“Where is he?”

He wakes to a voice he doesn't recognise, an ache in his legs, and the distinct chill brought on by long-term nudity. As he rouses further, he realises that his hands are bound behind his back, and he is very thirsty.

“Where is he?” The man in front of him repeats, tapping one toe far too close to his face.

Daimd pushes himself up with one shoulder, swaying into a forced kneel he has no taste for. He checks, and finds that his ankles too are bound. The man opens his mouth again, and Daimd interrupts him, “Where is who?”

The bandit captain slaps him across the face, sending him to the dirt in a tightly-wound sprawl. “The elf, damnit, you stupid beast! Where is the elf?”

Daimd laughs deeply. “He's gone.”

The captain looks taken aback by his straightforward reponse, and crouches in front of him to pull him up by his hair. “It seemed like he loved you.”

Daimd smiles easily to himself despite the pain in his skull. “It did.”

The captain gapes at him for a disbelieving moment, then flings him back do the ground and spits on the back of his head. “I won't be fooled by your lies. He's coming back, and with people to help him.” The captain raises his voice as he stands, turning around to look at who Daimd presumes are his men. “Stay on guard, all of you!”

Daimd laughs until they strike him down into unconsciousness once more.



“Where is he?” The captain's patience wanes visibly by the day, as does that of his crew, when any of them venture near enough for Daimd to see them.

“I don't know.” Daimd's replies are always compliant, despite their insisting on keeping him naked and kneeling. His chin is always raised, too, and the captain hates it.

“Then find him! Scry for him, do something so that he is found!” The captain flings Daimd's hair from his grip and watches the orc topple over, waving for someone to return him to his former position even before he hits the ground.

Upon being resettled upright, Daimd speaks with mirth dashed through his tone, “I am no shaman, to see distant things in bowls of clear water, nor am I a summoner to call demons to do my bidding. I see only as well as you gentlemen, and probably also worse.”

“Pah.” The captain spits, as he often does. “Where would he have gone, then? Tell me something I can use, you useless creature.”

“I don't know.” Daimd repeats for the twentieth time, adding lowly afterwards, “I'll have to find him again. It's my turn, I think.”

The captain kicks him.



“You look awfully tired.”

Daimd glances up at the voice—different from those he's heard before. Its owner is a young girl whose careful smile shakes when his eyes meet hers. He lets out a low sigh, saying only, “I don't know.”

“I didn't ask you anything.” The girl approaches him, pausing after each step.

“You want an answer all the same. I don't know where he is.”

“Why not?” She approaches further, hunkering down next to him and placing one hand to his cheek. He feels it tremble before she steadies it.

Daimd laughs, as he always does. “Do I look that much his keeper?”

The sound makes her cringe. “Well...”

“Go away from me. You're frightened and I have nothing to tell you that I have not told them.”

She starts to fiddle with the lacings on her front, mumbling, “He said...”

Daimd yawns, full with teeth and growling, and says lower, “Get away.”

She bolts.



“You're not tempted.” The captain sounds more angry with him than usual, and Daimd is not surprised.

“You have nothing to offer that could satisfy me.”

“Where is he?” The captain snarls, ever unable to keep his fury in check.

“I don't know. He's gone.” Daimd says it softly, always smiling. They don't know that every day they keep his hands bound he becomes more of a risk, and they don't know that he will strike them with fists before magic. They don't know that he has spoken nothing less than the truth and yearns for little more than the freedom to find his elf once more.

He doesn't know what they want with Quinn, but he doesn't care. All Daimd wants is to find him again.

He stirred awake with a start, looking around their small camp with bleary confusion. Had he been... ? He ran one hand through Quinn's hair and held the blood elf tighter for a moment to prove he was still there, still breathing, still. Daimd heaved a deep sigh a rolled away, rising to attend to the ashes of the dying fire.

The Barrens were cold overnight, yet he knew the chill he felt had nothing to do with their surroundings. It had been vivid. Unclear, but bright and sharp, as though he were present at the event as it was happening. He had dreamt of Valm fashioning herself four totems of wood and leather, the very same totems that shamans favoured. He prodded the dream and tried to figure what it could mean, but only settled on the fact that it was peculiar, and distressing. He sighed heavily again, and spoke into the wind.

“I'm not coming back, Valm. Not this time. He's too much mine, and none of you are prepared for it.”

Honest words, he thought, but hardly the whole truth. In the back of his mind, the smallest of voices whispered, 'You aren't ready for this yet. You know what to tell them, and how he'll react, but you aren't prepared to deal with both of those things. Slow, quiet, patient Daimd, with secrets to keep like you've never had before.'

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the wolf ranging about the edge of their camp. He observed it long enough to realise its edges were ever so slightly blurred, and then he raised a hand to it, making a beckoning gesture. When it slunk into the firelight and settled down on its haunches, he looked at it directly, rumbling, “Tell her not to look for me. I am not here for her, or for any of them. We are here, and we have no place in the tribe. Tell her.”