “Within reason."

Breeze nodded, scratching at his jaw. “Reckon you ain't got much I want though, Inquisitor." He'd spent the night in one of the empty stalls, splayed out on a small mound of well-fluffed hay. The horses didn't seem to mind the company, and as the meeting in the keep had ended sourly, Breeze had thought it wiser to wait until daybreak before hiking his way out.

Besides, Morgan still owed him.

The Inquisitor sighed, leaning back against a wooden post. “Then I can only beg. The hundred has got to end, even you lot up in the north must see that."

“Way I see it," Breeze muttered, turning and walking down the length of the barn, looking in on each of the horses. They were all of excellent stock, each one a fine choice on their own. “This war ends, your Union'll just start another, and this time probably with Slaugh."

The Inquisitor trailed after him. “Pardon if I'm not familiar with northern warlords."

Breeze laughed. “You will be, no doubt about that."

In the last stable he was delighted to find the mottled grey horse that he and Erasmus had first ridden into the city. The big girl whinnied as he stepped into her pen, gently clapping her on the neck. “Someone brought Marlough back, eh? She'll do, bet." And he began to saddle her, using the supplies hung on the wall to his right.

It was high time he got moving, the sooner he could get out of this stinking city, the sooner he'd be back where things made sense. No royal affairs, no secret pups and secret deals, and most importantly no bloody soothers.

Breeze licked his lips as he heard a bird caw in the distance. Judging from that, and the cold light spilling under the stable doors, he guessed they were a half hour past dawn.

“You're a good girl, huh?" He whispered, tugging the saddle tight around Marlough's belly.

“She belongs to the Crown." Morgan said firmly, staring from the pen's entryway as Breeze led the saddled horse forward. He left her waiting in the middle of the stables and began the work of unlatching the front doors. They were heavy things, painted red and in sore need of a new coat of paint, locked with wrought iron deadbolts that he grunted with the effort of. It got done, though, and they slid open on well-oiled hinges.

“You don't have stable boys for this sort of thing?" Breeze mumbled at Morgan, unimpressed. The Inquisitor watched incredulously, his lengthy tail curling back and forth behind him.

“We do, but not for thieves." The Inquisitor snapped.

“Hey now," Breeze levelled his gaze. “I was promised supplies, a horse, and a week-pay of silver for hearing you out. I heard, now pay up."

“I've given you quite enough already, do you have any idea how much that damned outfit cost?" Gone now was the foppish socialite act, the leopard's mouth now a firm and unwavering line. There was no mischievous grin, no playful jabs and giggles – just threats. Claude sneered. “Should have you arrested, it's what I get for trusting one of you people."

“S'pose there ain't much point askin' for a sword then?" Breeze added, and that brought a cold laugh from Morgan. The Inquisitor stepped forward, put his paw on the horse's reigns and held firm.

“This is property of the Crown. Leave if you want, but the horse stays." He said icily.

Breeze paused, considering. He could probably take Marlough, if he wanted; Morgan was a reed, and a noble to boot. If he knocked the leopard on his arse, he might make it outside the city before he could raise the alarm. It was then that two figures peeled out of the darkness, taking a stance a few feet behind Morgan. They were dressed as Erasmus had been, only this time the dark hoods and padded black gauntlets succeeded in making them seem imposing. One was a broad reptile, the other a mangy brown fox. Each one had a short sickle in their paws, and they watched calmly from the back of the stables.

Artificers.

“We had a deal, cat." Breeze growled.

“Shit on your deal." Morgan said, spitting the words as if they were a slap. “You allowed me to waste all this time, all my money, knowing full well and good you'd refuse me, didn't you? Get out. If I see you in Hieron again, I'll arrest you."

Breeze glowered. The idea of traipsing back north with no horse, no food, and no sword was daunting, but he'd made harder travels in days gone by. The crossing of the Penitent Ridge, the month he spent on the Barren Coast. He'd live. And so he yanked his paw back, spun on his heel, and stormed out of the stables without another glance.

He walked the quiet morning streets seething, the anger hot and bitter in his throat. Fucking city people. Fucking civilisation. Happy as can be to go back on their word. He'd have never even come if that useless, childish, stupid, lying otter hadn't promised him the pay and supplies. What did they expect? It was typical of a noble, to just assume that everyone wanted to line up and die for some fat bastard on a shitty chair.

The guards watching the entrance to their precious Equitánt (which was a stupid name for a place) stepped hurriedly aside as he marched out the gate, the chilled wind rustling his fur. Which way had they come originally? He'd spent nearly two weeks in this city so far, and liked none of it. Breeze picked a vaguely north direction and stalked off, paws balled into fists. Around him the city was beginning to rouse itself, the odd merchant working at setting up his stall, the tavern owner setting flags by his windows. Breeze thought them all soft. In the Madlands, you woke before dawn to eat and got moving at first light. Soft, that's what they all were, no wonder none of them had the balls to finish the war.

A pup! A secret pup, destined to be killed the second anyone learned of it. And they wanted him to cross half the bloody world to deliver it to an emperor famous for crushing anyone that defied him? A mission to try and convince peace of an empire so stubborn and vicious they'd stayed at war for a century, rather than concede that the Union was just too much effort to be worth taking.

And for what? For respect and honour and other shit that never lasted? Breeze had tasted all of those and more, once, way back in Slaugh's company. He'd been feared, lesser men grovelling before him, great men dying on his say-so. All it got in the end was dead friends.

“Master Breeze!" Scores, the familiar young voice was even higher in pitch when cast out like that. Breeze growled as he heard the sound of jogging boots, furrowing his eyebrows and picking up the pace. “Master Breeze, wait, just... a moment! I beg!" He kept going.

Erasmus caught up all the same, this time dressed in regular clothes, huffing and puffing, his cheeks blown out from the run. “Apologies, I only just... woke." He laughed nervously, pulling at his tunic.

And there was another perfectly good reason to be angry. Breeze had just started to like the otter, and then that bloody white cat had said it.

“Didn't say you was a soother." He snarled, the words coming out sharper than he meant them to. As the two headed down a narrow thoroughfare, the early-risen city folk cringed away, averting their eyes from the northern savage in their midst, lest he decide they were worth making slaves of.

“I, well, I would have!" The otter pouted, his breath still coming in hard rushes as he struggled to match Breeze's steady pace. “But then you said you hated them, and I figured, well, you might not come along if I said." Breeze stopped, whirling on the otter.

“You're damn well right I wouldn't have!" He hissed. “Maybe if you'd said I'd be in some comfy den right now, all healed up by a proper northern weirmother, with all of us the better for it!"

“But I saved your life." Erasmus squeaked. Breeze went to reply, but found himself without words. It was true, he had to give the boy that. “When I found you on that mountain, you were gibbering like a madman, loud as can be. I saw the men that were searching for you too. If I hadn't pulled you out of there, well, that... that is, they would have come across you sooner or later."

Erasmus was right. Breeze would be dead without his help.

What had that woman said, right as he'd left in a big huff? This world is a terrible place, filled with terrible people. That was the one damn thing she was right about.

In the north, there was a code. Someone spared your life in a duel, you owed 'em a following. If someone saved you from certain death, it was usually expected you'd 'least offer it up. Savages they may be, but they had a code. Erasmus had saved him. Maybe the otter was owed a following, at least for a while.

“I know you don't want to." The otter muttered, face flushing. “But this task is a thing worth doing, a good thing, and it feels like cheating to say... but maybe it is that you, uhm... owe me?"

Maybe?

Then Breeze remembered the Inquisitor in the stables.

“Shit on your deal." He replied. “I didn't ask you to save me." And he turned, descending a set of steps into the warren of tightly packed buildings that Morgan had called the Copper Burroughs. The poor lived on the north side he'd said, an old Union tradition, to keep the rich safe from being eaten by invading northerners. At least it meant he was going the right way.

He heard soft footsteps splashing in the mud as Erasmus ran after him and groaned.

This boy got more looks than he does sense. Breeze thought.

“The plague is bad up north though, Master Breeze!" The otter said hurriedly. Breeze had seen men argue like this before, as if they were sure that finding the right combination of words would force him to agree. “And it's getting' worse. Townspeople getting burned, the King's Trust on a rampage, and Magister Baine doing naught to keep them in check! You think it'll just go away? This could end it, if the fighting stops--"

A click.

“Quiet," Breeze said suddenly, yanking Erasmus to a grinding halt. He glanced around warily, fur itching. They had wandered into a gloomy alley, a broken wagon left to rot on one side, shallow alcoves and crumbling facades surrounding them – not a decent soul about. The buildings' windows were all caked with grime, the path beneath their feet was little more than solid mud, the doors all locked and barred. Breeze's ears twitched as he caught the sound again, recognising it; the click of boots knocking against themselves.

There. More sounds now. A shuffling, a hushed order, a foot coming down too hard in a wet patch. Someone was trying not to be heard, and they were doing a sorry job of it. Enemies.

“What?" Erasmus asked, looking around hurriedly. The stupid dandy even looked up, as if a great ruddy bird was likely to swoop down and attack them.

Breeze shushed him, holding a splayed paw out and motioning for the otter to get behind him. Erasmus obeyed, chewing on his lip.

There it is again. Leather, rustling across brick, the soft clink of muffled handcuffs. But where?

His question was answered as two hulking figures stepped out from an alley a few metres before them. They were dressed in all black, each one clutching a short length of smooth wood, tiny iron rivets screwed into the length. Breeze recognised the black and yellow outfits immediately - the dark leather cloaks of the Royal Inquisition.

“Shit." Breeze whispered, glancing behind him and seeing two more at the top of the stairs. He let an exhaled breath whistle through his teeth. Breeze had nowhere to run, the Artificers had all the exits covered. He spread his feet some in the mud, marking each one in his head.

Behind them was a reptile; he could hear the slick tongue tasting the air. A goat stood next to him, they would be Scales and Ram.

In front there was a heavyset fox, taller even than most wolves, dark ink worked into the fur beneath his eyes. The friend to his left was another fox, scrawnier and with lighter fur, looming like a black and yellow shadow. Ink-Eyes and First.

“Master Breeze, those are..." Erasmus began, and the wolf nodded. The otter puffed out his chest the same way he'd done with the guards at the gate (all the good that did). “I don't recognise them." He muttered.

“You armed?" Breeze asked, and Erasmus shook his head.

He stepped forward regardless. “I am Erasmus Verranum, Artificer of the Royal Inquisition; I demand to know the meaning of this!" He said, reminding Breeze of a young pup pretending to be a knight.

“We've got questions." Ink-Eyes said, his words trailing lazily, as if he couldn't be bothered finishing them.

“Always questions, when people go runnin' about places they shouldn't." First said conversationally, leaning up against the weather-worn wagon. “Just the northerner, no need for this to get tricky, Artificer. Always 'ave respect for a fellow man of the craft."

“I'm working under the auspice of Third Inquisitor Claude Morgan," Erasmus continued, to Breeze's chagrin. “I was not informed of any effort to detain Master Breeze. I demand you step aside, or you can be certain the Inquisitor will hear of it!"

“Tell him what you like, rat." First said with a shrug, taking another step. Ink-Eyes tried to look slack, but Breeze saw the tension hidden in his jaw. He resisted the urge to look behind himself again, but he was sure the two on the steps were slowly closing in. “We're on orders from the Second Inquisitor, Gallus san Marsh. Last I checked he out-ranks that spotted cunt. Marsh won't be pleased if we went back empty-pawed; after all, it's our royal duty to apprehend that big bastard." He sneered, pointing his club at Breeze. “For King and Country, all that."

“Come on then, nice'n quiet like." Ink-Eyes said. “Nobody needs t'get hurt. We just want to have us a chat, the Inquisitor has a few questions 'bout going-ons what need clearing up." The lips on his narrow muzzle peeled back in a haunting imitation of a grin. “Answer 'em, and you can be on your way, northman."

Breeze was sure that if he went anywhere with the Artificers, he wouldn't be on his way for quite some time.

If ever.

“This is preposterous!" Erasmus exclaimed. “Why--"

“We've as much jurisdiction as you!" First snarled. “Run back and hide between yer master's legs then, y'brick-born lobcock!" He came a great deal closer then, drunk with overconfidence, wavering just beyond arms-reach, and Breeze heard Scale and Ram do the same behind. Erasmus grabbed hold of Breeze's arm instinctually. Only Ink-Eyes stayed put.

Breeze could stand here and swap insults, or he could do something. In his experience, boldness beat technique more times than not. Hard words cost nothing, and earned twice as much. One of Slaugh's war prayers echoed through his head as he made his choice.

Come, our end, suddenly.

Breeze struck. He kicked at First, boot aimed straight for the fox's knee. The blow connected side-on and he heard a sickening pop as the joint folded, the Artificer only just beginning to howl as Breeze's fist was buried deep in his gut. He tore First's club from his paws, smashing it up into his jaw, two teeth flying free and bouncing off the wall. Blood sprayed from his lips and he made a gurgling choking noise, stumbling back and toppling into the wagon, ripping off a chunk of rotted green wood as he fell.

Echoes through a tired body, so filled with hope, rise now, this grand finale.

Breeze whirled, bracing as Scale and Ram came in. The shock of his attack was wearing off, and he'd lost the element of surprise. But three to fight was a great deal better than four.

Scale came in with a wide over-arching blow that Breeze easily sidestepped, driving his elbow into the reptile's chest. Scale took only a slight step back, a short grunt escaping his thin lips; for Breeze it was like hitting a block of concrete. He tried to put some space between them, but the goat had gotten behind him, the two Artificers sandwiching him in place.

Ram and Scale worked at a crush, using the clubs to try and keep the wolf in place. Breeze heard a whistle through the air and ducked a blow from Ram aimed for his head, twisting his hips and jabbing the point of his captured club into the goat's throat. The Artificer choked and spluttered, coughing up a mouthful of spittle, and Breeze shoved him away, the goat tumbling over backwards, rolling head-over-arse through the mud like a clown.

Doesn't matter where I've been.

Scale's club came down on his bandaged shoulder, and Breeze roared, white-hot pain exploding through his neck and arm. Panting, he whirled on the reptile, swatting his stolen club meekly across the Artificer's elbow, swearing and grunting, knowing he had to force the big lizard back. Scale pulled his arms up in an effort to shield his face, and Breeze hit him again without hesitation. The club connected with Scale's wrist, and Breeze grinned as he felt the joint crumple, the tiny bones crunching beneath his blow. He smashed his weapon down again, and again, before shoving Scale back, using the brief respite to get his bearings.

But here I am.

Ram had made the terrible mistake of getting to his knees, and Breeze turned and swung a kick at him aimed square in the face, the goat's teeth clicking shut as he was lifted up and over, flopping onto his back and remaining still. Scale was still distracted by his broken wrist, and so Breeze took two steps forward and drove a bloody great kick into Ram's side. He heard and felt ribs break, and kicked again, then a third time.

Where I end.

Scale had murder in his eyes when he came forward again, club gripped tightly in his left claw. Breeze went to meet him when two thick arms closed around his chest, as broad and immovable as tree trunks. He felt his feet lift off the ground as Ink-Eyes pulled him up in a vice-like bear hug. He kicked his feet out at nothing, held in place, amazed at the raw strength of the fox.

“--the hell, are you?!" Breeze forced through gritted teeth. Scale came forward then, swinging his club lengthways into Breeze's stomach. The wolf felt the breath punch out of him, his innards lurching as everything inside him jiggled from the force.

“Break my fucking wrist aye?!" The reptile leered, hitting him again.

“Get the chains, ya pillock!" Ink-Eye barked, lifting the wheezing Breeze higher still. The reptile nodded, turning away and hurrying over to First, who had managed to shakily clamber up to his paws and knees, mumbling something through his ruined maw. Ink-Eyes laughed. “Got you now, fat northern cunt!"

Where you begin.

Breeze bared his teeth, coiled himself forward, and then smashed his head back as hard as he could. He wanted to cackle madly as he felt the top of his skull mash the fox's lips against his fangs. Something cracked and Ink-Eyes wailed, dropping Breeze on instinct. The wolf hit the ground and scooped up his club, turning and smashing Ink-Eyes across the snout.

Muster every fibre.

The fox struggled to keep his footing, but the damn fool refused to fall. Ink-Eyes righted himself, glaring through his crumpled face, blood bubbling from his muzzle, eyes wide and burning. He spat out a tooth, and Breeze braced himself. Fear and pain can do wonderful things for a man's endurance. Breeze raised his club, and then Scale crashed into him from behind, spear tackling him around the waist and slamming them face-first into the mud, a quick scramble ensuing as the reptile tried to slip the manacles on Breeze with only one good claw. Breeze scooped up a pawful of mud, slapping it into Scale's face. The reptile hissed as he was blinded, and Breeze seized the moment and punched straight up into his chin. Scale's head snapped back and he fell to the side, out cold.

One thought. one drive. I must, and I will,

Breeze rolled, narrowly avoiding a stomp from Ink-Eyes aimed for his skull. He was on his feet in a flash, paws empty, hackles up. The burly fox came in with a wide horizontal swing, which Breeze caught with both paws, his grip struggling against the bulging arm.

 One Drive.

Ink-Eyes used his free fist to punch Breeze twice in the side, but the wolf tried to ignore it, jerking forward and sinking his teeth into the soft bit of flesh just beneath the fox's elbow. He felt a chunk of meat and muscle and tendon tear free, growling as he spat the mouthful out, the sharp taste of iron on his tongue.

I must, and I will.

Still holding Ink-Eyes's arm, he pulled on the bicep with one paw, and pushed on the wrist with the other. With his free arm Ink-Eyes landed another weak punch into Breeze's side, but the pain and panic had sapped his strength, and the Witchborn barely felt it. He grinned, the words like fire in his throat.

“Stay. Alive!"

Breeze felt a sudden give as the fox's elbow snapped, his arm forced totally backward in one sharp motion, splintering bone tearing through blood-soaked fur with a flash of white and red. It sounded like bark being ripped from a tree.

Ink-Eyes screamed, to say the least.

Breeze let him go, jumping back as the giant fox fell to his knees, cradling his arm tight to his chest and howling raw, the world around him utterly ignored for the moment. Breeze had suffered pain like that before, and knew it had a way of drowning everything but itself out of your mind. He had few sympathies. Without another delay he picked up nearest club he could find – covered in dirt and gore – and swung it as hard as he could against the side of Ink-Eyes' skull.

With an echoed clunk the fox went down like a demolished wall, either dead or unconscious, it didn't matter.

Breeze stood, huffing, his mouth still foul with the metallic taste of fox blood. He spat again, wiping his muzzle. His body ached, but the thrill pushed that aside. Scale and Ink-Eyes were out clean, and Ram and First had the better sense to huddle against a wall, trying to look helpless and defeated.

Breeze sighed as he felt the adrenaline tire him, the raw strength leaving as quickly as it came. Another set of crushed skulls, another four to the Witchborn tally.

Brought it on themselves, stupid bastards.

“By the Triumvirate." Erasmus gasped, stepping into the street from behind the rotted wagon, looking at the destruction with awe.

Breeze threw his captured club away like it was a snake, still heaving from the effort of fighting four men at once. He'd let himself get carried away, gotten too into it. He wasn't that man anymore – he wouldn't be again.

Damn southerners. He looked around once more, as if daring the two left alive to get up and try it. They averted their eyes submissively, and Breeze snorted. Thought so. And he started forward again, aiming for the city wall.

“Master Breeze, wait!" Erasmus called, running after him. He matched the wolf's pace, and Breeze ignored the pleading pup-eyed expression. “Please, just, wait--"

“Why? For you to lie to me again?" Breeze snapped. Stupid otter would get himself killed one day. “For you to make more empty promises? Or for more of your boss's fucking goons to show up?"

“No, no, those men weren't with Inquisitor Morgan, I swear!" Erasmus corrected. "Didn't you hear? They work for Gallus san Marsh. He and Master Morgan have a somewhat... tenuous rivalry, you might be able to tell. Marsh is probably trying to dig up dirt, thinking you'd know something useful."

Which I do, eh? I bet this Marsh doesn't know about Lady Orianna's secret bastard.

“I don't care, they're all the same to me. This bloody city's been nothin' but trouble the whole time. I'm done." He turned a corner, stalking down another narrow path. The city walls were closer now, he only had to find the gate they'd come through, and he could finally be off.

“You... don't understand! Listen!" Erasmus exclaimed, rushing in front of Breeze and planting himself. The wolf stopped, sneering. He must have been a fearsome sight, still covered in filth and blood, yet the otter stood firm. Bravery? Or foolishness? A combination of both seemed likely to Breeze. “Inquisitor Marsh is nothing if not tenacious. He's famous for it. If he thinks you've something he can use against Inquisitor Morgan, he won't stop just because you're in the Madlands. And... I know you don't want to hear it, but Abigail has to go to Astmoor, and you're the only one around who can do it. At least the Inquisition won't look for you in the east!"

A terrible world, filled with terrible men. Breeze thought, wiping his paws on his trousers. A brand new outfit, already stained. He could hardly leave like this; he needed to at least wipe himself down with a towel, or he'd just get arrested again.

Erasmus seemed to think he was being rather convincing, as he kept talking, each word coming quicker, like the rapid strikes of a fencer. “Marsh will send bounty hunters, his Artificers, and gallows-men. Whoever he has to, more and more the longer it takes. He's fabulously wealthy, and the longer you evade him the more he'll think you've got something he should know!"

“And he won't do the same if I go east?" Breeze cocked an eyebrow. He wanted to laugh in Erasmus's face.

The otter floundered. “Well, it's not that he won't, but he won't think you would! What reason would a northerner have to go deeper into the war?"

“What reason indeed?" Breeze asked, pushing past with a snort.

“Where are you even going to go?" The otter cried after him. He was a persistent little fool; Breeze gave him that much. “There's a warrant for your arrest down here, and the north is sick with plague and this Slaugh fellow! Do this, and you could have a happy life at the end of it!"

The Witchborn might have tired of Erasmus by now. Killed him, just for the fun of it more'n likely, forgotten it by sunset. Those times were a blur, barely more than vague recollections in Breeze's mind. The Witchborn would never have considered.

Breeze considered it now. Where indeed was he going? Back north to finally kill Morningbreaker? Avenge his mother and his life, three decades too late? Better late than never, but Breeze's mother was never the sort to cry for avenging. Go further still, cross the mountains again, live out near the selkies and ghosts, try to farm in the Penitent Waste? It was called a waste for a reason; there was all of two shits growing out there. And no matter what he chose, this Inquisitor Marsh would have men hounding him, city-folk were crazy like that, Breeze believed it. And could someone with a name like Witchborn even be at peace in the north? Violence would eventually find him out, his wants didn't factor much.

All the while he'd go slowly insane, as the Madness Plague devoured his mind bit by bit.

End the war? The plague? Could it be so simple?

“Our lot could do a deal of good in this world y'know, if we ever had the whit to stop biting each other's noses." Black Paw had said that once, when Breeze and his Sandmen were sat 'round the fire. It had surprised Breeze to hear something so optimistic from the wolf. He'd earned the name for a reason more than just his coat's dark socks, Black Paw was a right savage, worse than the rest.

Fat lot of good it got him, he died with a clean knife. Breeze couldn't get caught up in some pissing contest between Kings and Emperors. That wasn't his lot in life, his lot was to... what? To crush skulls, make orphans, over and over some more, until the man infamous for surviving finally died? He'd slaughtered his way across the Madlands once before, and it brought him nothing but pain and madness. No good regretting nothin', all you can do is make a better choice next time.

So make the better choice now. Some things just need doing, because they're the right of it. His mother had said that, he was pretty sure.

He thought about Hellan's plague-ghost, watching him on the journey into Hieron. He sighed, shoulders falling. He'd tried to change who he was, and it got him dead friends. Maybe it was time to change where he was.

When he turned back, Erasmus was watching him intently; those sparkling blue eyes wide. Breeze couldn't deny it, amongst all his reasons and excuses, he felt a pull to the otter beyond just physical attraction. He was annoying, and stupid, and immature, but... He'd stood in front of Breeze like a wall, right after watching him brutalise four men, his conviction unwavering.

“Alright." Breeze grunted. “We go back."