He felt her stirring beneath the touch of his fingertips, his gloved hand moving gently across her back and cupping beneath one of her arms, steadying Breanna as she stood to her feet. It was only then that he noticed what she was wearing. This was, definitely, no outfit that he'd ever seen her in, before. He tried to think back to Asmodeus's home, his mind retracing the scene, despite the cobwebs that adorned his mind. He remembered that she had been wearing a very nice gown - again...one that he had never seen before, and that he figured was given to her by the demon that took her in. Because of the perilous state that he found her in, he had barely even had time to take notice of the dress, and this new realization that she had been wearing a strange man's gift would have burned his blood, had he not known that she was damn-near naked, beneath her cloak, when she stormed out of their mansion. This brought him around, though, to her other new outfit. Where in the hell did this come from? It didn't even seem like something Breanna would usually wear.
As Breanna stood, Blayne's mind worked on overtime, trying to answer the same, short, open-ended questions that she was trying to ask. His attention to her attire had then brought him back around to his own. The jacket that he now remembered having thrown on, when heading out into the winter chill, was gone. He was left in a sleeveless black shirt - more of a tank-top than the jersey-cut shirt he normally wore under his armor, while hunting - made of a mesh of tiny holes, throughout. Aside from the shirt with the narrow-cut shoulders, everything else seemed pretty normal. He still had his black leather pants, with the cuffs tucked into the shin-high, black combat boots with the steel toes. His eyes kept touching down upon the glistening stakes that hung from the low-slung, golden belt, still not able to figure out just how it was that they were now at his side.
Finally convinced that there was no threat within visible range, Blayne's right hand dropped from the katana at his back, both his hands then coming up in front of him and tugging at the unfamiliar shirt, trying to piece the fragmented portions of his consciousness together. As if the ignition of the wildest torch, his mind became, once more, acquainted with the memories of his journey into Breanna's mind. He remembered the familiar presence of her demonic alter-ego, and the severity of trying to release Breanna from her stupor, back at the castle.
...He remembered, then, her singing of "Hush, Little Baby..." as she cradled her stomach, trying to shield her senses from her nightmares. He realized, once again, that she was pregnant.
Silently, he wondered why she had not told him. Having not drilled far enough into her mind to figure out why, he was completely at a loss. Initially, the thought pained him, but he understood that there was much that had happened, recently, that neither one of them fully understood - and, being in this unfamiliar realm, this was hardly the time or place to bring it up. He was then broken from his reflection by the sound of her voice, requesting that they go someplace close. His light blue eyes flicked over toward her as if he, himself, was just awoken from a trance. About to answer, he saw something upon her face that made his racing heart skip a single beat -- a smirk. His rational mind nearly screeched to a halt, but his heart won out and he dismissed, for the most part, her expression - which was definitely out of place, at such a strange moment in time. To their front, there was a rise in the garden, the horizon seeming not but a few dozen yards away from them. "That may be easier said than done," he replied, a slight quirk of his eyebrow being the only signal that he sensed something strange about her expression. "For all we know, we could be in the middle of nowhere." He motioned, with his head, toward the top of the hill. "Lets head this way. Maybe we can get a better view of the land from that height."
Slowly, he made his way forward, looking back over his shoulder and letting an arm fall behind, awaiting to wrap around her waist upon her approach. He wanted nothing more than to believe that they were both oriented and in a stable frame of mind - however, again, on the inside, he could not fight the notion that something (else) just wasn't right. After a step or two, not quite losing stride, his eyebrows drew in with a subtle suspicion. As if struggling to even voice his concern, he finally asked "...Are you alright?"
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