Under moonlight he cut a swift path out of the mountains and through the valley, mindful of the heavy burden across his shoulders. @Minuet. The islands called to him; wayward druid, lost heir to the shadowspun legacy of Blackwater.

And her. When she stirred he laid her gently among soft ferns, busying himself with a thorough inspection of the woods and their offerings. Soon he found what he sought: the delicate leaves of a plant he knew to be poison. Ptolemy marveled at the pretty little threat of it, how innocent it seemed at a glance.

Then he took a careful cutting and chewed it to a fine paste. He returned to the girl he meant to make his gossamer queen, his lady of the islands. Delicately he smeared the paste across her lips, coaxing it into her, only the smallest dose. Just enough to keep her quiet. Just enough to keep her compliant.

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But what the unknown assailant perhaps did not know or did not expect about Minuet was that she would not go down easily. As soon as she felt the press of something floral upon her lips, she forces the air in her lungs to a hold and hacks with all of her might to spit it out. If she were lucky, her teeth, too, would gnash and bite for whatever part she could reach.
Fuck you, she seethes, although it is coarse and dry in her throat. The tears that mark her face gleam in the dimlight. what do you want?

There was a gilded fire in her, this daywalker. Her teeth caught his cheek and he drew back with a low hiss of pain. He started to circle her, green eyes alight with a toxic glow in the dim of evening.

She questioned him.

You, Ptolemy said simply, watching for her reaction. He was fascinated by her, a creature of the light, so foreign to a prince crowned in shadow. Even the taste of her anger was divine.

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Fear corded her veins, every fiber of her trembling little body as her weakened paws instinctively draw near her face and her ears fall into a downward splay. You're fucking insane! What, do you-- do you want me to like, I don't know, do you want me to have sex with you? Is that it? had he never heard of asking? Perhaps being chivalrous and actually appealing?
Never do her eyes leave him, always watching, always; the — poison — continuously hacked from deep in her throat until the dull knife of irritation forces her to stop. How was this happening? Where was she? Oh, god, if she'd only gone with—
But could Melody have even protected her from this, whatever this was?
Get it over with, alright? Whatever you want, just-- just kill me, fuck me, do it, I don't care. I don't. I want to go home. But she had no home, not anymore, did she?

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Ptolemy watched her somberly, not moving nor speaking during her rant. Mother had always said that daywalkers were weak things, soft things; they needed the light, they needed the sweet pleasures of life. Under such darkness as the Druids carried, they could only crumble. Yet he saw a fire in her, too.

He meant to stoke it.

No, He said, stopping in front of her with green eyes searching her golden face. We're going to the coast. Islands by the name of Blackwater. I intend to find my younger siblings. You'll come quietly.

Or I could just kill you.

Blackwater. What kind of insanity was this? What kind of name was that? Nothing good ever happens on islands!
Had she seriously gone from one fucking cult into the black and wretched hands of another?
Against her better judgment, her first reaction is a laugh. A laugh, one high in her throat and threaded with nerves. Seriously? her lips split into a smile jagged and withered, sunken eyes blown into wide spheres. Okay, alright, I get it, you're just crazy. You're psychotic, that's what this is? Right? panic, panic; it thrums through her as her tail weaves between her legs in an instinctive measure to protect her loins, her soft underbelly; as if that would do her any good.
She wanted to ask what this was for, what he truly wanted with her if not to have his way with her carnally. As if whatever answer he gave her would be normal, or even make some sort of sense, or even be the truth. And she sought to kill him her fucking self for this, the stew of hatred now boiling hot beneath her veins into something obsidian and gnarled.
But she didn't want to die. Not by him. She deserved a death with dignity.
If I do what you want, her lips curl now into the whisper of a snarl before her tongue lashes out to smooth them back down. will you let me live?

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I am divine, He said, lips curving into the beginnings of a smile.

Soft things. Weak things. So concerned with preserving that spark in her breast, that warmth between her thighs; so unaware of how temporary it truly was. It was the gilded spirit of her that Ptolemy concerned himself with now. She would be a guiding light to the Druids; she would be their sign that the Unnamed God still turned its faceless favor upon them.

You won't come to harm, Ptolemy told her next, studying her cowering figure not for want of her but for want of her discomfort. Let her shiver and cry in fear; let her harden her heart beneath it. In this way, he meant to prepare her to survive the harsh reality of life on the islands. She would need to be stronger.