Symon put his pack on the ground and began rummaging through it, searching through his pack under the cautious eye of the elf for a mana core that could be used to charge the translation ring. The emberwolves must have had some decently sized cores, but they hadn't been harvested, their focus instead on the swirling orb of mist that the manor nestled inside. Of course, such a bounty wasn't left out in the forest for a lucky scavenger to eat, but butchering so many creatures in a monster-infested forest was a surefire way to attract predators. Aslan had mentioned they were going to drag them closer to the mist, which the monsters seemed to be afraid of, and harvest them there, but Symon didn't need to go all the way back out.

Eventually, he managed to pluck out one of the tiny cores he'd harvested from those little fish with glowing horns. He supposed he could have taken the one from the gharzoth outside, but harvesting a sapient creature's body for parts was a little much for him. With a shudder, he refocused on the translation ring and the mana core.

"Damnit, times like this I wish Keelgrave was around," he muttered as he slowly pressed the two together. He had no idea how to do this — he couldn't see or manipulate mana — and wasn't sure if what he was attempting was even possible. The core had mana in it; he just had to get it into the ring, but that was easier said than done.

The core rubbed against the ring, as he stared intently at it, trying to see if the dim turquoise ring brightened at all. It didn't. He closed his eyes and concentrated, manifesting his thread at the same time in case it could somehow help him. He always had a sense of where it was, so maybe it could help him understand the ring and core if he overlaid it?

It was a long shot, but he still tried holding the two items together as he wrapped the thread in and around them both. It permeated the material as intended, but he didn't feel anything out of the ordinary from the thread. His eyes snapped open as he began drumming a finger against his chin in contemplation. It wasn't the end of the world, he could always get someone else to charge it for him, and maybe Keelgrave would have some ideas or even be able to help directly, but it was annoying to be reminded of his lack of mana.

To his surprise, the elf had scooted slightly closer while he was distracted. Her pale, bony fingers were curling back in a 'gimme' motion, the first time she'd done anything other than hiss and back away. Symon was largely trained to treat physical trauma only, but it didn't take a psychiatrist to tell something was wrong. He found it odd that she was in a state of both fight and flight, acting terrified of him one moment before turning suddenly to aggression and then back again. At least it hadn't devolved into straight-up attacking him, but he doubted she'd even be able to manage more than a token effort in her still weakened state.

He took off the ring and left it resting in the palm of his outstretched hand, alongside the tiny mana core, barely a quarter the size of his fingernail. Slowly, he edged his way closer to her, eyeing off her wicked claws at the same time.

Don't act scared. She's like a cat: she'll pick up on your fear, and that'll just mean you get scratched. I've gotta be confident...

He took a few more steps, but stopped once she hissed again. Huh, she really is a lot like a cat. She pointed at his hand and then to the bed, so he dumped the magical parts onto it and backed up to the doorway again.

She picked them both up with the tips of her long fingers, one held in each hand. She slipped the ring on, and it fell all the way down to the first knuckle. Symon almost felt like he heard it rattle. Then, she curled her fingers into a fist, locking the ring in place and moving on to the core. To Symon's eye, she didn't do anything, but the core suddenly lost its luster and dissolved into dust, which fell onto the bed like loose sand. Immediately after, the dim turquoise ring pulsed slightly, a slight spark lighting it up.

She hissed out more words, which came out as two distinct yet overlapping phrases. The first was whatever elvish language she'd been speaking earlier, while the second was in Common. "Kill me or release me, surface dweller, before I regain enough strength to tear out your throat," she demanded, although her airy and weak voice made it difficult to take the threat seriously.

"Woah, woah, it's not like that," Symon said, raising his hands placatingly and taking a step back at the same time. "Whoever hurt you, I can promise I'm not with them. I found you near death in the hallway out here and healed you, I don't know how you got here or what's going on."

"A humanling would not waste the mana without an ulterior motive," she whisper-hissed. Symon wasn't sure what else he could call it.

"I don't even have any mana. That's why I couldn't get that ring working," he explained.

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"No mana?" she asked, her hissing taking on an incredulous tone. He figured it was the ring allowing him to hear the nuances of her hisses. "You cannot see the words of the ancestors?"

"You mean the Ledger? I can see it fine, I just don't have a core."

"Do not lie to me!" she shouted weakly. "You speak untruths!"

"I don't know how it works either!" Symon said back more forcefully than he'd intended. Why could things never be easy for him? He saved her life! With a conscious force of will, he calmed himself down. "Listen, it's clear you haven't had the best day, and I'm not saying you need to trust me wholeheartedly right now, but let's just think things through. You remember getting stabbed in the back, right?"

She frowned — an oddly normal expression on her alien face — but nodded. For the first time, she seemed to notice that the wound was no longer there, her fingers poking at prodding at where it used to be. Her neck twisted unnaturally around, uncomfortably reminding Symon of an owl as she inspected her lower back. "What manner of foul illusion is this? Where is the scar?"

Symon didn't think the truth was very believable, but he didn't want to immediately lie to her, either. "It's not an illusion, my healing is just stronger than most. It's powerful, but I have to take life from another living thing to power it. I store that vitality instead of mana, like everyone else does."

The elf nodded sagely. "Why didn't you say so, then? You claim the strength of others and make it your own."

Symon blinked. "Uh, yes, actually, that's exactly right. Have you met someone like me before?" he asked, suddenly excited. Even the well-travelled — if not the most learned — Keelgrave had never heard of someone with a vessel instead of a core, so it would be amazing news if he found someone he could get some proper answers from.

Unfortunately for Symon, she shook her head no. "My people have a core like you and the other surface dwellers," she explained. "We simply understand the power that comes from the blood of others."

"Right..." he said, more than a little disappointed by the first sentence and unnerved by the latter. "Oh, and what's your name? I can't keep thinking of you as 'the elf.'"

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion before, to his surprise, she let out a short laugh. "You think me so foolish, humanling? I shall give you no power over me."

Symon let out a deep sigh. He was beginning to question if this was even worth it. He'd saved her life, and if she refused to allow him to help her any further, why should he bend over backwards trying over and over again? "Listen, elf, my name is Symon. I saved you, whether you like it or not. I'm guessing it was humans who did this—" he gestured broadly at her general state "— to you, and I'm sorry that happened, but I'm not going to waste more of my time helping you if you're going to fight me at every step."

She glowered at him, but didn't hiss. He assumed that was a good sign.

"If you speak true, then why am I still bound?" she asked, her stick-thin legs rattling the manacles to accentuate her point. In this case, he felt that this was a reasonable question and not just her being needlessly hostile.

"Well, I thought you might attack me when you woke up, but you're too weak for that to matter," he said. She hissed softly in response, but he ignored her. "I wanted to make sure you're not a criminal too, but now that I think about it the villagers would have mentioned an elf prisoner if that were the case. And finally... I don't have the keys."

She looked down at the large manacles around her ankles. "You have no way of unlocking this? They will prevent the ring from working before long."

"Wait, what?"

"They drain mana, or else I would not appear so weak before a prey beast."

"Hmm, I see. We might be able to find a saw in town or maybe one of the sheds near here, but I doubt we'd be able to cut through magical chains anytime soon."

"You speak truly? Swear it upon the blood of the ancestors," she demanded.

"I swear upon the blood of the ancestors that I don't have the keys to your chains?" he offered disbelievingly. Keelgrave would have mentioned by now if such oaths were magically binding, but even still, he wasn't going to lie. Just in case.

"Even a humanling would not be foolish enough to forswear themselves in front of the ancestors," she admitted, relaxing her posture slightly.

"Uh, yeah, of course. I'd like for you to swear to not attack me, then," he said.

"And you would help free me if I did?"

"Yes, I'll help you as long as you promise not to attack me. You know I'd win anyway, right?"

She frowned at that, but didn't deny it. He might have been imagining it, but he felt like those black eyes might contain a faint glimmer of respect. "Very well, humanling. By the blood of the ancestors, I swear to a pact of mutual protection in exchange for my freedom."

That wasn't exactly the terms Symon had been picturing, but it was good enough.

"I swear the same, uh, by the blood of the ancestors. Is this your first time talking to a human?" he asked. This whole blood oath thing was just a mundane promise, something a human wouldn't place much value on. And whose ancestors was he even swearing by? His certainly wouldn't care what he said to an elf, of all things.

"The first that did not attempt to kill or capture me. I did not deign to respond to them with words, so yes, you are my first," she answered. It was odd to hear such eloquent speech from someone who had been constantly hissing and snarling at him, but the translator ring must have been putting in good work.

"I see, so you got that spike in your back when you escaped?" he asked.

She nodded once. "The chains?" she offered.

"Your name first," he demanded. "I already told you mine."

"Fine," she hissed. "Listen well, humanling, for you are the first and last to be given the honour of my name. I am Vra'Entisse, the Bloodfang Huntress, the Flesh Tearer of the Wastes, the last daughter of the Wildborn Devourers. Know my name, and gaze upon me with terror!"

Symon looked down at the filthy, emaciated elf as she devolved into a weak coughing fit. She looked more like a scared girl than anything terror-inducing. "Hmm, I think I'm just going to call you Entisse."

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