[crow]

((taking the opportunity to test out his character here, ohoho; name may change))

The slender figure sank with a weary sigh upon an outcropping of rock, ephemeral wings folding and at once dissipating into the air. Unsupported, he fell at once to his knees, and then to his hands. For a moment he did no more, and stayed thus, only panting softly as he struggled to catch his breath.

He was no weakling, by anyone's standards--- years upon years of hard service, and nothing of weakness could have remained. Nothing would have been kept, otherwise, if it was thought they were too weak to be of any use. Such was the nature of the work, and of the master; and many more desperate sods could be found, more deals broken, more children pressed into service.

[crow]

But it was not easy, not even for him, and he wagered there would be more deals brokered soon. Too many cullings as of late, and the rest of them worked harder to make up for it. Even now, the lights pressed lividly against his skin, nearly too many to hold. These, as much as the speed of his journey, were wearying him. In the dark uninhabited expanse of the mountains, he struggled wretchedly; it was not entirely enough. A strangled cry--- lines of light, like fractures, appeared against his back, visible even through the heavy dark fabric of his cloak. He grimaced, and strained, and the lines disappeared once more, but the effort had cost him. His breathing was becoming harsh again, and he was barely repressing the urge to retch.

[crow]

Lights--- lights for the tyrant, to do with as he liked, and anyone's guess what that might be. Elouan certainly knew nothing. The master's secrets were well kept, and he wasn't stupid enough to ask.

He had to be back soon, he knew. It was not good of him to linger here, and if he were spotted--- He could hardly finish the thought. With so few to hand, the sense of urgency had grown stronger, but his weariness was real. His bones ached with the burden, and his lungs, and all the rest of him. The darkness offered what cool comfort it could. He pressed his eyes, grown hot, into the cooled backs of his hands, but there were still too many sparks behind his closed lids.

[crow]

But even like this, it was not wholly unpleasant. There was no sound in the mountains, save for the wind, and the occasional rustling of some creature in the bushes. The notion that these might be dangerous did not trouble him; he could be away from them in a moment if he wished, even exhausted. And most knew better, by some scent or unseen mark, not to trouble him.

There were no lights and no voices, nothing for him to take. He could sit there, staring up at the peaks, feeling his fingers go numb beneath his gloves and think himself merely a boy again, haring off on some ill-advised hike. "Would that it were so," he murmured, soft and low.

[crow]

Alone, he could allow himself that much, but he knew it was futile even as he spoke the words. Freedom was but a children's tale for those bound as he was. There was a reason a funeral was held, the day the poor soul was taken. His own had been a quiet affair, attended by not even ten altogether.

Eventually, the strength returned to him, or at least enough that he might unfurl his wings and test them again. They trembled for a few beats, then held. He was almost sorry to see it so. He wouldn't have objected to a little more time, even in the cold and acute discomfort, if only to be quiet and alone.

[crow]

The next evening he was unburdened afresh, and made his way out to the cities. He was one of the elder servants now, though it was not much of a distinction. There were five, perhaps six, as he knew them. Most found death sooner or later, and sometimes Elouan envied them, though he was seldom at leisure to pursue these thoughts to any useful end.

Having survived so long had scant few benefits, but at least he could choose his haunts. He did not care for the cities, but it was easier to take from them without being noticed, and a light bulb or a street lamp here and there wouldn't be missed much.

[crow]

It was not without its price, however. He pulled up his cloak as he drew near the outskirts of the city, his wings folding neatly against his back as he lit upon the ground behind a copse of trees. The leaves crunched underfoot, but there was no one to hear it save for a few rabbits, and a fox who had been on their trail. The animals stared warily at him and he stared back. They reached an understanding: he was not as the other humans were, and he wasn't here for them. They returned to their business and he straightened, moving silently as a wraith.

In the suburbs he stayed close to the fringes of unused plots, skirting along hedges and brambles and snatching the odd street-lamp as he went. Closer to the city proper, the alleyways offered shelter. Flickering half-spent bulbs went dead at their fingertips, the light coursing along his bones in a flurry of barely-felt warmth.

[crow]

He worked slowly, methodically, taking himself down one dilapidated street after another. He did not harvest in swathes, but cherry-picked his finds, never taking more from any one place or lingering for too long. Even in places like this, too great a concentration of strange incidents would have aroused suspicion, and he liked to pass through leaving as little of his presence behind as possible.

It was funny: at first he had resented the need for invisibility, and indeed, the abilities given to him to facilitate it. Now he was content, perhaps even glad for it. Force of habit had something to do with it, he supposed. He hardly knew now what he would do if someone spotted him, and stopped to interrogate him on the purpose of his visit here.

[crow]

But that, he thought, would have been easier than if they had been kind. It had happened once--- an old woman, not yet in her dotage but not far from it, had spotted him in a careless moment. She had asked him gently if he was there to take her things, and when he made no reply, she offered him tea.

He had fled, disappeared into the shadows as quickly as he had come, his heart hammering in his chest. He never did discover what happened to her, and had only the comfort of knowing she wasn't likely to be believed. Wraiths and cutthroats weren't uncommon fixtures in these parts of town either, which was one reason he found them convenient. His master hadn't mentioned anything, and loathe as he was to admit it, Elouan dreaded the answer too much to ask.

[crow]

No--- no. Asking would have meant betraying his knowledge of the transgression, and if his master was as ignorant as Elouan hoped, then it would be orchestrating his own downfall.

And would that be so bad?

Elouan sighed, allowing himself to sag against the half-crumbled wall of an old cottage. The stone was rough against his hands. His body thrummed, not uncomfortably as of yet, with the weight of the lights. If he turned his hand over and relaxed, he could make out little pinprick flashes where the skin was thin, rising and falling.