a little girl was leading a band of mercenaries. he supposed that stranger things had happened.
thankfully, the aura had passed without progressing into an actual migraine. he was still paranoid, though, at every time one of those veins at his temple beat a little too hard. at every time his sinuses swelled at the change in the air.
this forest smelled of nothing good. like a rundown village you knew was some sort of gruesome mafia's epicentre. noted, he mutters through his teeth. what does he expect? a black-eyed child soldier cut from the same cloth as scylla? a frilly innocent kid that hasn't yet grown her wisdom teeth in?
she did put this guy's face through a meat grinder, he thinks. i wonder what'll happen to me.

instead of the child he'd expected, along came a black-haired woman, tall and toned. he glances at memory, quirking a brow— this can't be the kid— and returns his gaze to hers. urias. urias arlli.
memory seemed frustrated, agitated. his face was impossible to read (half of it wasn't even there) but his body language was tense. perhaps the girl queen was busy? too busy, he thinks wryly, to meet her future subject.

serem. nightwalkers general. he records it in his mind. she was blunt like a sawn-off shotgun was. straight to the point like a bullet was. he appreciates it.
fighting. basic healing. think of me as a...war medic. he flashes a smile with overexposed teeth. it's dim here, under all these branches and the mist— she looks like a pair of cheshire golden eyes, the boundary between wolf and shadow fading.

if you're him, especially him, you do not need to be asked a second time for a fight.
he lurches forwards with a single shout. more than 100 pounds of force and momentum is in the air in some overkill display of physics. ears folded back, his whole head tapered into the blunt shape of a bullet, his mouth splits open as he aims to bite to serem's left between her neck and shoulder.