A vice wrapped around her thin ankle, holding it in an unrelenting and almost painful grip. With no small amount of surprise and heart-stopping panic, the undead woman looked down at what had taken hold of her ankle. However, as soon as she caught sight of a toned, sun-kissed hand she was tugged violently downwards through what appeared to be a hidden trap shoot and into a small bunker-like room. The demon's gaping maw was the last thing she saw before she was met with a dark and dim room where a lit candle burned in the corner. Falling ungracefully down the shoot, she landed on a dusty old mattress that just barely softened the collision between her and the ground.

A hand-the same one that had gripped her ankle mere seconds before-slammed down on her mouth and muffled her alarmed yell. A distinctly masculine figure hovered threateningly over her sprawled body on the mattress. "If you want to live, I suggest you shut up," a low voice warned in her ear.

Outraged at his blatant disregard to her status, she flailed her limbs in a desperate attempt to dislodge his position from above her. Pale and unhealthily thin hands clawed at the hand. She was vulnerable, and once again a disturbing feeling of discomfort washed over her. Inwardly, she sighed. She had a feeling she'd become very familiar with this previously foreign emotion in the weeks to come-if she lived that long, of course.

The other hand, which had been braced next to her head, procured a decently-sized knife from seemingly nowhere and carelessly pressed the sharpened edge against the soft skin of her neck. The weight which had been on that hand transferred to the one held at her mouth, gravity causing it to be pushed downward painfully into her jaw. That'll leave a bruise. "Stop. Moving," the man hissed.

The knife's edge glistened in the dim lighting, taunting her, daring her to make another move. The sizzling was at it's loudest now. It was looking for its dinner.

She clenched the mystery man's hand (the one that seemed to have a mission to merge her head into the dank mattress below them) in both of hers and paused again, hyper-aware of the weapon now very close to a major artery that she'd rather not get damaged. Nothing but hushed breathing could be heard in the room, and the man was unnaturally still perched above her. His lack of movements spoke of years of training and discipline, she grudgingly admitted to herself. The only movement that she could see was of her hair shifting near where the man's mouth lingered above her ear. His soft breaths warmed her cold, recently-undead cheek. Shivering, she hastily shoved him and his knife away from her when the predatory sizzle that signaled the demon's presence faded away into the distance.

Or, tried to, anyway. The man held fast to his position, and the shoving movement was quickly aborted when the knife jabbed further into her jugular. Sharp pain accompanied a liquid warmth that accumulated in a small line and dragged down her neck, staining red onto the mattress. The man didn't even flinch at her weak attempt to gain some space between them. Instead, he lifted his head from the close proximity of her face and moved his hand from her mouth to brace it next to her head. Instant relief was felt at the removal of his rough hand from her mouth, but she refused to show him that. She stared at where she assumed his eyes were, but the lack of adequate light hampered her efforts to remain stubborn.

Without prompting, he asked her, "Why didn't you run?"

She gritted her teeth angrily, who was this man to treat her this way? Did he not think freezing from fea-anxiety was a normal response to facing a demon in her state? Her mind stuttered. She didn't fear things...she wouldn't allow herself to feel fear. It was only temporary, after all. As soon as she reaches the castle and regains her status back, she'll be strong again. Sure she'd been dead, but it couldn't have been that long since she died-all she had to do was prove to the king it was actually her and he'll help her back to her normal self.

"I was surprised," she snapped. That was safe, surprised was surely what she felt.

The man didn't seem to like her attitude to his question. He pressed forward slowly, allowing the knife to dig further into her throat. She gagged but didn't break her stare down with the eyes she hoped she was looking directly into. Her hands tightened on his holding the knife, trying and failing to pry it away from her neck.

"Why are you here?" He asked another question, this time with a little less patience in his voice.

"Am I not allowed to walk where I please? This is still a land of free converse, is it not?" She sniped cheekily. Perhaps it wasn't the best idea to antagonize the man with a knife at her throat, but at this point, she found it a moot point to care anymore. The man growled.

"Look, princess, I just saved your petty little self from the maw of a flesh-eating monster. I suggest you show a bit more respect." He paused to let that sink in, "Not many people can claim to have wandered in the middle of the sweltering desert at the dead of night- especially when common knowledge dictates that that's when our friendly resident demons like to come out."

She wouldn't venture as far as to call them friendly. "I do not find it prudent to show you any sort of reverence. Do you have any idea who I am? Furthermore, I have many a reason to be where I am now, none of which are important to let you know about." She could practically feel the knuckles turn white where he clenched the knife up to her exposed neck. He was holding back. She wasn't sure whether or not to be grateful to him or mad that he threatened her in the first place.

Finally, he lowered the knife cautiously. He must have come to the same conclusion she did: she couldn't harm him if she tried. That thought burned at her. Later, she'll deal with that later.

"No, I don't know who you are. And you know what? I really couldn't care less." He flicked his wrist, and the knife disappeared. She blinked. "I don't know why I bothered asking anyway, clearly you're just some idiot who got lost and couldn't find your way back to your village," he dismissed, then rolled off of her to stand up a little ways away.

She gaped at him incredulously. Surely he was joking? How does he not know who she is? "Wha-?"

"-I'm nice enough to let you stay here for the night, but tomorrow? You're out. The name's Wit. Don't forget it- or do, it doesn't really matter anyway because you won't be stayin' long," he huffed out.

So he didn't know who she was... She considered not telling him at all, it might prove to be to her advantage. However, she paused, I might need him. Coming to the conclusion that, yes, she needed him to tell her where (and perhaps when) she was, she settled on telling him the truth.

Staring at Wit's, frankly, imposing figure, she rose up unsteadily to her aching feet. Her feet scraped painfully against the annoying grains of sand lodged in her worn boots and a still-warm line of blood ran lazily down her neck and into her dirtied shirt. Still, she straightened up and rose her chin up to meet as close as his height as she could possibly get without shamefully getting on her tip-toes. "My name is Ira Fawke, Guardian of the kingdom of Naga. I am not a princess, and I do hope you learn to respect your betters." A small smirk arose as she watched the significance of the name dawn upon Wit's now visible countenance.