There could be little worse than what she had become. Once she had shone like a blade, silver and true. Sharp were her edges, pristine her appearance. Now she was dull, shaggy fur, matted and undesirable. Recognizable were her markings, leaving no question as to her identity, and yet it was as if she were a ghost. Eyes that were once bright in defiance seemed to have gone dim completely; a fire burned out by the weight of a punishment she knew she deserved. She feared not returning to Glaciem, for what could be worse than what was happening to her, what had happened to her, and what was going to happen? Argent wished she could cut out her own heart, for it was not worth the trouble it had brought her. She?d been alone for so long, coming to the islands to isolate herself, hopping from island to island in search of somewhere to settle. Keeping the life in her womb alive was her only thought; they needed her to run, to survive, and so she would do her best. A rogue?s life was not easy, and a pregnant rogue?s life was worse. As her stomach swelled with new life, she found it more difficult to move, to hunt, and again she felt cursed with a large litter of children. Cursed, for she knew that more children meant more pain, more agony when she had to trust someone to carry them to Taurig and never see them again. She had thought birthing them might fare better, and yet she was wrong. They were her only company these days; she would whisper to them of her love, of how much she wished she could watch them grow, of how beautiful and strong they would be, of how many roads lay before them. Argent the warrior was dying a cancerous death, but Argent the mother remained clinging to her life. When two rogue males stumbled upon her, a far from innocent look in their eyes, she thought it would be the end. She feared what they would do; would they violate her, would they break her into many bleeding punished pieces, weapons of the gods sent to demolish what remained? She?d been punished thusly once, and her mind did its best to block away the memories, and yet she still felt raw with pain. Above all, she feared for the children she had, the children whom she had risked so much for. When they approached her, she gave a fight. She could not move well, and yet she?d done her best. Jaws and claws lashed out defensively, and she?d left a few wounds upon them, and yet there was a decisive snap as one of their jaws crushed down upon her leg that determined the outcome of the fight. Two versus one was hardly fair, especially when the one had recently birthed four children and not sound of health. One of the victor?s jaws seized her scruff, and she squirmed helplessly, wishing that something would come to save her children should she perish. And yet, she could only imagine that nothing would. Here she was; beaten, broken, abused, and hopeless. There was no light in her eyes when she fought, not anymore. She was of use to no one, not that she had ever truly been. Here and now, she was helpless to what her attackers desired, and she could only face such a fear with whatever strength she had left.

He would seek her with a loose anxiety, the King, once eager to find her, to pull her back beneath her rightful reign as his Queen, his Lover- was now scared. Terrified of finding her, a deep craving; brittle in its structures, but lethal within its purpose, would beg and plead with his mind to find her dead, or not find her at all. Things had come back together now, Sendoa had filled one of the pieces of his dishevelled family, had replaced the lost warrior as his partner, and as his mate. She was with child, to birth an heir to the throne, and slowly but surely, Glaciem would rebuild itself to the security it had once been. And yet here he was, yielding to the information his people had brought him, seeking a woman he had once treasured; who was now no more than a ghost within his heart, her memory not of adoration, but of mere existence. She was as broken to his soul as she was to reality. She was not his blade anymore, she was not Argent; she was merely the lost woman who had betrayed everything he asked of her. Even in her expected death, he would not find the natures to hold her as he once did. However the scent that pulled him forth was one that caused his vision to blur, his stomach to churn and his muscles to shudder; he would pull himself from the water?s edge, far too preoccupied within haunted thoughts to free his hide of salt and moisture. He hated the thought of seeing her again, the sting it may cause, and yet his pace would hasten as he so hungrily devoured the scents that invited him; as he so ravenously sought her potential occurrence. His heart begged him to turn and leave, to forget that she ever was, and ever would be. But his mind persuaded him onwards, and regretfully, devastatingly, he would be punished for his foolish choices. For before him stood quarters so familiar, a coat of something he had never known, yet a colour undeniable, and the perfume to suit. His eyes would begin to shake in disbelief, limbs growing weak as he would stare through her skeleton with an apparent distaste, wishing, praying, that he had not come. That he wouldn?t have to face her disloyalty, that he wouldn?t have to breathe knowing she left him by choice, and not by death.

She had taken three eyes for him. She had defeated five opponents for him. She had birthed him four children, she had guarded his women and stolen for him when threat dared to come down upon him. Argent had sacrificed for him so much, so much of her honor and integrity, of what made her a person. She had made him a god, and maybe her heart had strayed, and yet his heart bled all over the place and she never once protested. Never once had Argent begged him to share her den, or make her children heirs, nor so much as asked for rank. She had given so much for him, and what had he sacrificed in return for her? Nothing, so far as she could tell. She?d given womb and blood, bone and soul, and in return all she had received was the impression that she would never be important. Once he had told her he loved her, and yet she couldn?t help but feel insecure, as if her feet were on fire. Her one betrayal of him ever, the one thing she had not sacrificed for him had been her commitment to him. And yet, how could it ever be doubted? How could he doubt her of all people, when she had felled six foes in his name, perhaps more to come in the future. How could he when Sendoa did not put up even the slightest of fights when Taurig came to claim her? Argent had made one mistake, because maybe, just maybe, she was hoping to turn into something he would look at as more than a tool. When he looked upon her, she wanted to be angry. Here she was, gripped by the collar, prepared to be violated once more. When he looked upon her, he did nothing, and Argent was reminded of the time they met. She remembered when they felled many foes together. She remembered how close she felt to him the night that she?d found him again, the memories they built in Glaciem together. And here she was once more, leg broken, crimson eyes locked upon him. She could not bring herself to beg him for help; she?d betrayed him, after all, and instead she watched him blankly. One of her attackers yanked sharply upon her scruff, a possessive growl within his throat, and she shook once more. Crimson slicked down her neck, rolling from the deepening bite wound on the back of her neck. A paw slammed against her broken leg and she whimpered, quieting for the moment. Would Isardis leave her here to her fate? She could only watch him, trying not to beg or plead. Argent prided herself on never having asked him for anything; she refused to break that now, now when she wondered if his hesitation was sign that he'd rather let her be taken by these beasts than help her. She wondered if he, too, would remember. She wondered if they were fixable, if she could let him see how thoroughly punished she'd been for her one mistake, if he could see that all the sacrifices she'd made for him could outweigh the good. She'd been traveling for so long, and she wanted to return home. The problem was, he was her home.

Her presence disgusted him, twisted his stomach around his spine, his void emotion shuddering with the knowledge of her dishonour. Not only to him, but to her children. She had made him look weak, stupid, in the eyes of their offspring as each would beg to know where she hid; but what could he tell them? Entirely that he didn?t know. He despised her for putting him in a position of fragility, her decision to leave was simply her way of littering his pride with scars, screaming to him that she simply did not need him, nor want him. Instead she would betray his heart and mind for his son, the boy that had left them vulnerable and battled against their family in an effort to slaughter their ranks. How could she be so careless, insensitive, stupid? That was not the makings of a queen, it was the makings of a child. But what would he do? Would he watch her be ripped to tiny pieces by men who should not have been capable of touching her, allow them to steal away the life of a woman that was his and no less? No. Because although in that moment he didn?t care for her life, it would have eaten him inside out to know lesser beings had destroyed what was rightfully his. And so, perhaps as he had done so once before, Isardis would wake his damaged mind from the motionless day-sleep he had concocted, and unleash the terrifying wraith he would forever be so infamous for. Strength was nothing for determination, as the albino ghoul would trot eerily for their wake, untouched by Argent?s wavered gaze and fuelled only by his pride. They would not take what he had claimed. Primed muscle would twist and contort, thrashing with the specter of his swollen conceit; emotionless in his doings as The King would approach the man that grasped her nape with a deathly hatred unmatchable by none. With bared fangs and void rubies, he would rise momentarily atop sturdy hinds to snap his structured ribcage down against the attackers right-side pelvis, feeling his hips begin to give way as eager fangs would be sent so viciously for the tenders of his spine. Teeth would grasp, sinking, falling deep beneath flesh of the dark-colored fool, hoping to hook beneath the spinal column and rip upwards with a potentially satisfying crack; to destroy the creatures hope of ever moving again. Narrowed gaze would strive to locate the second male, however momentarily unsure of his where-abouts as he would so hungrily seek to murder the beast that threatened the silver woman.

For a moment she prepares for the worst; she prepares for them to use her, and for Isardis to rip her throat out after. Alas, she does not fear. She feels numb, empty, and her only concern is for the helpless whelps, and thus she fights. Alas, when Isardis moves she does not sit and quiver. Together they are like a well-oiled machine; together they have killed multiple times. And thus, when he seizes the throat of her first assailant and the pressure is released, she turns upon the other one. Her broken limb makes her unsteady, but the adrenaline gives her the means by which to sink her daggers into his life source. He struggles, and she falls, her weight dragging his front half down as she clings to the delicate tissue. He struggles, and she does not let go. He struggles, and he dies, much like his comrade. Only when his fruitless twitching has been ceased for a few moments does she pull herself, clumsily, back to her feet. Her leg is twisted and mangled, and her red eyes hazily sit upon Isardis. ?Are you here to punish me?? she asks him, a dry laugh escaping from her throat. The fates had punished her enough; forced to birth children with no aide, forced to be violated in the dark of a cave, forced to give up the titles and land that she?d helped to build. Now, she seems a shadow, a wreck, and yet she is not quite defeated. ?If so, you are much too late,? she tells him. She feels her legs shaking somewhat, and she steadies them. She is exhausted; she?s had to give birth and hunt for herself, defend and feed her children by herself, and it is obvious by her appearance. And yet, she has survived it all. She is here, she is present, and Isardis ought to see that as a testament to her strength. If ever there is something to say about her, never let it be that she cowered from adversity, or that she is weak of will. It had wavered once, but never before and never after, and once is hardly enough to condemn a women of weakness.

The enemy would fall as it had so many times before, his mind pleading with him to accept the fact that the duo were so in sync, so efficient together. But he couldn?t, Argent would surely never be a pair with him, she would never be his partner. Sendoa had taken her place, and as the silver woman strangled her opposition, Isardis would feel the empty stab of her betrayal yet again. Recovering, he would turn his face from her struggled efforts to rise against her broken limb, not wanting to watch her, and yet holding no desire to help her. Her words stung, caused a rage to boil beneath his chest, and for a moment he thought he would grasp her scruff and pin her down. But he was exhausted, ?No, you are not worthy of my efforts, deserter,? cold, sinister, emotion riddled beneath each syllable and he would begin to walk away from her, only expecting she would follow. ?How many are there?? he would question, referring to her babes and yet only presuming she understood, ?Spawn.? And how it burned, the thought of Taurig rising upon the spine of Argent, her whoreish cravings and the life that would come of it. It pitied him, almost made him lurch in disgust.