Estinien returns to himself beneath a sheet of spiralling stars, and his first thoughts are of dragons. The image of space strikes him as familiar now, like a forgotten home, a lost heritage - how strange. He blinks slowly, muddled memories failing to gain any purchase, his feet gradually touching ephemeral ground. He can walk, he realizes... but where?

A bright light twinkles at him from the distance, and he feels as if he recognizes it somehow. He twists on his heels, turning to face the brightness with a flinch. He takes a staggering step towards it, but then hesitates - no. Not there. A voice whispers in his ear, guiding him towards the dark, and he follows. Step by step, he wanders further, sharp fragments of memory disrupting his thoughts like shattered glass beneath bare feet. He remembers the suffocating loss of fire and ash around him, the violence of blood slick scales and painted snow. He can't believe he'd almost forgotten.

But it's never far from the surface, is it? Never far...

He casts a desperate glance over his shoulder, back towards the light he'd almost followed, but it's gone now. All there that's left are dead ends and splintering paths, the voices of days past hounding his thoughts. Had he truly forgotten so easily? After all he'd done? After all they'd done together? His claws dig into his palms as he looks, wild-eyed, into the abyssal haze of the outside. Whatever peace he's found, whatever love and warmth, it's abandoned him now. How fairweather it has been, in the end.

For those that find him in this place, it would be easy to suspect that he's a threat. The moment he sees you, his muscles tense in readiness, his reaction one of immediate and overwhelming hatred. Whatever he sees in you, it frightens and disgusts him.

After the emptiness of the void, warmth, even in isolation, is a comfort. Yet, the more his mind returns, the more self-aware he becomes, the less satisfying it is. His muscles shift, futile and fragile against the shell enclosing him. Memories of darkness set his scattered thoughts at ill-ease, lending an urgency to his struggles. Regardless, it is slow going. He feels as if he's spent a small eternity in smothering solace before he finally feels a crack.

He emerges with a snarling gasp, shards of crystal bending away from his sprawling body as he forces himself through. Like a panicked animal set free from their cage, it seems likely that he'd be racing straight for the cavern exit - if not for the fact that his legs and arms completely fail beneath his weight. He can do little but slough onto the smooth stone beneath his crystal, clawing for purchase, his long white hair slicked to his body.

Despite how beleaguered he is, his towering height and scared body may make his panic threatening. His naked body is littered with scars from more battles than he can count. The first thing he'll do to anyone coming near is to reflexively take a swipe.

If there's one constant to Estinien's experience with the Hylician convoy, it's that he's eager to make things difficult - for himself, and for his handlers. From the start, he's marked himself as a problem prisoner by snapping and fighting at every opportunity. Because of this, he spends most of his time with his wrists bound by one of the whips, being tugged along by a watchful guard. Still, he finds his ways to resist. Even while bound by the cord's magic, you can see it in his eyes - he's waiting for the next opportunity to fight back.

These attempts are largely futile, of course, and the more he fails the more it seems to be a battle of principles than practicality. Once or twice he musters the strength to resist being pulled along or to even slam his fists against the helmet of the soldier leading him. If you are there for the aftermath, where he gets knocked to the ground and kicked, it doesn't seem all that worth it. Maybe you want to step in before it gets worse, or maybe you just want to laugh. Either way, Estinien doesn't seem inclined to apologize.

For the most part, it just means that he attends that evening's rations with a bloodied nose and a blackened eye. His hands are still bound in front of him as he shakily breaks apart a stale piece of bread, regarding the campfire with a thousand-yard stare. Whatever the regular meal is, he's clearly not being given his full rations today.

Once their military escort reaches the forest ruins, things have reached something of an equilibrium. It's almost routine now, his exchange of hostilities with the soldiers accompanying them. There's clearly no end to it, now - all of his attempts at escape have failed, and his constant resistance has only made him stick out as a particular ire-worthy target to the soldiers.

Emblematic of this is that once they are in the central encampment, he spends more time bound than anything else - especially at night, when the soldiers are tired and don't want to deal with his bullshit any more than they have to. It becomes standard practice to hitch his hands above his head at the side of a cart instead of leaving him to rest around the campfire with the others. After all, the more exhausted he is, the less of a fuss he can cause.

This is reflected in the daytime as well, mostly in that he'll be frequently seen dozing off with a whip lashed around his ankle, or hiding away from the other prisoners as much as he is allowed. His days are spent in low-burning misery, and though he's willing to talk if engaged, he seems more inclined to turn inward.

If none of these prompts work for you, feel free to hit me up with something of your creation! You're also welcome to hit me up on quixocalypse to plot. Estinien isn't very talkative but he will engage with people if they speak to him.