The shadow tutted. "Is that any way to greet me?" It said still using the hated form, "I created you, after all." It smiled more amused by the aggression coming from Manse than anything else. "And my face is whatever I want it to be, and I thought that this would be more than appropriate to celebrate your escape."
"But," The shadow sighed like it was indulging a small child and the borrowed shape broke away into mist before coming together again with a new face. This one a tall man with long pale features and dark hair tied back in a neat queue. Golden eyes strikingly similar to those of Manse that peered at it glittered down at the nadder. "Perhaps this is more to your liking." The shadow rumbled in a rich voice.
It continued walking along just above the water in the direction of the open ocean. "Your lovely 'foeman' will be looking for you I expect. This time you should make certain it is the one who leaves bloodied. I did try to warn you that those people are not your friends. If they could, they would kill you."
The moon was bright in the canal, the water low and the current not quite as strong. Safe in the shadows of the half-filled canal, the nadder peered at the Threwdish figure, its mandibles clicking with agitation. It wanted the Threwd to go away, to leave it to its venturing. Museum wasn't safe. No longer safe. Not with foeman. Not with new rival nadder. It was stung, hurt, betrayed, and its feelings boiled in its stomach.
Manse gave a low, rattling growl as it carefully clambered to the edge of its perch and scooped up a large mouthful of water, sloshing it down to its face within its cracked helm. Feelings would turn water to acid, help defend Manse, protect it from enemy foemen.
But then the thoughts of Ivory, Katherine, the Night Guard, and even the one lady, Lavinia, came to mind. They hadn't harmed him. They were not enemies...
"Not all are foemen," the nadder muttered, his belly at least somewhat full of the cool water. "Some are foemen. Some... still friends."
Then he heard it - the rich, familiar baritone that made him stop cold. The nadder froze in place for a time before slowly turning to look at the Threwdish figure. There, standing just above the canal water, was the tall man, his dark hair pulled back in a queue and his eyes mirroring the nadder's own.
He knew that voice. He knew it in his bones deep beneath his carapace. Something stirred in the nadder, a recognition, a will - another's will. Awe, indignation, but most of all recognition.
"You..." the nadder hissed, "you use wrong face. Face not threwd, not yours." The nadder made a spitting hiss and snapped his shell at the specter. He didn't know why he was angry, but the sight of the man before him hurt him deeply, made him sad in a way he couldn't even describe! Seeing him made his chest ache more than even the water hound's terrible bite!
"Begone!" Manse barked, clapping his claws against his cement perch. "Begone! Manse is not slave of Threwd! Manse is Manse! Leave! Manse will deal with foeman! You not master of Manse!"











