Chance Meeting [Kor] - Completed

Korvus nodded appreciatively at her choice of living-space; he entirely expected something far more primitive. A barrow, of all things, had particular significance to Korvus. He could not count how many times his master had sat him in dark, occasionally haunted crypts and bade him fend off or bargain with the spirits therein. To be in such a place again was almost a sort of homecoming for him, and it would be several moments before he caught himself smiling dumbly at the walls and ceiling and composed himself once more.

He sat down at her feet, shaking his head. "I'll make do without," he assured her. Wilds or not, Korvus did not often sleep as normal men slept. He was the sort to meditate through the night, else spend it on one or another occult pursuit. Sleep was more a luxury than a necessity, and he could survive off of his own magic for some time before he needed to rest. He obediently sat cross-legged at her feet, looking over her for but a moment. "Women in the cities are frail things," Korvus mused, "I should say that I find your appearance..." he paused, searching for a word, "Refreshing, if I may."

"At the risk of allowing you another easy jab at me, I'm not the sort to go after young boys," Korvus retorted, smirking as he did so. She was vicious indeed, and far more of a cynic than he would've expected. Politics, poverty, and taxation (a combination of the two) created cynics, to his experience. Living alone and ambushing travelers was not a pursuit he expected of cynics. Bandits were often a very gleeful lot, else very jaded, and he considered that she, perhaps, fell into the latter category, bandit or not. Her compliments were sparse, peppered amid further assaults upon his person, and for this reason he valued them all the more. She did not seem the type to offer them easily, though he did not sense contrivance in her words. Blunt honesty, perhaps, provided a mix of both, but Korvus was yet convinced that he was a cut above.

"You know," he said, considering her words, "For all the time I usually spend browbeating others, I cannot recall when I've been on the receiving end. Not faced with anyone that had such skill in it, at any rate." What she was doing was not what Korvus would call 'browbeating,' in perfect honesty, but such a verbal assault was worth admiring. Those who sought to talk down to him often did so in defense of another, or were so blinded by their long-frayed tempers by his relentless snide and condescending attitude that they did not speak with any true substance. Here, she met his words and struck him with all that they had invited. He looked down at his mask for a long moment, considering something in utter silence. "I could make one for you. It would not be easy, but I could be so motivated."

"You're right, of course," Korvus murmured, "The courts of men and monsters alike are built on lies and the fools of those who toil beneath. To speak ill of one who is not lowborn is to harm one's status unless one is certain that they can get out of it unscathed or, better yet, promoted." He templed his fingers as he sought to meet her cynicism, "For some, perhaps, they are too foolish to know the truth when they see it, but I believe that most simply deny it of themselves. The truth is not convenient, and is consciously shut from their minds. " He stretched out, pulling his hands up and shutting his eyes for a moment. His fingertips brushed her feet as he brought them down. "The mask will be made of my material," he said, "Though I will make it in whatever shape you so desire."

"I will require blood, then," Korvus said. He noted with a tiny smile how she reacted to his touch, reaching out to brush his fingers slowly along her ankle with a somewhat contrived air of carelessness. He didn't yet want to seem to invested, but at the same time wasn't afraid to hint at some interest. "Enough to draw a minor circle of conjuration. More, if you want it to have color," he explained, "You watch me work, if you see fit, guide me in how this fox should look." He looked up at the bird appreciatively; though the crow was his creature of choice, most avian beasts held a special place in his psyche. He found most to be menacing, regal creatures hiding wicked intellects and charming animal cleverness. The crow, however, was a sign of death and decay. He had taken it up as his sign for reasons less simple, more grandiose and far less based in reality.

Korvus smirked, his hand resting next to her thigh. He quite liked the shape of her legs, and how they felt beneath his touch, but did not wish to test her when they had business to attend to. "Well, I can handle it myself, I simply though I'd offer if you wanted more control over its appearance. Snarling, closed-mouthed, all the rest..." he paused, something occurring to him then that he hadn't the presence to chide himself for; namely, what he would receive in return. Her blood was one thing, a necessary cost of the process, but ultimately he was no wealthier. Could he trust her to recognize a gift? He was uncertain. He dragged a fingertip along her thigh, "With the right materials, I could craft a great many things for you. The eldritch forces respond well to those who know their call, and so much can be made with time and sacrifice."

"You will have your power," Korvus assured her, frowning slightly, "I was only suggesting that I could be of more utility to you than that. Much is available, if you are willing to pay the price. If not, not" He shrugged and stretched out again, moving over to lean against the furs where he would not intrude on her space. His hair spread out around him, Korvus not having the will to fuss over it as he thought of how else he could justify his continued stay. He was testing her indeed, and he did not doubt that she was aware that he was still prodding at his boundaries. He was not yet certain what she would do with him, however, but so long as the promise of power was held between them he knew he was safer than not. He sat silent a moment, thinking once more. "What do you dream of, Bishop?"

Korvus took her answer, the final part in particular, as invitation to offer one of his own. He shook his head, somewhat embarrassed that his answer was far less interesting, and perhaps far less human, than Bishop's. She was slowly becoming less 'the wildswoman' to him. They were not on equal terms, but at least they were no longer foes. Perhaps she could be Bishop now, and he would relent to be Korvus. Or was it Kor, now? "I do not dream anymore," he said, "I do not miss it. I don't know what I'd dream of." The last thing he had dreamed of was, fittingly, himself. Or, more correctly, a different version thereof. Tempted by the god of conquest and slaughter, he had dreamed the night before his departure from the infernal realm. In this dream, he wore a robe forever stained by blood and a mask painted with a terrible, toothy grin. His magics forgotten, he was a master of the blade and no foe could stand before him. It was utter, glorious madness and Korvus had been severely tempted, then. His refusal was painful, then. Now, he was not so sure.

Korvus smirked, "I'm not going to kill you, nor am I going to violate you, if that's what you're asking," he said. "Though, in the latter of these, you can feel free to call on me." It would not be entirely correct to say that Korvus was a stranger to being so forward. However, such banter was usually directed toward the aforementioned high-voiced noblewomen, submissive as they were taught to be. Bishop St. Claire was unashamed, unafraid, and certainly very far from what might be considered a proper lady. This, however, was what drew him to her and gave him reason to stay. Korvus (Kor?) sought to meet it, or at least attempt it, in the name of comfort between them. Whether or not it was working, however, only time would tell.

He spoke suddenly, again, and each time it was always a question. He considered, perhaps, it was an awfully childlike habit, but his wits were slowed where the wood and wild were concerned. "May I hunt with you, tomorrow?"

Korvus, at her behest, was silent. In moments, it was almost as though he was not there. Even careful ears would be hard-pressed to hear him breathe, and the twitching, shifting demeanor of most living creatures was not to be heard from Korvus. As before, he was as a statue, eyes shut serenely as he rested against Bishop's pile of furs. His mind consumed itself, magical theories and possibilities unfolding themselves endlessly before his mind's eye, sifting through memories and desires to make use of the logic buried within. Such was sleep for him, not unlike the hunter's hyper-sensitive rest that Bishop had adopted. When he decided at last to come to, it was as early as he thought would be courteous, though he was hesitant to use that word.

Korvus looked over at her, ultimately unsurprised that the day seemed to have started well before he had chosen to wake. "Darling," he replied, equally teasing, "Just the face I was hoping to wake up to." He stood easily, his mind revitalized and his body, in turn, strengthened. He considered casting off the idea of wearing deerskin in favor of a more magical approach until he reminded himself how draining invisibility became. "Very well," he relented, beginning to pull off his robe and underclothes. His body teetered between bearing some lean, agile form and simply being unhealthily thin, but it would be uncharitable to call him scrawny. Mutation had been kind to him, and in spite of his almost stretched-looking limbs and tombstone grey skin he could be easily mistaken for a normal mortal by body alone. Parts of his form, to go into no specific detail beyond limbs and extremities, reflected the whole in the form in that they were long, pallid, and thin. Each worked in tandem to create a rather surreal being, when viewed without robes or loose clothing that did so well to conceal his form. "Where are they, then?" he asked, glancing over at the pile of furs instinctively.

Korvus returned her words with one of his odious, mischief-laden smirks. He pulled on the skins, feeling both terribly mundane and terribly foolish in doing so. Acting the part of living in the wilds was alright by him, but it was somewhat beyond the pale to need to dress in skins, of all things. He rose no quarrel about it, however. He had asked her of this, bargained power for the opportunity, and he now even sought to stay. It would be endured, perhaps even embraced with time. He didn't much mind getting gazed upon by Bishop, either, whether it was for the grin she got or the simple brazen fact of it all.

Korvus was not above a little cheating.

While invisibility was costly, he could levitate at least a little ways in to simulate her silence. He did, moving as quietly as he could and watching her carefully all the while. This was dedicated silence, movement that dared not even disturb the mist around them. It reminded Korvus of an assassin he had hired some years before leaving his home; a blind, bald man with a topknot with very strange habits but a sterling track-record. He only ever once saw him move, and there was a similar care and precision to what he did. This strange, sightless man worked on far less uncertain terrain, however, but he was beginning to see how relative such uncertainty was.

For the whole of the hour, Korvus moved and waited with her, eventually dropping silently to the earth and trying his hand at walking. His observations served him reasonably well, and he kept closer to Bishop to see where she stepped and how she moved. He could not call her beast-like in how she moved, it was improper in his mind to compare her to something so thoughtless as an animal. She moved with purpose, precision, and care. In the silence, he considered what he would speak to her about when he had a chance. He had many questions, but sought to filter them so as not to pester her more than was necessary.

It occurred to him then that this woman had endured a painful trip down a rocky incline and a distinctly evil form of healing not too long ago, and yet to him she moved as though it had never even happened. His healing was efficient, yes, and pervasive, but something told him that a weaker soul than she would not move with such confidence after their flesh experienced so much corruption, albeit controlled corruption.