Gwen felt herself floating on a dark lake. No, the sea, I'm in the sea. A bright glow drew her attention so she sat up and looked towards the flames. The entire shore seemed to be afire.

The scene looked so familiar to her, a memory tickling the back of her mind. Home. It had been so long since she'd been home. She felt loneliness well up within her, and fear. She felt the chill of the sea winds seep into her bones, and then she heard the screams.

So many screams, of terror and pain. They filled the air. If she tried hard enough she thought she could see shapes running through the flames, screaming for help.

She felt the sea rock beneath her, and only then did she realize that she sat on a boat, a shallow long boat. She looked around for the crew but they were not there, only one large figure crouched at the end of the boat, watching her, with glowing red eyes.

He was on her before she knew it, his large frame crushing her into the wood. He reeked of smoke and rotting flesh. She tried to fight back, but her limbs moved as if through water. He pinned her so she could not move. His body was warm, unnaturally so.

She was no longer in the boat. She was in the barn, flames dancing around her. The flames excited him, urged him on as he clawed at her. The heat was too much. She was being suffocated by his weight. The room was closing in. She needed out, she needed to run, to flee, to get away. She screamed, forcing herself awake.

The first thing she noticed was how warm she was. She panicked thinking that she was still in the barn, so she tried to sit herself upright. The pain in her sides was almost too much. He was trying to rape me, she remembered, and forced herself upright.

She found herself lying close to a small fire, uncomfortably close. She began scuffling away quickly, thinking she was still in the burning barn. It was not until her back touched cold stone that she realized she was outside. There was a chill wind, too chill for her to be out without proper clothing. And across the fire, she saw the man in white.

He sat uneasily on a large stone that extended from a stone wall behind him. It was then that she realized they must be on the mountain outside the village. His perch was slightly too high as it seemed that he leaned on it more than sat. His clothing was a brilliant white that seemed unstained by smoke, ash, or blood, a marvel considering where they had just been. He had white leather boots which shimmered only slightly in the light, as if polished. Only now was she able to notice that what she'd assumed was a white shirt, was actually a vest, which at the moment he wore open, with his cape now thrown behind his shoulders, baring impressively muscled white arms.

She felt her breathe catch at this. His arms were white, not pale as some of the ladies, who hide themselves to become beautiful, but a white, nearly as pure as his garb, barely resembling skin at all, but more like ivory. His hood was up, but the veil he'd worn was now hanging to the side of his hood, somehow attached there to the right side of his hood.

Though his hood was up, the fire let her see his face clearly. It was smooth, no hair or blemishes touched his face, as if it could not be tainted somehow. His jawline was firm and strong, but his face was slender, making it seem more pretty than manly. His nose was pointed and short, giving him a childish appearance. She froze at his eyes. They were golden. Not the yellowish green that some people had, but an inhuman bright gold, that sparkled as they reflected the firelight. She immediately felt the chill air deep in her bones. She wanted to run, to flee from this man with unnatural white skin. The man with the too pretty face and golden eyes. The eyes that bore no pupils, but two slits separating those golden irises. The eyes of a demon.

* * *

Mikhail watched the young female rouse. He'd been pondering what to do with it. He'd been pondering the whole night actually. He still didn't know what drove him to come here, or why he'd felt the need to intervene. The ritual of power was sacred, and he'd not only interrupted, but had not completed it himself once claiming the offering for his own.

Not for the first time, he cursed the day he'd found the white Shakar. Everything had changed that day. He'd known who he was, the path he was meant to walk. But now...

He stared at the pitiful creature before him. Such a thing could not stand against a child of Roathe. That was the way of the world, what was meant to be. Yet when he saw her, something stirred in him, something deep within his spirit. Something the white Shakar was bringing out.

He watched as she shied away from the fire. He'd thought she might welcome the heat, given the chill air in these mountains, but it seemed that these creatures were not quite as found on it as he'd believed. He stood there, bemused by her reactions. They were similar to what he might have done, in a way, though he'd not have abandoned the fire. Fire was a weapon, it was life, it was holy. He'd have used that advantage.

He smelled her fear. It wafted around him like a cloud. She was terrified to the point of shaking. Not for the first time, he was surprised that he did not enjoy that scent. It bothered him inexplicably. When her stare became too much, he picked up the meat he'd gathered in a makeshift sack of skin, and took it to her. As he neared he saw the blood drain from her face, so he placed the sack next to her, letting it come apart and reveal the food inside. Then he went back to his leaning, and watching.

She pushed herself along the ground, away from the food. Her eyes were wide with terror now. Mikhail tilted his head, puzzled. He'd presented her with good quality meat. From what he knew of her people, which he believed was quite a bit, an offering of food was a sign of peace. In some cultures he'd studied, there was superstition forbidding the harming of those to whom you'd given food. Preposterous of course, but did she not believe such things?

He dug through all his knowledge of her people, trying to puzzle out this specimen. It of course would never occur to him that she recognized the skin folded around the meat. That she'd know it'd come from the donkey that used to plow Burson's fields. Of course emotional attachment to animals was not something his people were capable of either.

What did finally occur to him was that the meat he gave to her was raw. He remembered reading somewhere that these simple people preferred cooked meat. He'd always thought that strange. It was true that he himself enjoyed cooked meat, but he was of the blood of the ancients. They had always eaten cooked meat except when on the hunt. For much of his youth, he'd pictured humanity as rambling tribes, akin to cattle. Feeding on what they could when they could. He'd never given any thought to whether or not they knew how to cook. The revelation had made him question much of what the priests had said about these lesser beings.

Inspired by his memory, Mikhail walked back to the meat and, after producing a knife from his belt, began cutting the meat into strips. He then produced several metal spikes from a pocket within his robe. He planted the spikes into the dirt, close to the fire. The spikes were not long, but that allowed them to be closer to the fire's base, and therefore its heat. They weren't perfect, but they were effective. He then wound the strips along each spike, stabbing through the meat a few times to ensure it held. Once satisfied, he resumed his perch upon the stone.

"What do you want of me?"

The words disrupted Mikhail's ponderings. He watched the young woman with curiosity. Her demeanor bespoke wariness, and she still reeked of fear, but the force with which she spoke was challenging. It was similar to how his own kind spoke when meaning to begin Marsha gha, the dance of supremacy.

Preoccupied with such thoughts, it took him a moment to think over the words she spoke. Her accent was harsh, not of the people who inhabited this area, much more akin to the northern tribes, yet the words were of the region. He did not know the name of this tongue, nor the exact meaning of her words, only that by her tone, she was either requesting something, or giving him an order, and that the order had to do with her and her desires.

He was not about to allow her to act so entitled with him, a priest of Roathe, but he also wasn't about to let her think that she got under his skin. So instead he smiled to her patronizingly, baring his black teeth and oversized canines. "Food," he stated kindly in the native tongue, pointing to the meat, then towards her.

He tilted his head in confusion as a new smell entered the air. A smell of urine, and the woman began to tremble, the color gone from her face, tears running down her face. The declaration was meant to calm her, maybe intimidate her some. He sighed audibly, then walked to the fire to retrieve one of the spikes. After removing the meat, he tore it in half and ate the first half. The second part he thrust towards her. "Food," he commanded roughly.

She shied away, and would not take the food. He pressed more forcefully and she wailed, throwing her arms above her head and collapsing back to the ground, where she shook.

Mikhail cursed, then reached down to her and pulled her back up into a sitting position. Once his hands were on her though, she began flailing again. He tried to grab her arms, but before he could grasp them he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder.

He looked blankly at her, her face filled with anger as he held her wrists in each hand. He looked to his shoulder to see the spike he'd just freed, embedded 3 inches into the muscle. He could even feel it scrapping the bone.

He smiled at her wickedly; he could work with this creature. Before the fire had burned down, the woman was properly bound. He did not try to feed her again, instead eating the meat himself, and cleaning the spikes by scorching them in the fire coals and wiping them with a loose piece of leather he carried.

He drug her to the edge of the coals and threw the remainder of the donkey's skin on top of her to keep her from freezing.Then retiring to his rock and leaning back against the stone, let himself pass into his own form of rest.

* * *

Gwen had trouble deciding what to do. She lay there, like a goat to be roasted. She didn't understand where that courage had come from, she'd just been so angry at how hopeless and scared she was.

She felt tears stinging her eyes. She'd thought herself dead when the first one attacked her in the barn, and now this one had taken her out of the village, for what purpose she did not know. All she knew was that he'd begun eating master Burson's donkey, and had offered it to her, probably to fatten her up.

Regardless of what it was trying to do to her, she should have accepted its treatment, and then tried to run, though she doubted she could escape. Now that she was bound hand and foot, there would be no more chances. She may not be offered food again either, and though the thought of it sickened her, donkey meat was preferable to starvation. The excitement had tempered her appetite but she could feel the empty pit of her stomach even now.

She had her face pressed into the earth in a feeble attempt to avoid the musky smell of the donkey's skin draped over her. The dirt beneath her was wet with tears and it took all of her control to keep from openly sobbing. She hated being so helpless.

If I get another chance I will kill him next time, she vowed to herself, knowing that it was unlikely. She would likely be killed soon. Either when the meat ran out, or when her body could no longer entertain he captor.

Despite her rage and self-pity, exhaustion began taking over. Soon she felt herself floating again in darkness.