Deamon awakes in a small clearing. A campfire crackling and the smell of stew in the air. His hands are bound, the rope scratching his wrists. He tries to remain still in order to assess the situation. 

The man sitting on the other side of the campfire is tall and broad. His face was sculpted and skin was bronze. His hair was every color brown imaginable and cut into a high fade with the top of his hair pulled back into a ponytail that was full of dreadlocks and braids. He made Deamon feel smaller than usual and at five foot four inches he usually felt small anyways. He stays as still as possible, watching him stir something meaty in the pot. He speaks, low and gravelly, his hard, mahogany eyes never leaving the pot, “That probably could have gone better, but I am not used to being asked to bring someone in alive.” 

Deamon stays quiet, he sits up, carefully taking in his surroundings. He felt calmer as he looked around. The clearing would give him a better chance of slipping away. He felt confident that, with the man's size and his own dexterity, he should be able to easily disappear beyond the trees. He was used to hiding in trees; he may just have a chance. 

“Don’t even try it, demon,” the man said.

He paused in his searching at the man using what he obviously considered an insult. He was actually comfortable with his heritage, but others tended not to be. He keeps quiet, trying to think of anyone that would know, but there is no one. “Who sent you? If you tell me, maybe we can make a deal.” 

The man sighs and for the first time looks directly at Deamon, catching his eyes. Pale blue eyes stared back at him from under a fringe of vibrant violet hair and he was shocked how much this demon resembled Queanya. The shade of blue and their almond shape, lined thickly in coal, and his eyelashes long and curled. Deamon blinks slowly and the man lets his gaze pass along Deamon’s brow, down his nose, his mouth was slightly larger though, fuller than the woman’s had been. He looked so similar. His heart was pounding in his chest. He stills his resolve. “I don’t back out on deals.” 

“Fair enough,” says Deamon, “but whoever it is, maybe knowing would make me put up less of a fight.”

“Weren’t much of a fight,” replied the man gruffly.

The statement hit Deamon harder than he would have expected. It was true that he had been letting his guard down a little too often, and he had not been practicing or anything since his return from the Void. He had been tired of fighting and thought taking up in the city as an entertainer would be an interesting change. Queanya had left her place there when she died. It was relatively simple to just step in and replace her. He blinked long and slow. A thought entered his mind. “You know I’m not Queanya right?” he asked bluntly.

“How do you know Queanya?” the man asked.