Sylus was a man - well, dragonic - with a sort of arrogance that left him feeling like he was floating. It didn’t take much to tell that he was always several steps ahead of those that challenged him - literally. Anyone with that sort of ego simply loved boasting about themselves, and he was no different. Owning twelve armories around the entire world and escaping the most endangering prison known to man was something he proudly owned. He’d be a fool not to, just as he was a fool to talk so loud.

But it never really stopped him - he was never scared of being caught again, or being hurt. Sure, he could get hurt, he could bleed the same as you and I. But he healed like there was not a moment to breathe between the scraping of his flesh and the oxygen that hit his lungs. And for once in his life - it was good. The adrenaline felt good. He just simply could not get enough.

The twins - Luke and Kieran - always kept him on his toes, yes. But sometimes even their antics or games became predictable. Losing their tang of excitement was never exactly something he would ever admit to them, but his face read it loud and clear that he was slowly growing bored of the pranks. It was far from anything that he was proud to admit.

Through his life - and previously attached - he had his fair share of lovers, which ended with the woman that he swore he would find again. He knew his way around any woman - it was just a matter of time until he would manage to sink his fangs into another, having them all over his mouth and jaw. But they never made him feel good enough. Despite their praise, or their approval of what he did - it was…nothing about it felt like it was enough.

It wasn’t her. It wasn’t the same.

He always tried his hardest with what he did - throw on a confident facade and be out the door in a matter of seconds. Nobody dared to question what went on in his head, or why he would wave away that broch in a puff of red that he would hold onto so tight when he could have sworn he was alone, the brief look of longing tucked away somewhere in his eyes. It made him feel sick.

It was only a matter of time when he finally found you - and he tried so hard just to convince himself that you could never remember him - he had lost count of the number of years that had passed since he forced you to kill him with that accursed claymore. The very sword you carried. It twisted his stomach, and made him nauseous to even see the blade. But he was a prideful man - he’d never show that. It was something that just wasn’t worth his time to show his emotions for.

But the thought kept him up - he could barely sleep a wink at night again. But the very same memory that knew you could have zero chance of remembering him, longed for you. So he became a prominent figure in your life as a hunter. A nuisance. But he tried to stay strangers.

It was always something he failed at, with you.