The Wolf Slayer’s dismissive nature towards his injuries caught Osran by surprise. He has expected some form of pushback from any one of them— a wounded warrior left room for mistakes. Two wounded warriors could be lead to fatalities, should their injuries win them over. Yet, the Wolf Slayer disregarded neither him nor the Bowman for their faults.
He did not know whether to respect her or question her for her lack of judgement. It was her call, however— he was not to inquire on her reasons.
Now, the young girl sitting at the Wolf Slayer’s side was a Fae. A slayer blessed by the Goddess of Nature, Ada. She so simply and selflessly offered his gift to the four of them in the most unsettling way— her ability to heal. An ability that only existed through the source of her life. Her blood.
A thought— a glimmer— a notion of an idea entered Osran's mind at the mention of the blood of the fae. An echoing voice, trapped in the confines of his mind.
What if... my eye... my arm…
It was as if, for that split second, he was ravenous— he craved nothing more— to feel his pain wash away entirely—
Osran. Stop. What are even you considering?
“Coveting the blood of fae is punishable by death.”
He shook his head violently and the impulse had vanished. However, the memory of it remained— much to his own horror. How— how could he imagine doing such a thing, stealing the blood of an innocent girl? This desperate hunger was unlike anything he had experienced before— and it terrified him. For five years, he had attempted to come to terms with his injuries, though attempt was perhaps too strong a word. A failure of an attempt, obviously. He was as hurt in body and in mind as he was the day his family…
As the day he lost his faith.
He swallowed, attempting a solemn nod, a sign of agreement to the Wolf Slayer's orders. He needed to keep his distance from the Little Fae— at least, for now. He could not trust himself— not that he would ever allow himself to hurt her. Osran was not a bad man, but hurt men did strange things.
Gods, he needed another drink desperately. Anything to get out of his head. He hadn’t spent much time sober in the last five years for a reason, after all.
"As for our Imani blessed..."
The Wolf Slayer had continued her speech without missing a beat, leaving Osran to pick up the words she left behind.
Osran’s breath caught in his throat. He wanted nothing more than to denounce the name of that... liar... in front of all of them. Imani blessed? No, more like Imani cursed. The god played no part in his successes; only his failures.
Yet, it would be ill-timed to do. He did not wish for them to think less of him— yet. No doubt that they would, but that would come in time. He wouldn't be able to keep his disdain a secret forever.
Focus. Focus. Focus.
With a deep breath, he let the hated name slip from his mind. The Wolf Slayer’s eyes were on him now— he could feel her gaze almost burning him. Not a burn in the way of injury, but of warmth.
She had understood his unspoken plea, it seemed. Osran felt more comfortable in the darkness ever since obtaining his injuries— a missing eyes and wounded arm did not make for the most comfortable battle environment these days, though he would never admit it. In the shadows, however— he didn’t need his eyes. His hearing, his sense of smell— they were enough. A dagger would not miss its mark. A surprise could not exist on his watch. His companions would be protected from those shadows, without any doubt.
He was able to meet her gaze for a split-second— his yellow eye meeting the glare of her amber colored glasses. A split-second before he had to look away, but perhaps long enough to ensure her of his agreement— that is, if she could see past his unease.
“Shadows it is, Wolf Slayer.” He murmured quietly, as if half to himself.
The Wolf Slayer and Winged One in the lead, the Little Fae in the middle, the Bowman in the rear, and himself in the shadows— perhaps a rather well-rounded group. The results were yet to be seen.
The Winged One’s gentle smile did not go unnoticed, though he couldn’t meet her gaze. Did she— had she noticed the same distress in him that he had seen in her? He could not be sure, but there was something in her smile that told him as much. The Little Fae seemed upset— the small furrow in her eyebrows had given her away, at least to him. She didn’t seem happy with the Wolf Slayer’s orders. The Bowman seemed at ease among them— a sentiment that Osran wished he could share.
He waited a few beats, eye darting between his companions. None of them seemed to offer any questions, but he could not help but ask what he had been considering since the morning. He cleared his throat, trying to mask how dry it had become.
“Given the… nature of this… escapade... what are our chances of success?”
He frowned. No, that's not what he wanted to know. He had been thrown offguard by the presence of his companions; the Little Fae in particular. He had thought to refrain from asking for her sake alone—
No, he put himself on the front lines of this guild request for a singular reason, and he wanted a real answer.
Sorry, Little Fae— the truth could set us free.
"… in honesty, Wolf Slayer... what are our chances of dying?”
He squinted his singular eye. What he lacked in his sight was not made up by his couth.