[ And so she unfurls, the Paloma that he knows: the haze clears from her amberglass eyes, and once again they are alacritous and bright, full of her presence as the Gordian's knot formed by the twist and twine of her fingers comes undone. Then, of course, there's the matter of her smile—tenuous, thin, but so very much for him as his own grin (ticking up at the corners of his mouth, roguish and perfectly wry) is for her.

Paloma, she's here, and before she slips away again (no longer present as her truest self), Asura will make his play at steering her clear of the (vampire) ginger with the half-cocked smile that looms behind her. Whatever Carlos' significance in this dream-memory is, Asura doesn't wish to know it, not if it isn't Paloma herself who chooses to divulge the details out of her own volition.

That's why... with the clack! of Asura's chair hitting the ground, he pronounces: ] No, I didn't.

And you didn't, either. At least, not for the second time. [ Here, the air about the King softens, eyes lowered to half-mast and veiled by thick, ravendark lashes as he rises, no longer so sing-song when he says her True name with an intensity that can only be called ardent— ] So, Miss Paloma Cecilia Vasquez...

What do you say to playing hooky with me? [ —and bids her to ditch Life Drawing with him. ]

Let's leave this place— [ The past which she held cloistered in her chest. ] —in the dust.

[ By now, moving to reach out to her is second nature (it seems too much a crime, for the both of them to exist in the same space and not to touch), his taloned fingers seeking out her hand. ]

[ Amorphous splotches of color, all variegated and of different intensities, are far from the strangest things that the King has encountered in navigating the skeins of dreams. The subconscious mind can be the architect of landscapes too fantastical to exist in the realm of the mundane; it can revisit memories and it can alter them; it... can also conjure together simple things, like little pleasures and larger desires (the attainable and the not-so). Not to mention that, at its worst, it can put together such codswallop that no meaning could ever hope to be divined from it. But this, right here? It's important, a part of Paloma that the Fledgeling herself has no wish to cower away from.

When she hesitates, sets the tips of her fingers against his talons, asking him if he's sure that he wants to turn his eyes from this, Asura understands two things: the first, he cannot protect Paloma from this dream-memory (it is not his place, she did not ask to be saved). The second, if he should avert his gaze, prioritizing Paloma's privacy above all else, he'll have broken his vow—

("Asura, are you actually sure you want what's in me?")

—I do, he'd said back then, and he meant it. And if she's inviting him in, allowing him to be privy to all this damn humidity and sweaty-student stink (and the Ginger blob of color who's immune to the swelter and heat), he's not going to turn his back on it (on her). Paloma, she's not looking him in the eye, but... ]

I do. [ And so: his vow remains the same. ] But on your terms, Paloma.

[ ("Who will guard me? Who's going to hear my secrets after he trusted me with his? You. It'll be you.") ]

You're lucid dreaming now, but before it was different. Don't you go and disappear on me again, yeah? [ His free hand touches lightly to Paloma's face, after that, delineating the shape of her jaw with barely-there touches; tucking a sweat-damp strand of hair back, behind the shell of her ear. ] No one deserves to be subjected to another piss-poor drawing of mine just so I can grab your attention again.

[ Much as he'd enjoyed that, much as he'd put on a repeat performance. ]

Not when you're the only artist here, and all these colors [ a gesture to all those color-blobs and smears ] are yours to pain the rest of your story with.

[ I've got you, he murmurs, and no, he's not letting go. The flat of Paloma's palm is warm against his own, d a m p with a clamminess that Asura will never feel outside of this dreamscape, and so... he grips her hand all the more, his taloned thumb sweeping along the inside of her wrist (feeling her dreamtime pulse) in steady, rhythmic reassurance. If what lies ahead is a horrible story, they're going to walk through it together as the partners they've been since the time when they first laid eyes upon one another.

And when Paloma's gaze locks with his own in the here and now, the fear that he perceives in her is a far cry from the panic which had seized upon her in a dream of before: it is old, this manner of dread; a thing so perfectly instilled that it lingers even here, in this place where Paloma herself holds absolute power. And seeing that apprehension cross Paloma's features...? It could make Asura sick with wrath on her behalf, if only he let it. But he can't, because his partner and Bonded, she needs to see this story through without any callous interruption.

What she's entrusting to Asura now, it's more important than anything else. ]

The ginger— [ Carlos' name is something that will never fall from Asura's lips. ] —he's a Toreador, isn't he?

[ A Kindred who seduced with art, taking interest in humans who shared in their passions. Alongside the Nosferatu, Tremere, and Giovanni, the clan used to have a foothold in Milan, but no longer. ]

But you couldn't have known it. [ And for that, Paloma couldn't blame herself. But... ] What did you see in him?

[ It had been good and it had been human, whatever had made her say yes. ]

He would've been exposed, if he did, and he would have lost you. [ You can't cover up dead, after all, and the blood magic practiced by the Kindred is an imperfect mask for it at best—it never lasted for long before needing to be fed again. Paloma, despite her too-human want to be wanted, would have surely noticed something were amiss if she and Carlos lingered in more than movie-poster kisses, their silhouette cast into artful shadow by the fixtures of light overhead. A fierce hatred for the Kindred quite nearly burns through the link of their Bond at the sight (stifled and blocked off in the instant it teems in his chest, because Paloma needs no further reason to press her lips and constrict her grip upon Asura's hand), because this is the reason why Asura fights. This is why he accepted Summer's damn diadem and the length of chain which came along with it: to allow for humans to live, infringed upon by no one. No undead charlatan and no True Fae nightmare. ] Drinking enough blood to sustain the blush of life isn't easy, and this Ginger...

[ Who had signed up for a drawing class. Who took time to woo and court a human. Who read as someone absent to any duties toward Clan and Prince. ]

He seems like a lone wolf, without much of anyone to keep him in check or to assist with landing that kind of meal on the regular.

[ And more and more, this story which Paloma's just begun to illustrate which such finesse and nuance that Asura can hardly believe that this is her first time commanding the skeins of a dreamscape, starts to veer toward an ending (and beginning) which no human deserves, least of all Paloma. Paloma, who still can't see that none of this is her fault. ]

Is he— [ It's a difficult question to pose, one he's purposely chosen to avoid out of respect for the sole exception to Asura's revulsion toward Kindred-kind. Even before the dream, they'd skirted past this mention many times, because even if the pain's old, being ripped away from who and what you were before is a wound which doesn't go away. It never heals. And Asura, he knows this for himself. ] —responsible for embracing you, Paloma?

[ Responsible, he says. Because Paloma is not. It's his turn, now, to tighten his hold upon the link of their hands, talons grazing just so against her skin in a unspoken reminder that he is here; that his body is that of a weapon. He can be used in any way she needs him to be (that is his choice, his promise to her). ]

[ The taste of her abhorrence for this place (noxious and overwhelming, like carrion flowers and their sickly perfume) is all Asura needs to loathe this new change of scenery; this hotel which had cropped up reflexively when impetus (a question, one which Asura cannot regret) had been provided. The answer, of course, is yes, and though it had been anticipated and braced for, the impact of Paloma's affirmation gives rise to low rumblings of thunder in Asura's chest; a snarl which had been impossible to stay from the beginning. The refusal to use Carlos' name isn't enough, could never be adequate punishment for what he'd stolen from Paloma.

Asura is resolute when he lifts the link of their hands, presses the flat of Paloma's palm to the door which fissures and cracks, its many fragments expanding and contracting as though it were a living, breathing entity all its own. Like it were the monster, and not the Kindred (less than a man) with waxen skin and hair as red as their transgressions. ]

Push, when you are ready. [ Sliding over the back of Paloma's hand is Asura's massive one, fingers flexing in their sprawl, silent (as always) in their reminder that his power is her own. ] We'll break it down together.

Whatever he did, whatever he lead you to believe, it is in the past. [ And this is her retelling, her account which reflects terror and dread in this restrictive, never-ending hall. She can't go back, she can't advance, but Paloma, she isn't so immobilized. She isn't trapped. In this dream-memory, she is an architect; she can build something more: ] Now, you are the one who decides how to move forward.

[ Clear to him, that she has no wish to relive the before and after of the Embrace.

The question is now: ] What is it that you want to see beyond this door? You are strong enough to will it into existence.