There was a fog behind every lash of his foot. Strange hands on his arm did not disturb him. There was something vicious about what he was doing, and how he was doing it, but that viciousness did not extend to Aeotha. Her face was a mixture of horror and pity. At first, he was eased somewhat by that. Until he realized that her pity belonged to him. She felt sorry for him. She was overcome with it, spreading across her face even while she talked. Go inside. Talk to the people. Maybe they knew something. She was afraid of him, afraid for him, and most of all afraid because of where they were. Wouldn't have brought him?
He was seething, sweat rolling into his eyes.
The gloves were the first thing he settled back into place. This was followed by his coat, with all of its folded creases and mended tears, as much a part of him as the fingers he valued so much. Skandra grimaced sourly at the sounds it made when it rasped against his neck. There was not a breath of chill in the air; not even a whisper of a frost to come. He felt cooler with the coat on, in any case.
"You wouldn't have brought me here?" Skandra spat. "What are you, my mother?"
If Gershul was here, if Gershul had something to do with all of this, then Skandra was going to find him and put an end to it. Nothing was going to stop Skandra this time. Not voices in his head, not memories of his mother, not even a strange sort of sympathy for the man who'd fathered him into this world. Gershul was going to die. Gershul had to die. This was going to be put right. If Aeotha understood, she would have said nothing. As it was, Skandra had to question whether or not she'd ever been confronted by something like this. She wasn't a fool. She was just naive, hopelessly naive.
His hat was tugged onto his head.
"Leave 'em here. We're going to find out where these fellows came from."
"Leave us?" came a shout from the door of the Elvish house. "You cannot leave us here! Please!"
"Come on," Skandra was grinding his teeth together. "This is about to get pathetic."