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He advanced even closer, and Omera pressed into the wall. He reached for the girl, and she had to force herslef to let him. Not for her own safety (which she knew was a t risk) but for the child's. Once he had taken her he stepped a little back but didn't walk away. It made her feel better. He wasn't taking her and running right away.

"No," no one had seen. She'd covered the blood and taking her here--a sign that maybe without thinking too much about it she did trust him. Maybe he wasn't going to take her to Polis were she wouldn't be well looked after, but instead trained. The world worked liked that. Outside of this little village and the few places like it there was a need for the strongest people only. While it was understandable the world needed people like this, she wasn't ready to live in it. "Did you already know?" It just occurred to her that he didn't seemed surprised. He had not hesitated, only asked who else saw. Since she couldn't see his face she didn't know for sure but . . . had he already known?

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He watched her, and Omera wondered if that meant she had done well or if that hadn't been what he meant. It was hard without seeing his face to know what he was thinking. It left her unsure and a little off. Yet, there was something about his calm demeanor, and the power that was behind every move that left her comforted about what they were doing. He didn't seem like a man who knew how to fail, and he would not let them fail. While he wasn't going to protect them, he was helping them and it meant the world to her.

Would she be able to shot a person? Omera turned her head to look down at her daughter and imagined someone coming for her. Looking back up at where she'd assumed his face was, she spoke in a sure tone. "Yes, I could." If it meant protecting the life of the children here. She could shot a person. It wouldn't be easy for her, but it wouldn't stop her either. Winta came first. Something she thought he could understand as a father with a daughter.

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She stepped back, he stepped forward. She stepped back, he stepped forward. It was odd how she'd never been able to hear him walk until just now, and now his foots steps gave a heavy thud of omnibus rings each time they landed. Perhaps it was only in her head, but with his darken face, she had no way of knowing if he was intending to protect the girl or turn her in. She was so young. To go there now would make her have to grow up so fast, and then have to fight to live. If she didn't then she'd die. If she did then . . . commanders didn't live long most times. Too many people after their power.

She knew the religion. She knew most followed it, and lived it, and died it. But Little One was so little, pure and young. She'd fallen in love with the happy child and didn't want to let her go yet.

Her back touched the wall, and so her arms wrapped more around the girl. Her eyes never left where she assumed his were. Uncertain what words would sway him, she stayed silent. She could scream, but that would only put others as risk. If he was going to hurt anyone, it would be just her. Even knowing that this meant Winta would loose her mother, she felt that it might not come to that. She had to have hope.

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It was so hard to tell what his intentions were. She couldn't see his face, had never seen his face. Omera had learned to read his voice though, and this time she didn't know what she'd heard there. He moved forward, around the table that she had foolishly thought would protect her. "Give her to me," he told her, and without thinking of the price she backed away. Her hands curled tighter on the child and she stepped back a few steps, her legs bumping into something that she din't look down at, only stepped around. Stopping after a few steps, Omera lifted her chin. "Why?"

Her voice was soft but held a steel in her refusal. She knew that if he wanted too he could kill her and take the child. He could be out of the barn before she even fell. That in her refusal she was taking a risk. Yet, she also felt it in her heart. That there was something about him. Lethal, yes. It was in every move he made. A caged power of sorts--but a kindness too. So this time when she repeated her question she wasn't just stubbornness but asking. "Why?" Why was he here. Why did he have her and wasn't taking her in? The last conclave had just past, or she believed. He wasn't heading there.

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Omera was working in the field gathering some food as the children's played near by. Knowing how protective Agovell was of his daughter, she always kept a close eye on her. Strik Won was playing with some of the other smaller children by running and chasing each other. Thankfully they never ran fast or far. However, it was fast enough that often they fell after tripping over their own feet. Such young ones had yet to learn how to lift their feet all the way up to make a safe run.

Hearing a cry, Omera looked up to see Strik Won had fallen and the other had were still running to chase each other. Knowing that children weren't often really hurt, Omera didn't run but walked quickly toward the little girl. "Lets see now," she said in a warm tone to help calm her without coddling her. Lifting her to a stand Omera brushed off some of the dirt. The dirt had mixed with her little cut and made the blood a sticky black color.

. . . . A black color . . . .

Seeing the blood made her feel as if she was trying to talk down a hill and lost her footing. A falling without moving. The blood wasn't mixed with dirt. It was black. A night blood. He was a nightblood hunter and his daughter was a night blood. Since she was sitting there so long, others began to come closer. Omera needed to make a choice now. Either she told the father that he had a nightblood daughter and he took her and turned her in . . . or he already knew and that was why he was here in a village so far from everything.

Omera pressed her hand to the little cut on Strik Won's face and smiled at the other mothers who walked over. "She'd alright. I will take her to her father." Lifting her with one hand and keeping the cut covered with the other, Omera walked toward the barn Strik Won and father called home. Stepping to the door, Omera paused. She watched him for a moment, trying to decide what to do. She knew that he knew she was standing there. Finally she stepped in but kept the room between them. The small table, too. Something was happening here. "She fell." She said, lifting her hand away to revil Strik Won's face that had drying tears on it, and the black blood.

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They needed help. It was clear that the raiders from the north weren't going to stop, and this small farming village had no warriors to protect them. They'd tried to appeal to the clan leaders but as far nothing had come from it. Unwilling to wait they'd sought out someone else. As a percussion, Omera was readying a place for the warrior to stay. It was a small building that once was a barn but the people here had cleared it out, aired it out, and put in a bed. Omera stacked blankets int he corner that everyone had pitched in to donate, as well as some pottery for eating and drinking. Fresh vegtibiles were already in a basket on a tell box that was a makeshift table.

Hearing little foot steps, Omera smiled and turned thinking it was a child from the village but the smile froze at the masked man (she assumed by the size and build it was a man). He held the small child she didn't know. "Hello," she welcomed them and looked at the child again before looking at his masked face. Fossopakru. His clothing and masked face spoke of such. They weren't just warriors they were the ones that were sent to take children from warriors. They were the ones that were sent to handle the things that would have resistance from some of the clans most skilled fighters. And they did it alone. "Welcome to Santru." She said.

The child was unexpected. They would need to find a bed for her as well. And acceptable food. "I hope this is alright. It was a barn once but we've tried to make it as comfortable as possible." It was hard to read a man when you couldn't see their face. She didn't know what he was thinking since she couldn't read approval, displeasure, or anything.