It takes some time for Fenris to return to where he left Cyril. When he does come back, it's in the dead of night, bloody and bruised, but still going. It had been a trying week- hunting down the slavers. They had not been as easy to track as he'd hoped, they'd covered their tracks much smarter than they usually did.

Worse still, he'd made a name for himself out on the road. Slavers knew he was there, hunting them- they'd invested in more goons to protect their precious stolen cargo. More heavy hitters and silent, stealthy assassins to try and do away with the elf that moves like a ghost.

They were goons Fenris dispatched all the same- left their bodies cooling around the camp perimeters in the darkness. He'd taken more than a few hits himself, the worst being a rather ugly gash along one leg. But he'd done what he gone there to do. He'd slaughter the slavers and their men, and sent the captured travellers on their way- to somewhere safe.

When he arrived back to the farm and sought out Cyril's room, he was exhausted. Normally, he would find himself another bed, or a chair, or even a spot on the floor to sleep on, but he forewent it. Tiredness clung to him like a shroud, and he bypassed his usually trepidation towards closeness and instead collapsed on the bed next to Cyril, exhaling heavily as he sank into the mattress.