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Night seems to be the only time you get some peace.
The day is full of… of everything, daylight which doesn't burn you, people who aren't afraid of you - who are at odds to you, certainly, but then isn't everyone? - and questions, endless questions, picking and prying for answers. It used to be that day was the nightmare, the time to slink into shadows, to find a place to hide and rest - the dormitory was hardly ever safe enough for that, with your siblings about - certain in the knowledge that if Cazador found you, you'd suffer, if Godey found you, you'd suffer, if your siblings found you-
Well. The pattern was obvious enough even you could identify it. Nighttime…
Night had it's own brand of troubles, but they were ones which became almost boring in repetition. Unwanted, unasked for, but predictable, known. The right words, the right expression, the right act. Blank roteness that almost made it palatable until you dragged the poor sod home and got to find out if you were expected to starve or had the chance to fight your siblings for a rat again.
Day isn't as bad as it was. It's tense, and these people would kill you at the drop of a hat once they find out what you are - once, not if, you're under no illusions as to how long you can keep up this charade. As long as it's long enough to buy you their trust, you'll take it.
It's night that's the most different.
This far from the city, there's no light to obscure the sky: you can stare up and between the leaves of the trees, stars - your very namesake - sparkle against the velvet of the sky. Clouds drift, like cotton dust collecting on the velvet pile, gusting along inevitably, hiding the star-sparks for a moment before revealing them again.
There's no pressure in the night. No need to hunt - or, well. Need to hunt, yes, to feed yourself, but not to feed anyone else, not to fuck, not to seduce, not to lure. Out here, in these woods, what you choose to do is yours alone and…
You don't need to breathe, no, but your lungs feel fuller with each inhale, lighter without the shackle of Cazador's thrall. Your sight is brighter, fed on rabbits and foxes and the boar you wrestled to the ground by the bridge, bristles biting into your palms, hooves kicking, and the bruises healed in moments after you guzzled down every gush of sweet-rich-hot blood.
You're full. You don't think you ever remember feeling full.
You'll have to go back. You can't stay out here, staring up at the velvet of the sky, something entirely new without Cazador's shackles on you, without the blinkers of Baldur's Gate, without, without, without.
The others will notice if you're gone. Whatever thing is keeping the tadpoles from controlling you all seems to be tied to the group, to your mysterious leader perhaps, and you love this freedom - freedom from Cazador - enough that you'll accept the restriction of the group, at least for now. After all, all going well, perhaps this can set you free for good.
But for that, you'll need allies, not just companions. You'll need someone to help you take on Cazador, to fell him now, while you're free, so you can stay free when the others do the damn fool thing and destroy whatever thing got you loose of this leash in the first place.
You only know one way to convince someone to do what you want.
You suddenly wish you weren't quite so full.