Her back to him, Philomel kept breathing slowly, trying to remember of what she planned to say. Her hands folded around the two tankards, and they held the handles for longer than was necessary as she hid that she had a twisted look of many emotions on her face. So many that she had tried to forge control over through these past days.

“From what you have told me of your culture I would understand why that would be a stigma,” she said quietly, gazing down at the bronze liquids before her. “It makes sense.”

She sucked in a breath and twisted around, the two beers with her. For a moment she was lost in his eyes and then she faced him properly, memories of his prowess in fighting, his bravery and ability to taste the savour of violence on one's lips.

“I asked you to come here,” she looked at his masked face, his jacketed body and his sturdy boots. Beneath all of that lay a man who was a fighter at heart. “For me to apologise.” Her eyes cast down as she spoke.

Silver eyes studied her for a moment, then he shook his head. “You have nothing to apologize for, Philomel. You hunted quite wonderfully, and it was masterfully done.” He shrugged.

“I put my daughter and you at risk,” she stressed, finally lifting her hooves to move towards him. As she did come closer she held out one of the tankards. “You opened my eyes rather to something … well.” She struggled to admit her pride had been injured. She paused a moment as he took the beer and then looked curiously at him.

“May I ask what might seem a rude question - but has your serum affected you physically?” The drow slowly pulled down his mask and took a slow drink of the beer before responding.

“I would say it has affected me almost exclusively physically.” He set the tankard down on the edge of the table, then shrugged his coat off, setting it across the back of the lounge chair. He paused, and looked over his shoulder at her. “I take it you wish to examine me over it?” As he spoke, his fingers were working at the buttons of his vest. He opened it, then unhooked the Saw-Spear from the back and set it down, then pulled off the waistcoat and put it on top. The he turned around, opening up the shirt and baring his chest and stomach. On his right shoulder, stretching down towards his stomach at a slight diagonal angle, were three, thick rope scars, an even darker black than his normal skin tone. He stood there, shirt hanging from his shoulders, and he tilted his head.

The thought struck Philomel then, without warning and pure honest, that if he were ever to want a change in profession, she would be more than eager to set him up. She knew she was willing to train him personally, also. Then she gasped a little as she figured she was staring at the savage scars and thinking these things at the same time. Heart thumping she remembered the way she had watched him bear the weapon and the next question dropped out without any thought.

“In what ways has it done so?” She asked, eyes running down the length of a superbly long one that angled to his navel. Lengthy and seemingly unending it was. “Has it …?”

She stumbled for words as she found herself moving eyesight from the firm flesh at his abdomen to … well. Slightly below it. Between his legs.

“Hmm? Oh, there? While I have had an increase in stamina when I am interested - everything is natural, what I was born with. I am no monstrous being, Philomel. It densened the fibers of my muscles, increasing my reflexes and my strength - no physical deformations or the like.” His voice was steady and calm - though there was an odd lilt to his voice as he folded his arms over his chest, partially closing his shirt again as his arms pinned it shut a bit.

Philomel flickered her eyes back up to meet his eyes. Her lips moved for a moment but no sound came out, before she shoved the tankard away from her. “Monstrous or not …” she lifted the side of her mouth in a smile. “May I … have more of a look?” She gestured to his chest. “Scars tell a lot about a person, I have a few myself.”

He paused, staring at her for a few moments. Just when she thought he might refuse, he shrugged off his shirt, letting the dark red material fall away from his shoulders. He slung it off his right arm - then stopped before pulling it off completely from his left arm. Then he took a deep breath, and flicked it off. The reason for his hesitation became apparent - his left forearm was still a stone-grey hue, the venom still affecting him.

Philomel's intake of breath was fast but she did not make eye contact directly. Instead she focused on what marvels lay before her, especially the stone-ailed arm.

Gnarled in places and a wicked slate, the envenomed arm was very much a massive scar in its own right. She gazed with wonder in her eyes, not disgust or fear but rather genuine appreciation of what lay before her. Fingers rose and traced the air just above where his scars began and ran, following the lines and curves. Truly her heart now was racing.

“If you wish to touch, you may.” His voice was calm and steady, a contrast to the pounding in her veins.

“I hardly think I deserve to do such a thing,” she murmured without thought. He shook his head, though she did not see it with her gaze focused downwards.

“Aren’t I the one who decides that? Touch, if you so desire.” A gentle admonishment, and his body remained still just beneath her touch.

“They're far too beautiful. I feel I would need to earn the right to touch such a body-” she cut herself off, realising just what she was saying. A small gasp came from her lips before she looked back up into his eyes. They flashed, silver eyes glinting in the firelight.

“Philomel. You hunted me down. You literally had my life in your hands. You have long since earned that right.”

“That was a wrong,” she said in a hushed voice beneath his gaze. “The fact I captured you does not quantify a right because I was lost in prejudice. Yes a part of me still thinks of you as a form of monster, but I have lost all that right. In fact I-”

She stopped herself, then stared right into his eyes. “You know. All of it to hell,” she murmured, but with confidence. “I want you to punish me.”