After walking across the main stretch of Monoceros, they reached the platforms and ascended rather quickly. Not much was spoken between the two, but he could feel Khloros' eyes burning into the back of his head like lasers. He knew what that meant, he knew that he would be put up to healing Booker when he reached the summit but he couldn't allow his opportunity to produce a killing machine pass up. Other thoughts plagued his mind, so many different strings were attached to this situation and it appeared they all revolved around him and the decisions he was forced to make. There were so many but as they drew nearer to the main area where the Merry Men clustered, he could differentiate every scent with ease. Not so much the new members, but Nemesis and Fang. They had ridiculed and judged his opinion on keeping the pink dragon here and he sneered.

This string would be cut, they were of no worth to him and he needed to try and reduce his strain so he could begin to think clearly again. He had been struggling knowing that he could never truly be free if he allowed himself to remain trapped here. Not nearly as trapped as Booker was now, but he was trapped. Everything within his den was smashed and shattered from his last outburst of confusion. Even after Booker had gotten him to calm down and try and see clearly, his thoughts had continued to remain hazy. In fact, most of his time was spent trying to decipher the white noise that rang in his ears and cast clouds over his thought. Killing Wynry had allowed the cloud to lift, but it had been replaced thick and heavy by his meeting with Khloros. There would be no leaving ceremony, he knew that he had to slip off when no on was watching. Where previously he had sought support for his outrageous and dastardly ideas, he found they merely found him moronic for doing so. Support came from within oneself, but he hated himself and only Booker was aware. Khloros on his heels, he wouldn't announce his plan until he had a full audience of the trio.

Operating in secret was where he hoped to go but most of the places were filling up with those damn fucking groups. Origin cave was growing too small for them all to fit and he figured he would end up having to take Baratheon, Booker and Khloros back to their home. The platform spread out before them and he exhaled a breath as it had been quite climb. Sweat was on his flanks, but he knew they would pretty much be marching straight back down even though they had just gotten here. Booker should still be in his den, where he had left him, but he didn't want to announce to the whole world so he moved over to the den, but looked back and forward between Khloros and Booker. Baratheon, would come later he assumed. "We're leaving. Back to Eridanus. You and Baratheon are coming with us, but we leave this place." The us referring to his companion Khloros by his side. Pointedly, he looked out over the platform towards the edge of the room where the tunnel lay. "If we leave now. It won't take long. We'll be gone before anyone even notices."

Determined, he kept his voice monotone as he avoided looking at eyes. Eyes were always staring into his soul and he didn't like it, but their voices were always the knives separated from the rest of the spoons that cut him.

@Baratheon @Booker @Khloros

Khloros didn't immediately disregard Louie. All else aside, however sick the fox was--in mind, rather than body--he knew that it had been an internal ordeal for the fox. An ordeal to tell him the truth; an ordeal to lead him here, to Booker.

As he passed Louie, then, leaning his head into the den, he first gave the fox a gentle, snorting nuzzle up along his spine, just between his shoulder blades. He wasn't even looking at them; he was avoiding eye contact, and so the horse made his touch deliberate, gentle, delicate. Reassuring, perhaps, or thankful.

And there Booker was--within the den, half in the darkness. Khloros's eyes lit the place in an eerie yellow-green glow as he leaned in, tail swishing.

The numbat looked a little bigger than he remembered, his coat still cluttered with fungal growth. His one eye looked bright, and though there were scars littering his body, Khloros could see little in the way of illness on his old friend.

He tried calling on his magic, to try and "see" the life and sickness in Booker more directly--but it didn't come. Maybe it was the stress, or maybe Booker simply wasn't all that ill, or maybe there was so much plague in this place that nothing would stand out.

Khloros shook the thought away and leaned forward, trying to bury his soft nose into Booker's belly, snuffling him affectionately. His voice was very soft, wavering, as he spoke, his tone suddenly childlike again, as if it were a cycle ago and he were still lying in the cave in Polaris, looking up at Booker's glow-lit moss.

"...Booker? Are you okay?" Before the numbat would be able to respond, he continued. "I--... I heard you were sick," he said softly, glancing back at Louie and not getting too specific. He didn't want to guilt the fox, not now. Well, not ever, probably.

"How did you get out? I thought--... I thought maybe you'd died," he suddenly whimpered, voice cracking completely.

The black foal began to tremble, as if crying. He let out a soft whinny of grief, and closed his eyes, burying his face against his long-lost numbat friend.

________________

BRING OUT YOUR DEAD

@Booker

Booker had lost track of time, sitting just inside the entrance of his captor's den. Minutes melted into hours into what felt like days, and the numbat huffed, hating that he'd been left to nothing but his thoughts. They were getting more desperate, trying to find a way out, a way to save Baratheon, get the dragon free. The scribe himself was... secondary. Louie seemed to be calming down, at least after their last conversation, and Booker had smuggled one of the bloodied shards of glass, lying on top of it, feeling the edges press into him like a comfort blanket. If worst came to worst, well. It was always good to have a back-up plan. He could feel his ribs digging into the glass, weight lost from weeks of stress, and the tiny Gembound twitched in place, trying to shake away the thoughts that plagued him. No dice. They circled around his head like vultures, waiting for him to give in, to drown in self-pity, to become as useless and weak as his insecurities assured him he was. But Booker clung to the bond, weak and withered as it was, like a lifeline, clawing at it, rooting himself to it, admittedly drawing more strength than he gave. Guilt was overridden by his survival instinct, and so the scribe sat in the shadows, eye glazed and distant, mind engaged in a war against memory and the present. Khloros. Delphine. Bones. Diot. How many are you going to fail before you admit that you're a disease? You kill as easily as the rot spreading within. Booker huffed, scratching at his cheek angrily, the sting dashing the thought away. This wasn't helping, and he needed to be helpful. To be useful. It was his purpose. Wasn't it? Sleep tugged at him, threatened to drag him back down into nightmarish remembrance, but he pressed down harder onto the sheet of glass, a last resort, a final bartering tool. The numbat's ears twitched this way and that, desperate to find something to distract his racing mind - and it came, slowly, the soft padded footsteps of Louie. It was more than a bit unsettling, that he'd been here so long as to memorize the footfalls of his captor, but though Booker was many things, he had never been anything less than ever-vigilant. Such knowledge was his bread and butter, as it was any prey animal's, but for once it didn't make him flinch backwards. If his words had affected Louie in any way, reached that spark of a scared Gembound spinning out of control that lurked behind his eyes, than Booker was ready to bargain more. If they hadn't, he'd be dead soon. It made him vaguely sad. His final failure. But Baratheon would be free, untethered from the bond, able to leave this cage, and the numbat would be damned if he was going to let his brother stay a prisoner. Instead of creeping further into the shadows, Booker lifted his gaze to the den's entrance, curious, squinting. There was another noise, another pattern. Heavy and dull, like... hooves? Perhaps the half-crazed stag had come back, but his steps had been heavier with sheer mass. These were lighter, and the tiny Gembound squeezed his eye shut, ears flicking back, a shiver running down his spine. Ridiculous. He's dead. Don't look. Can't have delusions, not now. Need to be ready. Don't look. Don't look. Don't look. The dull footsteps crept closer, through the doorway, so close they made the ground tremble. Then, a velvet-soft nose nuzzled at his stomach, too gentle to be Louie, too small to be Baratheon. Booker's eye burned, tears building up behind the lid, and he sagged into the feeling. He's not here. He can't be. He's dead. You killed him. You killed him. Stop it, you're so weak, you can't honestly believe this is anything other than a mental breakdown. Even the Mother can't bring back the dead. But it felt real, tantalizingly, heartbreakingly real, and the numbat shuddered. The vision spoke. And God, it spoke just like Khloros had, when everything was simple, when Booker had taken him back to Polaris, to his home, to his grave. So innocent. So frightened. Booker? Are you okay? I heard you were sick. The scribe choked back a bitter whine. His head had to be royally screwed, to remember so little, but be able to replicate his little brother's speech so perfectly. How did you get out? How did you? He didn't. He's not here. It's him, it has to be, it's too re- if you give in now, you'll die here, alone. Booker rattled out a panicked breath, two, eye fluttering open, gaze darting about wildly, vision blurred beyond recognition. Everything looked dark and damning, but all he could focus on was the breath, the voice, the warmth, the presence of the vision. I thought maybe you'd died. The scribe choked on a crazed laugh, trying to turn his head enough to figure out just what was cuddled up to him, so achingly mimicking his friend, his brother, who wasn't here, who was burnt to a husk somewhere in Polaris, or sitting in the stomach of the great dragon, snapped up by vicious shrieking teeth. Maybe I did. It would make sense. If the disease had finally sucked the life from him, perhaps this was the next world. Perhaps he could finally atone for his sins, see Khloros again, see Delphine, Diot, the children he'd murdered in his arrogance, his confidence, his assuredness that oh, yes, he could control a dragon. But the vision, the spector, began to tremble, and then to cry, pressing closer, a strange moan of grief piercing the air. Booker's eye snapped to the sound. He froze. Khloros? The foal was larger, taller, face pressed into the numbat's side, relief pouring off him in waves. It didn't make sense. Khloros was dead. Very dead. But he was here, as well, warm and alive, and Louie was speaking in the background, but it was white noise, now, for all Booker could hear were his little brother's soft inhales and exhales. He counted them, pulse pounding. 1, 2, 3, 4. It grounded him, and slowly, the feeling returned to his body, cold and hot flashes racing through him like jolts of lightning. Alive. Alive. Alive. Alive. He's alive. You were wrong, he's alive, he's right there, do something you moron! Booker couldn't do much. But he could do what he'd wanted to do for days, weeks, months - and that was curl into his brother's touch, paws reaching up to grip his snout, tears searing a trail down his cheek, cataloging every change in the foal's appearance, every hair out of place, every new wound. "K-Khlor," the scribe whispered, forehead falling to rest on the horse's snout. "Alive. You're alive."

@Louie

"Baratheon Speech"

Alone. That's what he wanted to be. Magdalena's words had hit hard, deep, scarred him so much that he hardly wanted to recover. Why should he? He hurt everyone with his disease of madness. Why did he even bother anymore? He would just be used to harm those in Bonebound, the ones he actually cared about. It hurt. Everything hurt. Even his outside hurt because he had hardly moved for days. His body ached is it lay in the cold water and his stomach cramped painfully in hunger. From past experience he knew that the lack of food was likely to drive him mad but this time... It felt different. He wasn't irritable or feral... He was just aloof, above it all. When he felt around for the feral beast within him he couldn't find it. Gone? Was he finally freed from the Bloodlust? The reasonable part of him said no, that he was just weakened and saddened so much that it was dormant. Perhaps if someone killed a thing near him then he would attack it but... perhaps he wouldn't for once in his life.

His thoughts were slow, hazy from his lack of hunger and his apathy for life. For some perverse reason he still felt the need to keep a sliver of his mind on the Bond, to see if Booker was alright but even that he was starting to become apathetic about. Why should he stay to protect Booker? Booker would probably be better off without him, everyone would. One less dangerous creature in the world... One more reason for him to retreat into his mind and search for the light that would relieve him of his worldly body. He wanted to protect him. Wanted to do everything for him but it hurt so much... He hardly felt needed anymore. Hardly felt wanted... Everything was bad.

He could end it all. No one would hurt because of him... Perhaps Louie would even free Booker if he didn't have a weapon anymore. To his broken down mind, it made sense and was at least worth a shot. He could hardly be called a protector or a dragon anymore. Why stay in the caves if he was so useless?

Behind his closed eyes he could see the Bond, it was so withered and sickened. Partly because of his mental state and partly because of Booker's. He had to go away... Had to...

Yes. He could feel relief in Booker's side... Perhaps it was time, perhaps he could leave and go away.

But he lingered. Mind closed off to his outside world and watching only Booker's. Khloros. Half-face. The happiness.

Coward... He couldn't go into the light. Not yet. He needed to see. Needed to know. Would Booker truly be happier and better off? Quiet. Observing. Lingering between the numbat's side and his own apathy for the world.

This got way too emotional way quickly as he watched Khloros find comfort in the numbat's fur. Envious feelings welled in his chest but he forced them down and just curled his lip, resisting the urge to snap his teeth to break up the two. Inwardly head banging, he muttered louder this time "I don't think you heard me. But we're leaving. There is no reason for us to remain here and I think it'd be best if we moved out today." Damn that was surprisingly civil, but he was more panicked for his own safety if he got caught by Nemesis or Diamondfang trying to dog out on what they had planned.

Without another word to the group, he headed towards the path they had literally just come up. There was nothing he needed to get as he had destroyed most of his possessions. Material goods were worth nothing right now, only just remembering Booker was half dying, he rolled his eyes and whipped back around, heading towards the pair as they snuffled and cuddled together. "Alright. Seriously shows over," coming out gentler than he had wanted it to, he bent down and began to gently nose the numbat to get him over his head and onto his shoulders. A change from his usual slinging about of the boy, not a change in his concern but just.

Well, he wasn't really sure what.

@Baratheon @Booker @Khloros

Khloros kept his nose touching Booker, helping to move him with a gentle nudge. He didn't object, but he didn't break contact--not once. He even gently snorted at Louie, silent throughout--until the fox was prepared to move down the hill. Perhaps he was simply trying not to rock the boat... or perhaps he was trying to retain emotional control, to keep from breaking down and throwing himself on his knees and letting out a string of one pathetic whinny after another at this joyous reunion.

When Louie made it clear that they were making some sort of escape, Khloros's heart gave an unexpected twist.

Nemesis. He didn't really want to leave her. She'd spoken of family, of those of Monoceros protecting one another. But... he simply wasn't about to let Booker go without him.

"It's good to see you, Booker," he murmured at last. And then, to Louie:

"Thank you, for bringing me to him. Is he still sick?" He still wasn't sure, not really; and in any case, he made no move to stop the fox--only to stay locked to Booker's side, his voice--even to Louie--still quite gentle.

"Why do we need to rush away?"

But despite his mind working, and despite the brief thanks he gave the fox, his pale glowing eyes never left Booker--not once.

________________

BRING OUT YOUR DEAD

@Booker

Snout pressed tight to Khloros' muzzle, Booker simply leaned hard into the touch, barely breathing, hot tears drip drip dripping onto the stone floor, a dazed smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Shuddering, it took the numbat longer than it rightly should have to recognize the pressure within his mind, the bond's bright flare, and he sent a burst of pure, unadulterated relief his draconic brother's way, mentally clinging to the bond, shaking with a strange mix of released grief and renewed hope. Bara! He's here! He's alive! I was w-wrong, Khlor didn't die, he didn't die! Another pulse of love, of wonder, of gratitude, before the scribe swam back to the waking world's surface, blinking his intact eye open to stare up at Khlor, grinning, moving his head to prop his chin on the foal's snout, absently nuzzling his little brother's short coat. "You're really here. I cain't believe it," Booker whispered, gaze wide with joy as he wiped away the worst of the tear tracks with a soft, wet giggle. "Dreamed of seein' you again so m-many times..." A helpless shake of his head, and he huffed, grooming away the tears he'd left on Khloros' muzzle. I don't think you heard me. But we're leaving. There is no reason for us to remain here and I think it'd be best if we moved out today. Booker turned his head to peer at Louie, blinking dumbly, fur puffing up in uncertainty. Leaving? Just like that? After everything the fox had done, every moment of uncertainty that had hovered behind his eyes... his family would be free? Though his grin had faded, the numbat continued to stare, expression softening to a gentle, awed smile, ears perking up hopefully. His captor - or, well... he wasn't that any more, apparently. Or he wouldn't be for long. Booker hummed under his breath, watching as the fox first stalked towards the path he'd come from, whipping around half way, coming closer and closer until... Gentle. He was being gentle again. It did confusing things to Booker's perceptions of their entire... relationship. Alright. Seriously, show's over. The scribe huffed out a bewildered laugh at the change in how Louie usually simply threw him in the vague direction of the fox's back; now, he was gently lifted up, and the half-paralyzed numbat managed to slowly tumble and crawl his way to curl up between Louie's shoulders, helped by Khlor's nudges, hesitating before nuzzling the fur nearest to him in gratitude for the absence of the previous scribe-flinging routine. Then, he turned back to staring at Khloros, drinking in the site of his little brother, alive and seemingly in better health than Booker himself. No obvious burn wounds or scars, either. Another rush of relief - he obviously hadn't given his equine friend enough credit when it came to escaping Raheerah's wrath. "Extra good," he murmured back, grinning once again, the expression highlighting how matted and dishevelled his pelt and general state of being had become. At the rest of his little brother's questions, however, the scribe kept his mouth shut, turning to eye Louie's face out of the corner of his vision, granting the fox another small, hopeful smile. Please, please, please, the numbat thought, trying to ignore the creeping sensation of total paralysis that had now climbed to his lower back. We can all leave and be happy and no more pain and no more screaming and no more red and no more fire and no more smoke please please please.

@Baratheon @Louie

Not accustomed to feeling Booker nuzzle into the fur along his back, he almost shrugged out from under him to get away from the strange sensation. It actually caused his hackles to raise as goosebumps crawled across his skin. Instead of trying to embrace the feeling, clutching it at like a child who was denied their maternal connections, he forced it down and mentally shrugged it off almost immediately. They really did have to go, they didn't understand but he honestly couldn't remain here. There were too many things that had stacked up against him and he wasn't comfortable anymore.

A lot of things were making him uncomfortable and he wanted to break free, free, FREE. Heart beat elevating, he heard Khloros' question, both of them, but he didn't want to answer him and he looked away, murmuring quietly. "Yes, he's still sick. But he won't die." Just as he had explained to Khloros before, he wouldn't let Booker die. He didn't address whether or not he would heal him. If he did now was the worst time and place, so he tried his best to keep his composure, looking out over the platforms as he had before "When we get to Eridanus... I'll heal him." Lying through his teeth, he began to move. Slowly, he didn't want to start himself into a panic by making his movements hurried.

"We need to go. Because Merry Men already have a high amount of distrust over even trying to keep the furred dragon here." Oh yeah, Khloros still didn't know about Booker's dragon friend, but he would leave that for the numbat to explain. "Working in a group it just..." 'isn't working'. There were the three females who had banded together in his absence, this didn't upset him, but the power shift wasn't something he could deal with. Since forming, he had always acted as a lone agent, he held no attachments to this place. Wanting to avoid any fatality, he ushered for Khlor to move silently and quickly behind him.

"We just... Have to go." Besides, he wasn't sure why they would protest. Wasn't that what they wanted? To go back home? Why were they arguing with him and he scowled as he walked.

@Baratheon @Booker @Khloros

Khloros continued nuzzling Booker gently for a moment, as they walked; he remained silent. It occurred to him that Louie was distracted; it also occurred to him, in his same hazy and somewhat cold state of mind, that now would be a good time to apply insurance.

If he were to infect Louie... to spread his "friends" to the fox. Well, it meant that once they were somewhere safe, the he'd have something to force Louie to cleanse Booker. Or try to. But would he sense it?

Khloros ground his teeth slightly, thinking. The fox seemed on edge, but now he was assuring them that he would heal Booker later. Would he?

The plaguebearing horse considered his options as they moved along. If he didn't do it now, he wouldn't get the chance. If he did, he could always call those "friends" back later on. Couldn't he? And anyway, if he could forgive Louie for wishing to kill him earlier, then this seemed perfectly fair: Louie could forgive him, later on.

Idly, he moved past Louie, giving him another gentle nuzzle as he did--and showing his willingness to move onward. As he moved past, however, he did his best to leave the slightest bit of infectious mucus on the fox's nose--on the exposed mucus membrane. Maybe Louie wouldn't get infected, or maybe he'd just wipe it off before it infected him. But the horse hoped he wouldn't notice, or that the infection would take root quickly.

It took some effort, but he managed to summon the magic, keeping it faint--in fact, he hardly had a choice. He wasn't experienced with calling his "friends" and directing them, but they'd seemed to scramble to obey. He pulled his attention back to the present with a soft gasp.

"Thank you, Louie," was all he said, in answer to his promise to cure Booker; in a way, Khloros truly believed him.

But insurance was never a bad thing. He hoped.

The horse stepped aside, glancing back at the two, showing that he was ready to travel straight away from Monoceros, as directed. He kept his gaze on Booker, for a moment--lingering there, his glowing eyes soft.

"If either of you need help getting wherever we're going... just say." The young horse then dipped his head, every bit as mild and inoffensive as before, before moving on.

________________

BRING OUT YOUR DEAD

@Booker

Yes, he's still sick. But he won't die. Booker let out a soft sigh of relief, though the statement made him lift his eyes skyward, as if praying for patience. Not dead was great, and all, but he still had the small problem of being paralyzed from the waist down. Still - not dying! Good deal. Tuning back into the conversation, the scribe visibly brightened at the mention of Eridanus. The expression quickly faltered. Diot! Oh, no. Bara, we l-left when 'e was jus' a baby - what if...? Mother, what if he's... Panic and nausea clawed at his throat, but the numbat pushed it down, intentionally blocking off his Bonded from the wave of anxiety, from the thoughts racing around his head and bouncing off the walls. Calm. He needed to be calm. Cross that bridge when we come to it, ah guess. A tiny, defeated giggle bubbled at the back of his mouth, but Booker choked it down, only his trembling paws giving away his worry. The most important thing now was to get out, get away from the blind woman and her fire bodyguard, away from the false promises of the bird, away. He could panic, could melt down, later. Don't need a repeat of... Bones n' Delphine. Shaking the thought away, the scribe leaned into Khloros' easy affection, taking strength in the fact that his brothers, at least, were alive, that his curse hadn't taken them yet. A placid observer, for now, Booker watched the conversation unfold, eyeing his little brother in surprise - perhaps he didn't hold this whole conundrum against Louie? The thought lightened the load on his mind. After all, Baratheon couldn't, wouldn't understand why he was relatively at ease with the fox... then again, Bara couldn't understand the Mother, or Her teachings. One of those was forgiveness. If there was one thing Booker strived to be, it was forgiving - Mother knew he needed to be forgiven for many, many things. If either of you need help getting wherever we're going... just say. Shooting Khloros a tiny, thankful smile, Booker snuffled, surrounded by strands of orange fur, before slowly, shakily lifting his head, rasping out a few words. "We need ta... get Bara. Caenna promise he'll be m-mighty pleased ta see ya, though," he offered to the fox, words softened by the worry tinging them. "Dunno if I can stop 'im, if 'e... y'know. 'e's not exactly answerin' my mess-ah-jes, at the mo'," the numbat added drily, body wracked by a cough. post roll: Hit by a coughing fit, Booker tried to direct the retching into his own palms. One thing he couldn't direct were the spores littering his pelt, which clouded into the air at the sudden movements, landing on every surface within reach - which was, at the moment, Louie. Wincing as the fit rattled off into an uneasy wheeze, the scribe grimaced, rubbing at his face apologetically. "S-sorry 'bout that," he mumbled, the words rough and breaking from strain.

@Baratheon