Pietre awoke to the sound of echoing footsteps and to the sight of a black cave deamon, its wide, crystal-like eyes peering at him. Pietre felt how his face went pale for a moment, before shooing the creature away. He thought he had gotten used to the small, human-like creatures, always skittering on the ground, playing with each other, but that weary dread never went away. The way those things always looked at him, as if judging his soul made Pietre jumpy at the least and hysterical at most. He had screamed yesterday morning, as he woke to the sight of a dark deamon clambering on his outstretched arm. Thankfully, he had held his composure this time. Getting up from his small niche in between the two driest rocks in the cave, Pietre looked around. Cleo was feeding the dogs at the small alcove which led into the cave, while Manguid was sitting next to Kosian, throwing the bloody cloth into a pile. Two days had passed since Pietre had woken up and his brother was in the same, if not worse state. The man panted day and night, blood rushing out of him in bucketful’s and his fever hadn’t gone down at all. Still, he seemed to cling to life, if only by a thread. It had Cleo and Manguid shook. No man would’ve been able to survive that much blood loss. Manguid kept murmuring how it was impossible, if only to himself. Pietre looked at his brother, at his face, drenched in a cold sweat. At the deamons sipping the sweat as if they were nourishing droplets of water. Feeling a shiver run through him, Pietre grabbed the bloody rags and headed for the small stream which ran just next to the entrance of the alcove. He couldn’t look at him. Not now, when everything was just about to end.

Kneeling next to the stream, Pietre started washing the bloody cloth. Fork-tailed sparrows and horned doves sang their melodic songs as he dyed the clear stream water a diluted red. For a moment, he watched as flows of red ran along with the current, seemingly dyeing the rock on the shallow bed. He watched, as they continued onward, wriggling around gnarled birch roots or half-submerged twigs, withered blooms still clinging onto the wood. Spring had truly come late this year – blooming birches, cherries and bland, red-bark pine let the morning sunshine through their branches, now covered in amber-coloured flowers or grape-like blooms. Heating the morning dew, the sun’s rays shone onto a lightly fogged forest floor. Translucent vapours covered the budding grass, decaying leaves, berry growths, lonesome flowers and moss patches as if some great, wool blanket. Flower deamons walked in small columns through the mist, walking from one flower to another, helping the still fresh dew onto their florets. Smaller ones rode on giant stag beetles, neighing them like dogs in gallop, though the bugs never obeyed their master's command, while groups tried to ride on passing minks or rabbits, which ran as soon as they saw Pietre. Deamons of all sizes, their petals in every colour imaginable, danced in circles or ran up tree barks while making a noise similar to whistling. Pietre watched as their flower petal necks swayed with their step, like real flowers on a chilly breeze. He was thankful he could stomach these long-legged abominations. For as long as he remembered, not a single deamon had ever harmed him, but the mere sight of them unnerved him. Though completely bizarre, they always seemed a little bit human. A little bit like him…

Realizing he had just been staring out to space for the past half hour, Pietre started to quickly scrub out the blood stains on the cloth. Trying to grind out a large blood clot which had formed on the bandage, he felt some of the little creatures clambering onto his clothes. Soon enough, a single flower deamon hopped across his arm, sitting down with his hand. Its long, insect-like legs staying firm, its bean-like body turned to watch Pietre work, a tiny face framed by more petals, with two small, bead-like black eyes, swaying slowly from side to side, the small leaf on its head standing straight up. Pietre tried to ignore the creature, no matter how much his hand shook. It was always better to ignore them than to brush them off, as they might try to bring friends if you brushed them off. Finally getting the blood clot off, he carefully rolled the bandage into a neat scroll, the little deamon barely holding on to its seat as he worked. Dipping the other bandage into the water, Pietre started thinking. By now, he had left two buttons and a spoon out in the small forests that dotted the hills, each leading closer to the cave. Manguid made periodic forays into the hills in the night, placing some sort of bait to throw off the Church’s soldiers from their trail. They all even relieved themselves a little further down the stream, so that their scent would be less noticeable in the water, not to mention be taken further upstream. He had to find the patrols before they found them. If he did, he might even be able to convince them… Gulping, Pietre checked if the shiv he had hidden in the small pocket of his britches was still there. Suicide was a sin. But that didn’t matter much to him now did it?

Suddenly, something moved at the edge of his vision. Turning, Pietre quickly stood, drawing his shiv. Something moved in the shrubbery just across the stream. Slowly walking closer, Pietre felt himself gulping as he grabbed the thick branches. It could be a snake, a badger or any other monster of the forest. What if it was some great flower deamon, finally coming to take him to the Red? Steeling himself and moving in a single motion, Pietre parted the shrub's branches and plunged his shiv downward. The sight of large, black, beady eyes stopped him. Slowly moving his hand away, he looked around, taking in the scene. Hidden in a small hole surrounded by bushes, a red-striped marmot panted heavily, deep scarlet blood slowly pooling on its side, dying its brown fur. Another, smaller marmot stood beside the hole, its wide snout quivering as it watched Pietre. A few flower deamons walked around them, seemingly looking at the larger marmot worriedly. ‘A cub and a mother,’ he thought, placing the shiv back into his pocket. It was a sad sight, seeing the mother's nose quivering slightly as her little body rose and fell, spilling a few drops of blood every time, the little marmot looking at her worriedly, gently nuzzling his nose to her. Turning to him, the little rodent suddenly squeaked. Standing on its hind legs, it put its two front ones together and waved them up and down at Pietre, having to stand back up again every time. It made him think of a man pleading. Looking at them, Pietre turned to look at the bandages. Quickly darting to the stream, he used his shiv to slice off a lengthy piece of the cloth and returned to the bushes. Slowly, he stretched his hand towards the mother. ‘Have to clean her wound first,’ he thought, remembering seeing the same being done both by Mnaguid and by the Sisters in the nunnery when some of the slaves got hurt after falling off the roof while cleaning it. The little one squeaked, running up to its mother and started nibbling at Pietre’s sleeve. He felt like the little creature bit through his flesh. Stopping his hand, Pietre looked at the little marmot who in turn looked at him. Staying still for a moment, Pietre smiled awkwardly at the little rodent.

“I only want to help,” he said. His voice sounded shaky but resolute. Looking at him with its beady little eyes, the marmot finally let go, letting Pietre carefully lift the mother out of the hole. Carrying her to the stream in his hands, he immediately noticed the large, slightly infected gash on its side. Thankfully, it didn’t seem that serious. Sitting down by the stream, he carefully laid the mother marmot on the ground, the wound facing the sky. Taking a handful of water, he used it to carefully wipe away the dirt which surrounded the wound. Then, using his shiv, he carefully brushed away some infected tissue, which thankfully hadn’t fully healed yet. While he did this, the little marmot ran around him, squeaking and splashing in the water. Finally cleaning the wound with water one more time, Pietre took the bandage and carefully wrapped it around the mother’s belly before tying it tight. Gathering a few newly sprouted leaves, he placed them into the hole, making a sort of bedding. Laying the mother down, he looked at the little marmot, who already stood beside its mother, sniffing her worriedly.

“She should be fine. But she needs food. Find food,” Pietre said to the little one. The marmot looked back at him, squeaking angrily this time. Looking around, Pietre picked up the nearest growth of berries, a small stem covered in leaves and ripe, violet-tinged bellberries. Placing it next to the mother, he looked at the little one. Looking at him, then at the stem, at its mother, the little marmot suddenly darted into the bushes, squeaking as it ran, running through the tall grass, gnarled roots and low shrubs of the forest. It seemed it had understood. Smiling to himself, Pietre turned to the stream. He had to finish things quickly before Manguid and Cleo started wondering where he was.

“Why did you do that?”

Letting out a yelp, Pietre jumped back his hands in front of him. He was prepared for a hit to the head, or someone roughly grabbing him by the hand. Strangely, none of that happened. Instead, all he heard was a light chuckle.

“That’s a strange war stance you got there, den!”

Opening his eyes, Pietre couldn’t help but drop his jaw. A young centaur girl stood right in front of him. Dressed in a short-sleeved tunic, patterned in red and green squares and carrying a large leather satchel she had thrown over her shoulder, she had long, light blonde hair which hung loose on her shoulders and back. A soft, rigid face, with pronounced cheekbones and a blocky nose, smiled down at him, dark brown eyes framed by long, drooping eyebrows. While her lower half looked human, everything waist down made Pietre think of a large goat, with four lanky legs, hoofs and short but thick hair the colour of butter. Flower deamons danced on her large lower back or swung on swings made out of her hair. ‘An actual centaur!’ Pietre thought, feeling himself choking up. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. An actual centaur! A daughter of valour! Immediately, he got on his knees and bowed his head.

“Forgive me for trespassing on your grounds, daughter of valour. I will be leaving this place soon, so please forgive…” said Pietre, slowly lifting his head. The girl looked at him with puzzlement, before disappointment entered her face.

“Ahh, and I thought I would finally be able to have some fun! Say, den, could you play with me? Just for a little bit? Please!!!”

Pietre looked at her. He imagined his expression looked as if he was pole-axed because that was how he felt. Here he was, standing in front of an actual daughter of valour and she was asking him to play with her! Not to mention, she had appeared out of completely nowhere. Walking up to him, the young centaur sat down. Letting her lower half lie sprawled on the ground, she leaned on her arm next to Pietre, who stayed kneeling.

“So, why did you do that? Why did you help that moregan?” she asked in a quick and biting accent, not too different from galfrian. Leaning closer, her face was as close as it could get to Pietre’s. Not knowing how to act, he sat down, scooting a bit away from her. Looking at those brown eyes, he stammered before getting the words out.

“I… I-it seemed the right thing to do. That’s all.”

She blinked. Pietre felt her piercing gaze on him. It felt somehow wrong to speak to such a holy being as if he was speaking to any other person. Stammering, he was about to say ‘daughter of valour’, but the words died on his tongue. The girl laughed joyfully, her voice melodious. The flower deamons who were playing on her suddenly stopped and JOINED her. This was the first time Pietre had seen or heard deamons make any sound. It sounded… calming. Like the squeaking of a squirrel. Wiping her tears away, she smiled at him with a big, bright smile.

“A good answer, den! What’s your name?”

“P-Pietre… daughter of valour…”

The girl frowned for a moment, looking at him. She tried pronouncing his name “Pie… P-ietra? Pietra! Got it!”

“It’s actually…”

“What are you doing, Pietra?” she suddenly asked, cutting Pietre off. “Why are you cleaning those rags?”

Pietre fell silent for a moment. This felt… strange. Like something was wrong.

“M-my brother is hurt… Ma-Manguid bandaged his wounds, but w-we have few rolls as it is, so I-I was washing the bloodied ones in the stream… daughter of valour…” Pietre answered, looking at the bundle of darkened cloth still lying by the stream. He had barely made any progress. She harrumphed, crossing her arms.

“Who’s this ‘daughter of valour’ you’re talking about? I have a name, you know? Its Ciar. C-I-A-R. You understand, Pietra?”

“F-Forgive me, C-Ciar…” Pietre said, though reluctantly. It felt wrong speaking to a member of the Holy Race this way. Centaurs were meant to be honoured in every way possible. Sighing, Ciar looked around idly. Her eyes passed the slightly swaying trees and bushes passed the blooming flowers and dancing flower deamons until finally landing on the scarlet bandages. Her face tightened suddenly as if remembering something unpleasant.

“Come on! Let’s play!” she said all of a sudden, trying to sound reassuring. Looking at her, Pietre nodded hesitantly and stood up. Why did talking to her feel so strange? Ciar followed through the great bulk that was her lower half made that a bit difficult. Awkwardly twisting to get her hind legs up, she pushed herself off the ground and finally stood. Sitting, they were almost the same height, but in truth, Ciar towered over Pietre, his head level with her chest.

“So… w-what is it you want to play, dau… C-Ciar?” Pietre asked, barely catching himself calling her ‘daughter of valour’ again. Looking at him, she quickly plunged her hands into that satchel of hers. No, not a satchel. It was more of a bag, made out of loose, deeply tanned leather. A strange symbol which made Pietre think of a boar hung attached to the bag. It was made out of pure gold he realized as Ciar finally found what she had been looking for. With a self-satisfied grin, she revealed a leather ball, a bit smaller in diameter than Pietre’s head. Throwing the ball from one hand to the other, Ciar suddenly threw it to him. Awkwardly, he outstretched his arms to catch it. Landing on the ground just a finger length away from him, the ball bounced into the air. Confused, he watched as the ball quickly fell towards him. Covering his head, cowering at the perceived falling piece of hard leather, he felt the ball hit his fingers, bouncing again and falling into the stream. Lowering his arms, he heard Ciar laughing. Feeling his cheeks redden, Pietre grabbed the ball which was slowly being carried by the stream. The thing was surprisingly light, probably made out of an inflated pig bladder inside. Turning, he saw the young centaur still laughing, her hands holding onto her stomach, her four legs cantering and trotting back and forth as if she was about to fall. Was it that funny? Feeling embarrassed… and angry, he realized, Pietre swung the ball back and threw it as hard as he could. Still laughing, Ciar lifted herself onto her hind legs, catching the ball with her chest before grabbing it and setting it on the ground. Wiping the tears off her face, she smiled at him.

“The game is simple! We pass the ball to each other. You can only use your legs or chest. If the ball passes you, you lose. We play until someone reaches twenty losses.”

Pietre looked at her, then at the ball. ‘I feel like I’m getting in over my head,’ he thought, nodding. Smiling with glee, Ciar lightly kicked the ball with one of her legs. It gently rolled toward him. Waiting until it was near enough, Pietre kicked it back and felt a slight pain as his toes hit the ball. Waiting for a moment, Ciar turned and used one of her hind legs to kick the ball, this time with more force. Pietre tried to answer with the same, kicking the ball a bit harder. He felt the pain in his toes again. They kept going, each trying to one-up the other. Every time Ciar used a move, kicking the ball in some specific way or passing it to herself, Pietre would immediately copy her. Skidding by a patch of moss, Pietre stopped the ball with the sole of his foot. He had seen Ciar do that just a moment ago with her hoof. Passing the ball to the side, he stepped to the side and swung his foot as hard as he could. The ball flew, passing Ciar’s head by a hair and hitting a nearby tree. Smiling, he let out a joyous yelp.

“YES!!!” Smiling a surprised smile, Ciar went and picked up the ball, while Pietre was still gloating over his victory. ‘I WON? I WON! HAHHAHAHHA! IN YOUR FACE, YOU CENTAUR! I WON I WON I WON! YES, I … I-I… WON?! Wait, I ALLOWED myself to win?! I won? Oh, Lord! I won! Oh, Lord, please forgive me for my sin! Please, spare this daughter of valour! By the Stars, I allowed myself to address her with her first name! Oh, Lord!!!’

Dropping to his knees, Pietre clapped his hands and instantly fell to the ground, prostrating himself in front of Ciar. Feeling tears and snot running down his face, he tried to speak, but the words stuck to the top of his throat. He wanted to bend over, to go hide. By the light of the Lord, what had he done?!

“Pietra!” Running to him, Ciar slowly sat down, trying not to accidentally hinder him with her bulky lower half. Getting to his level, she placed a hand on his shoulder. She tried to move him, to make him look at her. But he couldn’t. Not after what he had done. “Pietra, what’s wrong?!”

Quivering, Pietre kept his eyes on the ground. “F-forgive me… I…” he tried to hold back his sobbing, but it came rushing at him like a great wave. Finally looking up at Ciar, her face filled with worry, he spoke in between his sobs. “I-I shou-shouldn’t have... a-allowed myself to-to disgrace you so, my-my lady! Ple-Please, forgive this accursed being for su-sullying you…” Ciar looked at him for a long moment, her face taking on an expression Pietre had never seen before. She seemed… saddened, and angry. Pulling him closer, she hugged him, her strong arms squeezing Pietre’s sides. “Why’re you saying this, Pietra? What are you talking about? You’re my game friend. Weren’t we just having fun playing kickball?” she asked in a calm yet whimpering voice. Was she feeling pity for him? Afraid to hug her back, Pietre continued to sob. “B-B-But I-I’m a slave of God… I h-have no right to play with-with you, l-let alone w-win…”

Pulling him away for a moment, Ciar made him look her in the eyes. Her light brown eyes glistened with tears as she looked at him sternly. “I don’t care if you are a slave, a phoenixian invader, a Red-fiend, a cheat or anyone else! You could even be one of those idiots who keep coming to us and teaching us about their Faith! You are you, and you should be proud of yourself!” Suddenly, a smile bloomed in that rigid face of hers. Chuckling, she continued. “You won against me in kickball! That’s not something any simple human can do! Now c’mon, let’s keep playing! You’re the first person I’ve played with in a very long time… so c’mon, I’ll help you stand up!”

Slowly standing up, she leaned forward and offered him a hand. Pietre looked at her for a moment. Wiping the snot and tears from his face with his sleeve, he grabbed her hand and finally stood up. ‘M-maybe… Maybe the Lord won’t be too angry if I add just one more sin to the list… after all, I’ll have my entire life to atone for them…’ he thought, watching Ciar walk to take the ball. Still, some of the things Ciar had said stuck in his mind. ‘Phoenixians? Idiots teaching the Faith? Was she talking about pilgrims or men of the cloth? But I thought the centaurs in galfria were the very first to accept rebirth…’

“Pietre!”

Turning, Pietre watched a confused Cleo walking up to him while carrying a small axe, her padded gambeson unbuttoned and let loose, her belt tied around her simple white linen shirt. The tall half-elf looked tired, her dark cherry eyes were framed by dark circles and her long ears slightly drooped. Her light coppery hair, swaying with her step, looked unkept and messy, with strands and curls slick with sweat falling to her shoulders. Looking at the still bloody pieces of bandage next to the stream, she gave him a warning glare, though its effect was diminished by the fatigue plain on her face. Throwing the axe on the ground, she leaned on it, using it to stretch her legs and arms.

“You were supposed to finish these an hour ago, then go pick the whatever-lillies for Manguid’s salve,” she stood up normally, swinging the axe back on her shoulder. Though her eyes looked grained and tired, their hardness never went away. Neither did it disappear from her voice. “What are you thinking, slacking off? This isn’t some game, you know?”

Pietre quickly nodded. “I-I was just… um… was just playing. With Ciar,” he said hurriedly, waving to Ciar. Cleo looked at him, then towards where he was pointing. Fatigue chipped at the hardness of her eyes again as she sighed. “Get back to work, city boy. I’m going to get more lumber for the fire.” As she passed him, Pietre heard her murmuring something about ‘city boys’.

Frowning, Pietre turned around. He felt a shiver run down his spine, as he looked on at a forested path which followed the stream. Ciar was gone as if blown away by the chilly morning wind. Running to the place he last saw her, Pietre looked around. There was nothing – tracks, broken branches. Nothing. Pietre felt wanting to hunch down but fought it off. She was real! He had touched her… She had touched him! Finally, his eyes caught something at the edge of his vision. Checking closer, he found the ball, still lying in a small sinkhole by a red pine. Picking it up carefully, Pietre looked around again. A strange feeling of acceptance and understanding suddenly enveloped him. ‘I’ll have to keep this safe until she comes back,’ he thought, running back to the bandages. The longer he waited, the harder it would be to clean them. Just as he sat down, sighing at the already tough and coagulated blood on the white linen Cleo jumped out of the bushes, her eyes wild-eyed. With a swing of her hand, Pietre was picked up and carried like a sack of grain back into the cave. He almost let Ciar’s ball slip through his fingers. Throwing him on the ground the moment she ran down into the small rocky alcove, Cleo threw down the axe and grabbed her pike.

“Manguid, they’ve found us,” she said, quickly buttoning up her gambeson and strapping her machett to her belt. The large qasqariam stopped stirring the small black pot over the fire and stood. His ears perked up, each moving around on its own. He let out a low growl. “I can smell them,” he answered as he fitted on strange full finger rings, their tips ending in long, claw-like steel nails. “Pietre, help me carry Kosian and lead the dogs to the back of the cave. You stay there as well.”

“How many can you smell?”

Manguids pink snout twitched slightly as he carefully picked up Kosian. “Five… no, six. They have been running their dogs ragged. The smell of their sweat is getting pungent.” Cleo cursed in a murmur. “That’s too many. Even for you and me. Especially if half of them are Putrelis knights.”

Looking at them talking, Pietre stood up and sighed resignedly. He had hoped for this after all. He would do it. He would save them. All three of them.

“M-Manguid, Cleo! P-Please… let them take me. A-After all, it’s me they’re after. I-I can ask them to let you go! P-Please, let me do at least this much…” he thought he would feel fear. A deep, festering fear. But as he talked, he felt more and more confident. “L-Let me a-atone for my brother’s mistakes. Let me repay your kindness…”

Cleo and Manguid both turned to him. They looked ragged, tired. Manguids grey fur was matted with sweat, his vest and puffy breaches sticking to his skin. His yellow eyes seemed haggard. Cleo looked even worse, with her coppery hair seeming darker, that gambeson of hers seeming patchier than he remembered. Silence stretched in the cave. The two of them watched Pietre intently as if seeing him in a new light. Suddenly, Cleo let out a bark of a laugh. Finally buttoning up her gambeson, she walked toward him. Though that hardness of hers never left, it was softened now. Crouching so she could be eye to eye with him, she ruffled his long sand-coloured hair, losing strands from his long tail. Smiling to him, she spoke, her words, though hard, filled with compassion and warmth. “You’re braver than I give you credit for, cursed boy. Don’t worry. It’ll be tough, but we won’t lose. Me and Manguid are considered the best in Wymonds company. Now, you grab the dogs and go hide at the back of the cave. If anything happens, I want you to throw your brother onto one of the saddles and ride as hard as you can. Do you understand?”

“B-But…”

“Do not worry, little salaq. We won’t be long,” said Manguid, showing him a toothy grin. Pietre only now noticed that some of those knife-like fangs were covered by steel dentures.

Pushing him aside, Cleo placed the dogs’ reins into his hands, while she and Manguid both got ready at the entrance of the cave – her standing with the pike at the ready while Manguid had one of those long javelins in his large hand. He watched hopelessly as they calmly waited for the enemy to come. ‘No… I can’t… I can’t let them!’

He heard men speaking in hushed tones. Of cloth brushing against armour and the rocks, of swords being drawn from their scabbards and the tightening of crossbow strings. He had to move! To step forward! He would save them! HE HAD TO!

‘A slave must show submission to everyone!’ he remembered Sister Almona saying to him once. Well, Pietre imagined such a rule could be broken to save lives and he didn’t give a dog’s ass if it made him more sinful than he already was!

Suddenly, Pietre felt something pulling his sleeve. Looking down, he saw a cave deamon, its large eyes peering at him as it pulled on his sleeve, desperately trying to lift it. Pietre felt the shiver he always got run down his spine as he watched the creature hold onto his shirt. Out of all of them, he hated cave deamons the most. As he was about to swat it away, the cave deamon squeaked. The sound made Pietre freeze. This was the first time he had heard any sort of deamon make any audible noise. As the creature continued to squeak, he felt something grab him by the collar and start dragging him to the floor. Slowly at first, but getting faster as he went. Looking back, Pietre felt his eyes going wide and his jaw drops open as he watched a hooded centaur, clad in pure black, drag him to the edge of the cave by the small crack in the wall, where Kosian was already held by another centaur. Looking back, he saw Cleo cursing, her eyes widening out of fear as she thrashed about, and Manguid flailing and growling as the two of them were also being dragged by centaurs. Both wore black hooded capes which hid their upper bodies fully, while their lower bodies were covered in fur so black it almost seemed like they were a part of the shadows, still dancing on the wall from the fire. Pietre heard them murmuring to each other. The sound was quiet, yet eerily clear. Like someone whispering in a way that only you could hear. They spoke in rugged, yet musical accents, in a language which Pietre could only describe as… barbaric. Suddenly, the one dragging Pietre said something to the other two in the same hushed voice. Though similar, his voice sounded commanding and firm. The two centaurs immediately fell silent. As did Cleo and Manguid. Pietre felt horror seep into his face as he saw Cleo’s skin pale, and Manguids ears droop. He felt his mind finally grasping the situation. Grabbing onto the firm arm that dragged him, Pietre flailed about, groaning. He wanted to scream for them, to ask if the two of them were okay. He didn’t even feel the centaur's hand tighten around his neck, making his eyes darken. He felt drowsy, lethargic, almost lifeless. And yet a part of him hung to consciousness, refusing to let go. He felt as if he were hanging by the end of a rope, his legs being pulled down by thousands of tiny hands, each stronger and tighter than a vice. He felt the air leaving his lungs. Gasping, gasping for air, he looked at the nearest centaur. He carried Manguid by the arm as if the large qasqariam were nought but a simple doll, the hand peeking from the black cloak seemingly coal-black and muscle-bound, with veins ready to pop. But what draw Pietre was the cowl under which he hid his visage. It was pitch black. And yet two eyes glinted in the darkness. Eyes made seemingly of pure, honeyed amber.