Omi left his apartment with his mind on what Youji had told him about Ken's experience with the sex-swapping card. The conversation with Irial, while not forgotten, was buried under bitterness and protective anger on his best friend's behalf.
Concentrating on those feelings was helpful, as it meant Omi couldn't dwell quite as much on his changed state-- at least until he reached the clothing store. But until then, Omi walked with his head down and his hands in his pockets. The cold temperatures afforded him an excuse for the thick coat, hat and scarf that masked his shape and the bulk of his features.
After a couple of minutes, however, his footsteps slowed, and then halted completely. Something was off. He couldn't pinpoint what it was, but the instincts that had kept him alive as an assassin were buzzing now on the near-empty streets. Omi lifted his eyes and looked around. He saw no danger.
Irial breathed in the scent of a woman in the downward breeze that traveled between them, carrying notes of tender skin, soft hair, and apprehension. The taste of Omi's emotions, however, hadn't changed with the temporary alteration of his body
( ... )
It was a weight in the stomach, this recognition of danger nearby. An acidic prickle that made his insides feel heavy and cold and constricted. The muscles in his legs began to tingle with soreness as though they hadn't been exercised in too long. Omi thought of the darts at his waist which he carried with him at all times. His eyes scanned the area as he began to walk again, alert not just for the hint of the danger, but of his environment. The most likely places for a threat to come from. The best places to hide or to take cover. Potential routes of retreat-- or of luring the threat into a trap. What did he have close at hand for props if the darts failed him?
Never run from the fae. They enjoy it far too much.
And so Irial gave pursuit, silent and invisible as he paced himself, rushing to follow the female close, but not overtaking Omi. He could move in a blur, streak past his charge and run unseen circles around him, but for now, Irial was satisfied just to keep close enough to smell her hair, to hear her labored breathing, to listen to the frenzied pace of her pulse as she tried to flee.
Could she feel him there, a familiar shadow? He was tempted to reach out and touch, but no -- not yet. He was going to savor it this time.
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Concentrating on those feelings was helpful, as it meant Omi couldn't dwell quite as much on his changed state-- at least until he reached the clothing store. But until then, Omi walked with his head down and his hands in his pockets. The cold temperatures afforded him an excuse for the thick coat, hat and scarf that masked his shape and the bulk of his features.
After a couple of minutes, however, his footsteps slowed, and then halted completely. Something was off. He couldn't pinpoint what it was, but the instincts that had kept him alive as an assassin were buzzing now on the near-empty streets. Omi lifted his eyes and looked around. He saw no danger.
The apprehension lingered.
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Then, after a beat, Omi simply broke into a run.
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Never run from the fae. They enjoy it far too much.
And so Irial gave pursuit, silent and invisible as he paced himself, rushing to follow the female close, but not overtaking Omi. He could move in a blur, streak past his charge and run unseen circles around him, but for now, Irial was satisfied just to keep close enough to smell her hair, to hear her labored breathing, to listen to the frenzied pace of her pulse as she tried to flee.
Could she feel him there, a familiar shadow? He was tempted to reach out and touch, but no -- not yet. He was going to savor it this time.
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