Fennick knew where to go. He knew Kendel. The sand-cat waited at the table until the others went up to bed; then he stood, feeling the five pints he'd slammed down sloshing his brains about. He put an unsteady hand on the edge of the chair and worked his way around it slowly until he felt comfortable with the way the room dipped and swayed like a listing ship.

He went out the front doors and paused, breathing in the chill nighttime mountain air. This helped to roll back the alcohol glaze from his eyes, and he rummaged about in one of his leather pouches in order to find his pipe and a match. It was a thick, straight piece, carved out of heavy white quartz with a steel bowl. His face was briefly illuminated with a lurid orange glow as he lit the match and bowed his face over the pipe, taking slow, deep breaths. After a few minutes of smoking, Fennick was pleasantly incapacitated of reasoning thought once more, and packing his pipe away, he headed into the stables.

He found Kendel there, sitting in a patch of moonlight and rubbing his sword-no, his master's sword, Fennick thought-as if it was his lover. It almost made Fennick jealous, but he bit back the feelings and sat next to the other Knight.

Kendel paused, aware of the sand-cat's body heat, soft breathing, and the smoky green scent covering his own natural musk. The realization of these sensations made him shiver; the realization that they had sent a bolt of pleasure through him made him ashamed and angry. He slid the enormous sword into its scabbard. "What is it, SunDance?"

Fennick snorted softly into the dark, swaying even while sitting, his head buzzing and making it difficult to think. Kendel's scent had changed; what did that mean? "Are you going to come in to bed, Ken?"

"With you?" The blonde managed-barely-to keep the resentment and frustration from his voice, knowing that it would be sensed anyway. He couldn't hide things from Fennick.

The other man turned to look at his companion, his cat's slit pupils dilating in the dark. He inhaled sharply and flicked first his ears, then his long tail. His expression was surprisingly blank for once. "Kendel."

"You've been drinking and smoking again." Kendel's own crystal blue eyes narrowed, his almost femininely beautiful features hardening like ice. He jerked himself to his feet and paced a few steps away, slinging the scabbard to his back and securing the straps.

Fennick turned his own face away and shook his head, pulling his pain into himself and savoring it bitterly. His ears pressed back and his tail lay like a dead thing, and he bit his lip, wondering if there was any way to salvage the conversation. It seemed that every time they spoke it came to this. He looked at his hands folded in his lap, sighing. "Kendel," he tried again, "please go to bed. You won't do anyone any good, sick from cold and exhaustion." He pushed himself to his feet and started for the open stable doors, wishing that he could be angry about being spurned time and time again. At least anger would be warm.

Kendel watched him reach the door and lean on the framework, trying not to notice the dispirited walk or the pristine tail-tip dragging on the ground. He tried instead to force himself to remember the codes of behavior he was supposed to follow, the moral codes that stated explicitly that giving in to the rush of emotions that got caught up in his chest whenever Fennick was near him was wrong, was dirty, was evil. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, willing the burning behind his eyelids to dissipate. He could feel his resolve faltering.

Fennick paused against the doorframe of the stables, looking up at the clear sky and making a wish like a heart-broken child, a single tear coursing down his cheek. "We're in the west hallway. Night, Ken." The purple clothed figure and its sweeping tail disappeared around the corner.

Kendel slammed his head and fist into a wooden support, cursing the malicious joke that is life. Unsatisfied, he slammed into it again and again until the tears held within could pour free. He sank down in the fragrant hay and held his face in his hands.

He stayed there for over an hour before slipping into the inn and upstairs, quiet as a cat in the dark. He stopped outside the first door, running his hands along the smooth finished wood and hesitating. His heart pounded in his chest like a runaway horse, as he finally turned the brass knob with hands slick with sweat.

He stepped inside.

Author's Note: I'm having some POV problems, seeing as I have seven main characters. If the POV gets a little wonky, that's why; generally, though, I'll stick with omniscient or work though one character in a three or less scene. Another thing: I'm mainly just playing around so far. I love my characters and I wanna play with 'em! So, excuse the mostly nonexistent, pathetic plot so far.