"Show me, Miria. Go on." Rigardo stands in an all too comfortable stance, ankle deep in snow, boots disappearing within the white fluffy cold blanket. The chill that's reached below temperature status doesn't even make him wince. It is not even a distraction; the white specks of falling ice ornaments his dark hair, instantly melting in seconds. His body exudes warmth that only she understands. She stands before him—not five feet away with her own sword steady in her hands.

"I'll take it easy on you." Rigardo chuckles enigmatically, lowering his chin—dark bangs obscuring his eyes. Yet, she still sees the twinkle of amusement. She clamps down on her teeth, tightened her lips to a firm line. Her body is refreshed and replenished, even after their previous short excursion. It must be this very reason why he decides to take her here: to tire her; to exhaust her beyond her regenerative powers.

"I'd rather you didn't so much." Miria disputes, "You can go a level up, if that pleases you."

"I'm not afraid that you'll find a weak spot." The Lion King says in a hushed whisper. Behind them, their forest house stands majestically tall on top of the hill they stand upon; it triumphs the wintry sky, where the snow falls endlessly. A light—the candle by the window flickers like a teasing welcoming harbinger.

"Of course not." Miria moves her head a little, her pastel eyes narrows.

"I don't have a weak spot."

Miria speaks not a word. She tries not to cater to his phenomenal ego much. And this is why she refuses to be, even in the past—to be with men such as he. The Organization, though they are filled with males, she could scarcely tolerate. But she didn't have to live with them. She only took orders and her cause, to keep humans safe—safe from Rigardo and his kind, is more than enough to keep her breathing.

She has never seen battle without his lion-like transformation. Nor does she think it's any less terrifying. Despite his calm and easy-on-the-eyes countenance, he is still the Lion King—and as she steps forward to land a blow, straight down like a arching projectile—downward like a unruly belt of the bitingly harsh wind—he avoids it. It is a slight movement, barely noticeable.

His eyes are sparkling in mischievousness, turns his gentle profile to the falling snow, "Come on, Miria, I don't have to tell you twice." And instantly, he's there, right against her, gripping her wrist downward like a painful vise-grip, until the tip end of her blade is sunk deep into the snow, "I want to see your worth."

"Don't toy with me, Rigardo." She snarls against him, uncomfortable with his nearness all of a sudden—the snow falls around them like an encouraging unguent—his heat like a fire blazing against her skin. Miria instinctly leans into him, and he is left with an awkward surprise as she swings wide and arches the blade against his torso.

He is pushed away by a hair's breadth, hardly an inch away, dodges it as he ducks aside. But the force Miria places in her swing took much effort, and she is left with a bubbling anger, clenches her teeth against the snow that falls to obscure his features, and she is left alone there.

"Rigardo!" Miria yells, swivels around, and feels his power close. She can't read his yoki movements like some of the claymores, not like this. Not like this. But she can—she can sense the level of power he emits; it is sometimes, like a flicker of a time-bomb. It would tear her in two, if he chooses. In an instant, he is behind her, she mirages out of sight.

It doesn't take her much effort to use her powers when he's clearly playing with her. Like a cat does to a mouse, and it rankles her to no end, "Damn you, Rigardo!" She steps out of the shadow of the trees, having phantomed herself into the background, deep within the shadows. He stands like a lone soldier, innocent in appearance and darkly seductive in the night's radiance. He even affords a small smile for her.

"All right. I can tell you are in full strength. If I fight you with all of my human power—.." even that makes him scoff, "then you are free of my indulgences."

She closes her eyes for a moment, "I truly despise you."

Even when she opens her eyes, she notices that he pauses. The darkening burgeoning look in his eyes tells her he is displeased with her candor.

"Did you think otherwise?" She tells him, as if to sour things between them further. As if the rift between them isn't enough.

"I'm not foolish to think you would love me."

Miria blinks, "love?"

"Yes, quite a foolish notion." He folds his arms, then sighs, "Love, cherish, obsess, desire, whatever it is humans like to revel in? Love? Besides, I hold no love for claymores, or anything else…"

"But yourself." She offers, tries to cloak her impish scornful smile, but she is not very good at hiding such candid emotions. Her powers, however--are another matter.

"You are truly human." He chuckles, as if it surprises him that she is this way.

"Claymores cling to their humanity, Rigardo, and that is why I shall never willfully awaken to the fullest."

"Even if it makes you scream for more?"

Miria bristles, holds up her sword, facing him with her legs apart. They don't even notice that the snow has stopped falling.

"I'm in the mood to land a blow to your head, Rigardo." She sends him a sharp half smile, lifting the corners of her lip.

"Touch me, here." He tells her with his hand over his chest--where his heart would have been--if not, she thinks, hardened by the power, "and you may have anything you wish."

"Even my freedom?"

He pauses. And she sees that he is too confident. "Yes."

----

Rigald & Easley:

His Silver-eyed Lion King; his second in command. The only thing that makes him weak, which to Rigardo's detriment is his overzealous tyrannical power; though, he has to conclude it is also which makes him a prevailing adversary. Irony is that. And he is stronger than all of his armies combined. The men who had awakened after him, those who were created in the cast of the first vestiges of the Organization's plans—to prolong harmony, to keep humans from dying out; yet, it is this that makes the rebellion between his kind and those who keep the 'peace.'

He offers his partner a drink he brought along—a deep bowled cask filled with the last hunt of peripatetic humans. It is all Priscilla's fault really. She gets so very hungry. And because he himself is not thirsty. He hasn't been in awhile, and he wonders at his own sanity. Perhaps, it is because of his continued travel with the boy Raki; or, the consuming demonstrative nature of Priscilla's; her despondent cries at night; her warm body pressed up to his, lips wet with blood and sweat, sucking at his nape—licking hotly at his naked muscled arms, susceptible under her ever growing curiosity. He even gives her a silent congratulation on making him shudder. She is, forever, it would seem stuck between him and the human. Between her mumbling words which always are about her family; a recurrent keepsake that he—sometimes wishes would be shut out forever from his mind. It is that, which keeps her mind child-like, in a stuck suspension of time that's long been gone.

"No, I'm not thirsty," Rigardo tells him, eyeing the drink filled with human's blood. It's fresh, recently killed, before the blood turns to a dark thickened colour, like the slow swirl of oil devoid of its usual smell.

"Pity, for I find no love for this tonight." Isley admits, then raises his eyes from the cup sitting on the table between them, to his second in commander, "How fares your Claymore?"

"As good as it'll ever be."

"Which means, you're not progressing much further with her compliance?" Isley taps his graceful lean fingers on the table, his long light hair looks bleached inside this house, he leans leisurely back against the chair.

Rigardo is silent.

Isley wonders too, if the Lion King's tongue hides within, shuts close between those human lips, preventing words that even he, is not used to hearing: the words of failure.

"Well then, how fares the other more gratifying task? Have you accomplished that matter?"

"It is," Rigardo manages to say, with a stretched torn sigh, bringing his hand in slight agitated shrug to swipe his long bangs gone from his disparaging eyes, "to be expected."

"You are pleased on that account?"

"Very."

"That is rewarding news."

"I doubt that she will break—her mind refuses to reach the pinnacle of no return."

"Yes, as I figured. Miria's intellect is vast—a great curse to her." Isley pulls Priscilla up on his lap, as the awakened being—innocent in looks, cuddles deep within his arms.

Rigardo sends him a derisive snort, "Look at you."

"Hmm?" Isley returns his cool look.

"Amazing. You treat her like a child."

"She is. Her mind is fragile." Isley gently reaches up to push aside the dull strands that blocks her face, and half dreamily eyes. She suddenly looks up at Rigardo with wide eyes, and is frightened. She further squirms into Isley's lap.

"Come on; let's get you over to Raki." Isley tells her, a soothing voice that even Rigardo is sent to raising his dark brow in half surprise.

Isley motions Raki over, who is over by the window, watching the snow and the threatening storm. The boy turns immediately to hear his mentor's call.

When the boy reaches to Priscilla, the young woman squeals in delight, and runs past Raki, to stand by the window. She points at the snow, clearly wanting to enjoy the delights of the falling cold. Priscilla hurriedly steals to the door, opening it so wide that the snow blasts into her face, and her delightful shriek invites Raki to join her. She sees that the boy is close, her hand clamps down tightly to his.

Raki looks back at Isley with a sheepish expression.

Rigardo turns away, slightly amused and bewildered.

It's going to be a long night.

---