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The coyness faded altogether at Samothes's first remark, and Zamael's eyes narrowed into blistering fire, his stare leveled onto the man with a sternness barely contained. "So you do. . .know him," Zamael responded, cold voice at odds with his eyes. "The northeast. Got it."

This man was a lover, of sorts. It was clear from how he danced around each word, how his eyes wander toward the direction of which he spoke. His protective nature reared its ugly head, then, urging him to come down on Samothes with the hammer of an older brother's love--but he held it back, remaining silent to compose himself for a few long moments before finally speaking again.

"I don't know," he said curtly, tail lashing once or twice. "We haven't seen each other in years. Our last time together was not. . .serendipitous." His stomach rolled as he remembered that night. He'd sobbed so hard over Carvel that he'd vomited, several times, his tears coming like rain and his screams ringing the walls of the den until he'd fallen into a dreamless, uneasy sleep.

When he'd woken up, he'd left Alarian without a word. He'd left everyone without word. Just stalked into the early misty morning, heading for the coast. Heading for a world where no one knew him enough to inflict any sort of emotional pain again.