The taste of wine... the only reminder of his homeland that Fyodor did not shy away from.
It had gotten him through many hardships in the past and he associated it with what few good memories he had of what had come before Sigil. Fyodor shut his eyes, a faint trace of a smile playing across his lips as the sensations of the crimson sweetness on his tongue carried him back.
Back to the day when he had shared a drink with Szoldar and Yevgeni, his mentors in wolf hunting, to celebrate the completion of his training. Back to the times when he and his best friend Doru, and occasionally his cousin Parpol if Fyodor could sneak him away from his uncle, would drink to celebrate the turn of the year and living to see it. Back to when he and his brothers had made a habit of rowing out onto Lake Zarovich one Summer to try their hands at fishing. None of them were any good at it, but that didn't really matter when the youngest brother was always quick to break out a bottle of chilled wine to cheer them up from their frustrations and cool them down in the heat of the sun... Wait... Fyodor was an only child... And the heat of the sun had never been a bother to him in all the years of his life.
Fyodor opened his eyes with a confused grimace on his face. For as long as he could remember, memories that weren't his had found their way into his mind every once in a while. He wasn't sure how or why it happened, and he had never been able to accustom himself to the intrusions. But aside from that, they had never been of any harm. They had sometimes been helpful even. Though they had become more and more frequent ever since he had escaped. Perhaps it was time he found someone knowledgeable in matters of the mind and got their opinion on-
"We go the same path. Let us avoid crossing blades when greater foes may be afoot. Your lot may join my party."
Fyodor's grimace of confusion became one of enmity as he turned to regard the Mercykiller that had just addressed him and his. The Jailers had a habit of making themselves a nuisance to the Bleak Cabal. That, along with the presumptuousness of this particular member of the faction was more than enough to draw Fyodor's ire.
And then he saw the fangs.
Fyodor set his glass of wine down on the bar as the fingers of his free hand closed around a flask of holy water tucked into a bandolier that lay across his torso.
"The Bleak Cabal has an entire expedition making ready to depart from Ecstasy." Fyodor said as the hand that once held his wine glass moved to hover over a hammer dangling off his belt.
"We have no need to join the party of a Mercykiller. Especially not one that is liable to drink our blood while we sleep."
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