Bramblepoint they should deliver all my blessings in small brown paper handbags near the porch

He took note of the sharpness of Caiaphas' toxic yellow gaze, and stared right back. She seemed to recognise him at once, which surprised the sterling warrior; he'd been much younger when last their paths had crossed. Dacio watched her for any suggestion that she may advance toward them, waited like a coiled spring. He doubted she would, considering her frail state and lack of support at her back, but he couldn't deny the quiet keenness he held for her to try.

"She is Rusalka's leader," Dacio iformed his young ward, though his mossy eyes did not drift from the enemy's own. It occurred to him then that he didn't know her name - he'd known her only as "Blackhead" - but he supposed it didn't matter. The silver yearling offered no more to Praimfaya, for she knew enough of Dacio's bitter hatred of the scoundrels who'd spurred the beginning of Drageda's end.

He tilted his chin upward, feeling the rage course his veins with each powerful thrum of his frantic heart, though refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing how her presence affected him. "Business," he snorted a laugh, finally allowing his sharp stare to sweep her tired and haggard old frame. "Seems your "business" has kept you away for some time. I fear you may not survive the journey back." A flash of fangs then, a fleeting warning, "or maybe there is nothing to go back to."

He remembered the taste of her daughter's blood on his lips, the feel of her writhe desperately beneath his grasp. Raleska had been lucky to have her friends rally to her aid on that day. Dacio wondered if she'd survived the attack or if infection had ravaged her to an untimely end. He rather enjoyed that thought, just so Caiaphas could feel the weight of such a loss.