#char: curume

[deaddoveadventures]

@fiendishfinesse cont. from (x)

Raphael’s laughter, soft and resonant, spilled into the dimly lit inn like a velvet curtain, rich and inviting, yet edged with something far sharper. His brown eyes, warm as a summer’s day but with a depth that hinted at endless nights, locked onto Curumë’s with an intensity that could melt the will of weaker men. He leaned casually against the counter, fingers tracing idle patterns on the wood as if he had all the time in the world. "Ah, my dear half-elf," Raphael drawled, voice laced with amusement. "It is a thrill. Rebellion is the sweetest perfume, is it not? A scent that lingers and draws the eye, even in the most unexpected places." His gaze flickered around the shabby inn, a subtle mockery of their surroundings that danced behind his words. "But let us not trade barbs like common thugs in an alleyway. I am merely a traveler, intrigued by the rarest of things—a man who wears his defiance like a crown and his past like a shackle." He straightened, his presence suddenly commanding yet not overbearing—a magnetism that pulled at the very air. "Tell me, what brings a soul like yours to a place so...mundane? Surely you’ve stories worth more than the dust that gathers here." His lips curled into a smile, not of condescension, but of genuine curiosity, as if he truly relished the prospect of peeling back the layers of this enigmatic stranger.

"I'm afraid my stories are as mundane as this establishment here," the Half-Elf smiled and continued to lie through his teeth while those dark, commanding eyes of the man next to him sought to stare him into submission and yet failed to succeed. "Tales of thrill, adventure, riches. I’d say you know the song and dance, but you don’t look the part." Curumë's playful smile twisted into a razor-sharp smirk. "Dare I say, you don’t look like a man who should know as much as you do?"

The other’s subtle hints alluding to his past, his present even, hadn’t gone unnoticed by the warlock, and it was his turn now to pin the man with his gaze. "You’re right, let’s not ‘trade barbs like common thugs in an alleyway,’ as you so eloquently put it, and get straight to the meat of this conversation."

While the Half-Elf didn’t reach for his dagger just yet—having a fight in front of the tavern keep seemed like a bad idea if he didn’t want to spend another night curled up in his bedroll with nothing but the stars above his head and the cold wind rattling his bones— he was ready to do whatever it would take to get rid of the stranger, should things go awry and no longer in his favor.

"Who are you, and more importantly, what do you want?"

[deaddoveadventures]

Curumë flinched slightly when Vayu’s fingers suddenly dug into his shoulders, pushing him back so the darker-skinned man could look into the Half-Elf’s fiery eyes. *His* burden? The warlock’s lips twisted into their usual wry smile. Like an iron pincer, he clasped his hands around his partner’s wrists, forcefully breaking the other’s grasp on his shoulders.

“*Your* burden alone?” Curumë sneered, rising to his feet. “Is that the bargain you made?”

He did not receive an answer, not right away. Instead, Vayu broke into tears, shaking and sobbing in his seat—a wretched figure. A scoff escaped the Half-Elf at the sight of the other’s self-inflicted pain , and when his lover mentioned not having paid for his lack of action, what had begun as mild irritation finally bubbled over into real anger.

“Everyone but you?” he said, his voice sharp. “Do you *want* to get hurt so badly? Do you *want* to suffer?” The warlock threw his hands into the air, taking a step back. “You could have everything, Vayu—a child, a lover, a place to call home—and yet you lament not becoming a martyr. Are you a fool?!”

The Half-Elf huffed. He couldn’t understand this side of Vayu—this need to take on the burdens of others, to sacrifice himself for the sake of a stranger. And yet, it was this very quality that had saved Curumë’s life and brought them together. Love and hate wrestled across his face as he finally spoke again. “If this is because of some kind of pact you made, then seek a way out of it. Hells know that *I* will.” His hands clenched into fists. The thought of giving up disgusted him. No, it frightened him; and as he watched the man before him, he swore to kill Vayu’s ghoul, no matter what.

“And if you won’t tell me that beast’s name, I will figure it out myself. I will kill it, and you won’t stop me.”

Vayu could deal with Curumë when he was being haughty, darkly carefree, and generally openly devious, though not without irritation. So why did this softness from him cause him to simmer with anger, unable for once to return the gentleness he thought he wanted?

He grabbed Curumë's shoulders and pushed him away, so that they were not so intimately close, so that Vayu could look him right in the eye. His composure was fragile, lasting only long enough to say, "This is my burden alone."

"The past-" And immediately, he began to crack back open, his eyes beginning to sting once more. "-is exactly why I can't let you do this. It doesn't need to shackle me, it- the only real shackle is my own cowardice!"

He broke eye contact and lowered his head, heavy with self-directed shame. Perhaps the same force that cast a haze over his memories of that hellish place caused him to lose his ability to speak coherently about it.

"I set fire to her home, but I wouldn't strike her face-to-face or even look back to make sure the blaze caught her, and now I- no, it seems everyone but me pays for my inability to kill her..." The ugly sobs he held back broke through instead of words. (Which, in a way, spared him the indignity of explaining why it was so difficult for him to try and kill his tormentor.)

[deaddoveadventures]

@halfdeadsacrifice cont. from (x)

Well, his seemingly divine favour had to run out at some point. And if the gods were going to abandon him anywhere, it would be alone with Curumë.

Vayu dragged his gaze up, and laid bare the exhaustion within his gaze and the labour in his breath.

There was fear here, his hands shaking with a weakened grasp as he held onto the other's, but not only the animal fear that anyone would have when death stared them in the eye and life bled from their wounds.

Here too was the lingering aftershock of betrayal: the panic of I'm not ready, I saw the end coming but here it is and I'm still not ready, the self-lashing vitriol of I'm such an idiot, and the sinking dread of I love you, but this is the one thing I cannot give you.

"...I'm sorry."

The rest of his words took their time, drawn out between breaths. "Gonna... take the killshot, then...?"

Curumë’s eyes gleamed with the intent to murder as he pointed the dagger at his former lover. And yet, his hands were shaking under the other’s touch—the gesture a faint reminder of what could once have been a gentle caress. But no more.

The warlock’s grip around his weapon tightened, and, gritting his teeth, he thrust the blade forward. It sliced through Vayu’s palms as it went past the human’s weak hold on him, past his armor, and almost past his skin.

But then, suddenly, the Half-Elf flung his dagger to the side, far from where it could hurt the other man. Running his fingers through his hair, he staggered backward.

“I can’t do it!” he shouted. “I can’t kill you! What’s wrong with me?”

What should have felt like a victory turned into a throbbing ache inside his chest, and Curumë tasted the salt of his tears on his lips.

[deaddoveadventures]

@darkestnightwilldawn cont. from (x)

Rhaenor frowned at the man, the confession had slipped past his lips unthinkingly, but then Curumë had wanted to know why he had relished killing Nere so much when usually he stayed very cool and stoic during the heat of battle.

A wild, bloody rage had clouded his vision until there was nothing left but him plunging his blade over and over and over into the drow sorceror. By the time he came to, panting and sweating and realised how much blood coated the sword, his hands, flecks of it even on his arms and face and lips, he realised he was no better than the contemptous words his grandfather uttered about him.

'It doesn't matter that I'm a paladin. I'm still half drow, still contemptible, still wanting. I must do everything to be more than my blood,' he said it calmly, as though it were the truth of the matter, rather than an opinion.

“Do you, now?” The Half-Elf regarded the man with a contemplative look in his eye. His arms were crossed before his chest, and the smirk on his face had turned upside down. Rhaenor certainly wasn’t the kind of Paladin he had first made him out to be—Rhaenor was a Paladin with a profound fear of being himself.

The warlock scoffed. He had never experienced this type of apprehension, that dread that drove men to abandon their ambitions and children to give up on their dreams. While other people spent their whole lifetime hiding from themselves in order to live in a golden cage, Curumë had always been just one thing, first and foremost: himself.

Leaning forward, a wry smile played about his lips, and he tapped his chin. “Perhaps, my dear Paladin, you need to stop running from who you are.” He turned his head to look at the Drow’s body, which still lay mangled and bloodied on the ground. “So what if you get a bit carried away. That wretch deserved it.”

[deaddoveadventures]

@dm-tainthairs-collection (original post)

ᒥ🔥ᒧ—        Dante sneers, he may not have been the sharpest tool in the shed, but he knew passive aggression when he heard it. A lick of fire flicks through his hair and his knuckles pale as they tighten around the handle of his Warhammer. He'd meet passive aggression with actual aggression. The Genasi leans over and gives the Warlock a shove. "Tiny, frail..." He grumbles, looking down on Curumë as though he were so small and insignificant. "...Weak." He tried to play nice, but being met with such a fake tone wore down his incredibly short temper. The man was a bully, using his strength and intimidation to rule over those he believed weaker than him.

Had Curumë not been as nimble, the hard shove from the Fire Genasi would have sent him sprawling onto his back. Instead, the Half-Elf merely stumbled, catching himself midair before he quickly jumped back to his feet. If looks could kill, the paladin would have been struck dead right where he stood—slow, tall, and menacing.

"You better watch your back tonight, my friend," Curumë hissed. His hand gripped the hilt of his dagger so tightly that his knuckles had turned white, and the fiendish magic his patron had bestowed upon him burned at his fingertips. Yet, despite the intensity of his anger, he took a step back.

Unlike the hulking fool looming over him, the warlock knew better than to let anger goad him into an open fight in front of the rest of the caravan. No, he thought, he was not going to give up the comfort of traveling in a group for the minor thrill of obliterating an imbecile.

[deaddoveadventures]

Curumë’s lips tighten as his smirk twists into a wry smile. Serkan is right. There is something wrong with him. But the same applies to Curumë, and to many of the folks the Half-Elf has met in his rogueish life; some worse than others, yet all of them unique in their flaws.

The warlock takes a step closer to his companion. The man’s pallid complexion shines white in the pale moonlight, and for a moment, the Half-Elf wonders whether Serkan is trying to rival it in its paleness. A corpse more than a living being. His wry smile widens, and pity crosses his mind at the thought. Who is Serkan, but a husk for his urges? What life does he call his own, that has not been born from murder?

"Don’t mistake it for an act of kindness," he scoffs, as that fleeting moment of sentimentality passes, "I simply did what I had to in order to give this madness some semblance of a meaning."

The warlock takes a few more steps, passing the Bhaalspawn, as he crouches down to light the campfire behind him. Embers glint orange against their midnight-blue backdrop as the spark sets the wood ablaze.

"Have you even eaten or slept since I left? You look like shit." One of the logs cracks when Curumë pokes a stick into the flames; an attempt to keep them going. Encouraging the fire to spread and grow, to devour everything and more.

Serkan doesn't even flinch as the blade is pulled out, hardly acknowledging it's presence at all. "I think you and I both know there's something horribly wrong with me." If anyone were to make that mistake, it could only be him. He... enjoyed being threatened after all. Among other things.

He listens, as Curume explains, gaze softening just a little. "I suppose that makes sense. I'll keep that in mind." His mind flashes to his time with Kressa Bonedaughter for a split second, fractured memories of him chained to a table as she split him open again and again and again and again-- He couldn't move, couldn't speak, his brain still hadn't recovered enough to give him full body function again. He hardly remembered any of it, but it made him ill to think about.

He enjoyed pain, relished in his own wounds... but that. He didn't like to think about that, and he's not even entirely sure what makes it different from everything else but it is. Maybe it was the lack of free will, maybe it was the way she spoke about him. Maybe it didn't matter at all, because he'd already crushed her skull against a stone table until there wasn't anything left but fragments.

Snapping out of those thoughts, he nods. "Right... the hands. Thank you for remembering, despite all that was happening."

[deaddoveadventures]

@astralfox0893 cont from (x)

Auraine smiled faintly, and brushed a stray strand of hair out of Curumë's face. "Curu, my love. Just take your time. You'll be ready when you're ready." There was a bit of a pause from Auraine, and then they tilted their head playfully at their partner. "Now, shall we get to planning that little...'outing' we discussed? I do think that noble needs to be knocked down a peg. And I'm sure the people could use a little bit more wealth in their pockets. And...us too, within reason." She winked at Curumë.

A slight frown twisted the warlock’s face, but the expression was quickly brushed away, along with the stray strand of hair that his lover's gentle hand removed.

“I think your definition of ‘reason’ differs from mine, dear,” he said, leaning in as if to touch the other’s lips—a tease, like the smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“What other wild ideas has your silly mind hatched for our heist?” The Half-Elf stepped away, folding his arms across his chest. “And I mean the ones that don’t involve turning us into a charity.”

[deaddoveadventures]

🎈Curumë?

Send a symbol for a drabble/short piece of writing about my muse's ... 🎈 Thing they are most thankful for. @springvaletales

The wind caught in his hair, the salt on his pallid lips, and the putrid smell of filth in his nose. Curumë looked down at the crossing ship below. With his arms folded across the guardrail before him, he stood atop one of Luskan’s multiple bridges, cobblestone constructions that were as crude and wretched as the rest of the city. Overall, Luskan was a dirty, dirty place, a dark place, one that many only spoke of in hushed whispers and cautionary tales. But to Curumë, it was home.

A smile crept onto his face when he heard Caydranth’s voice call out to him from the other side of the bridge, and casting one last wistful glance at the stormy sea ahead, he turned to follow her beckoning. Even though she, the rest of his companions, and their hideout were nothing but a faint memory now, he was thankful to have met them, to have found a place of his own.

As he vanished into Luskan’s festering underbelly, the smile on his lips hardened. No matter how costly it would prove to be, he was going to take it all back from the fiend who had robbed him of everything.

[deaddoveadventures]

cont. from here with @windwithinmyveins

        It took a fair bit of cunning to get to this point. Phase one involved finding an honest-to-goodness merchant who wouldn't just swipe all the loot before they got a chance. Phase two, well, that was convincing Gale to let her take a turn at cooking! If it weren't for the fact they were trudging up a mountain pass, and if his knees weren't complaining, she doubted it would have ever worked. But lo and behold, here they were, and she intended to make the best of it. Admittedly, she may have gone overboard with the beef, but finding buffalo meat of such quality at the edge of the world? That had to mean something! Combined with the sour red wine she 'borrowed' from the Zentarim, and her meticulously slow cooking, those meat chunks would shrink, sure, but they'd become so succulent and tender that— Abruptly, the precise sound of a knife cutting interrupted her thoughts. She half expected Gale to backtrack on his promise and mimic her actions, but to her relief, it was Curumë, deftly chopping the meat into the same-sized chunks she had prepared.  Before she could thank him, though, he'd already thrown them into the pot, which hadn't even reached the perfect boiling point yet. If it were possible, she felt her heart plummet into her stomach. "...Beef stew," Ceres managed to say calmly, suppressing the urge to scream inside. She shifted the other ingredients aside carefully. "And since our Wizard doesn't bother with vegetables but can't do without his meat, I figured it was a good place to start." She neatly chopped some thyme and added it. "I've been jotting down what everyone likes or dislikes since joining the group. The ingredients are simple enough... but it needs three hours to cook, so if you're hungry... here," she gestured to a bowl of apple slices, each cut into the shape of a little bunny.

"Oh?" the half-elf cocked his head at the changeling, regarding her with a curious look in his eye. "What is it that I like and dislike then, hm?" Deciding not to passively await her answer, he chose another vegetable -- a bunch of carrots -- as his next victim instead. Blissfully unaware of Ceres' growing concerns with his cooking skills, he began chopping away at the orange roots.

"And what about our vampire friend?" he added, as death befell another unlucky carrot. "Shouldn't you keep the meat untouched, as raw and bloody as the hunt, for him?"

Swiftly the knife made its final cut, and Curumë nodded satisfied with himself and his work. Returning to the cooking pot, he snatched one of the apple bunnies the other had made for the rest of the camp.

"I mean, he'd surely prefer that over a pot of mushy beef stew. Or, perhaps…" The warlock's lips contorted into a sly smirk, as he towered over the smaller changeling. "You are his dessert? I mean I wouldn't blame you."

He shrugged, and in went the vegetables. "What do you want me to cut next?"

[deaddoveadventures]

[cont. from here] - @windwithinmyveins

Curumë wasn't quite sure how he had ended up sitting by the campfire, listening to the changeling's rant long past anyone's reasonable bedtime. Even stranger, he found himself fascinated, despite his usual lack of interest in music and the arts.

One hand resting upon his knee, while the other one was drawing idle circles into the dirt, he was glued to Irae's—Ceres' lips as they spoke and cheered about the effects of music on a person's soul, how it could transcend language barriers, and heal one's emotional wounds. The warlock shook his head.

To him, this sounded naive and silly.

Nevertheless, the bard's passion kept his attention, drew him in, and made him smile a little at the starry-eyed expression they flaunted at him as they waved the broken lute around. That was when he remembered why he'd come over to them in the first place: He had wanted to help them with their little problem. Rummaging through his backpack, which he had placed next to him at the campfire, he finally found what he had been looking for.

With a slight smirk, he produced the string and held it out to the changeling. Why he carried around such a strange thing was but his own business—and he was sure that the other wouldn't want to know.

He wanted to say something teasing when he noticed the minor shift in Ceres' behavior.

Cocking his head, he bit his tongue, instead just silently dropping the string into their hand before he genuinely asked, "So, tell me then, little musician, what's your favorite song?"

[deaddoveadventures]

@saintsdawn cont from (x)

a valiant attempt is made to hold her tongue. mouth pressed into a firm line, eyes down, and fingers jabbing a needle through thick cloth is her method. it’s success is short-lived.

“ and there's a reward in being kind. ” the needle stabs through the cloth and pulls the thread through – again, and again. “ why do you insist on having more thorns than a briar ? i can’t imagine it’s comfortable. ”

they’re like oil and water. truly, she’s surprised that @deaddoveadventures is here. “ you ought to trim some of it back. ”

Curumë sits down next to the cleric, his eyes following the needle as it sinks into the fabric, only to emerge on the other side again, ready to begin its rhythmic play anew.

"It’s who I am," he says, his answer firm and self-assured, though it is accompanied by a slight frown that wrinkles his lips and eyebrows. Suddenly, he questions his decision to open up to the other. But smart decisions have never been his forte, he muses, and he turns his head to gaze at the cackling flames of the campfire that twist and curl against the night sky. Treacherous, harmful, yet at the same time playful and appealing to look at, they are. Ambiguous like the path he treads.

"What use is there in trimming your 'thorns', as you say, if only to invite people who do not truly know you?" His words are meant to challenge her, but a hint of curiosity echoes within them, even long after he has fallen silent.

[deaddoveadventures]

Send „Boss Battle“ And my muse will give the speech they give before your muse fights them as a video game boss.  - for @undyingmedium

Battle Theme: (x)

"I've come this far to regain my freedom, to right what I've done wrong. I won't let you or anyone get in my way now. So, listen and listen closely: cross me, and I will do whatever it takes to clear this path in front of me."

[deaddoveadventures]

The people scattered to the side when the furious elf carved his way through them. Until now, the scene had been what they considered a good spectacle, but seeing the fire in Luran’s eyes turned what had been good fun into business they’d rather not get involved with. A woman grabbed her child by the hand, and a pair of tieflings let out a choked gasp as they barely managed to jump out of the angry chaser’s way.

When Luran finally stumbled out of the crowd, Curumë had just taken a turn into one of the many alleyways that connected the slum’s marketplace with the rest of the city. The Half-Elf, too, had noticed his captor from the corner of his eye and, equally as impressed as annoyed with the other man’s speed, muttered a row of curses under his breath. He had not escaped only to be caught again moments later. Clenching his hands into fists, he doubled his pace and jolted down the narrow street. His lungs hurt. His platinum-blonde hair danced behind him. He would be free.

Then, he saw the dead end ahead of him. Curumë hissed the most vile curse he knew, an unholy crescendo to the curses that he had spat out before. Yet, profanities weren‘t going to save his hide, and, casting a fleeting glance over his shoulder, his thin lips curled into a grim smile at that thought. He’d rather break his neck than be taken to prison again. And break his neck he would, should his risky plan fail.

Squatting down, he made a sudden leap toward the nearest window. Although his bound hands almost slipped off its coarse surface, his grip found hold, and using his momentum in combination with the strength of his legs and core muscles, he pushed himself off the wall to jump to the next closest available projection on the house on the other side of the alleyway. Once, twice, thrice, he repeated the action until he reached a small balcony. There, he halted, crouching on the fickle railing, which had certainly seen better days when it still had been new and shiny instead of rot- and insect-infested. An act as reckless as his entire escape.

“Ah, I see you are faster on your feet than you are with your head, dimwit.” Curumë smirked at the other. He relished this moment. He felt alive. “A shame you are not nimble enough to follow me, however.”

Intentionally flashing the ring he had stolen from Luran at the poor man, he wound up for another jump—yet yelped in pain when suddenly someone, a goblin, grabbed him by his hair and yanked him back. The Half-Elf lost his balance and landed unsteadily on the floor. “Let go of me, you vermin-infested wretch!” Writhing on the ground, he desperately tried to get back onto his feet and *kill* that damned, insufferable creature that had dared to squander his escape.

The goblin, meanwhile, kicked him in the ribs. “Go git 'im, Grubnuk!” she hissed, and suddenly the muscular goblin behind Luran swung his club at the elf. “Betta don’t make a fuss, Fey Fancy; seein’ stars be the worst thing that’s gonna happen to ya… for now,” Grubnuk grunted as the club came down on Luran’s head.

Suspicion seized him, but a trifle too late did the half-elf’s intentions dawn on him. The forceful collision that proceeded caused Luran to double over in pain, and promptly relinquished the iron chains to apply pressure to his aching groin. The bastard! He gritted his teeth to muffle a groan which, regardless of his efforts, vibrated deep in his throat.

‘You, villain!’ he cursed in a guttural voice.

A grimace contorted his handsome features, aggrieved by the thief’s actions. This was exactly the reason why he wouldn’t last a minute in hand-to-hand combat, and why he preferred diplomacy over physical violence — unless provoked. And that was what the troublesome, good-for-nothing half-elf was guilty of; he had ignited a spark of malevolence in Luran which the elf very much yearned to act upon. An incandescent glare, his dark brows descended and cast his eyes in shadow, trailed after his frolicking assailant. And despite the pain, Curumë’s words, his fallacious assumptions, evoked a cold smirk from the advisor; if anything, this despicable gnome had dug his own grave, and no amount of pleading with the judge would alter the final verdict — a death sentence...

Though, he wanted to gloat in the other man’s inevitable plight, his end, nothing was set in stone just yet — unfortunately. He had to catch the delinquent first. A challenging objective, especially since chasing after criminals and careening down alleyways wasn’t an activity he was accustomed to. In fact, the very concept of running after someone was relatively alien to him.

Gingerly, as not to sprain his joints or inflict another injury on himself, he stood erect, rubbing the sore spot with his right hand. His left thumb habitually reached for the signet ring he bore on his left ring finger, to fidget with it while he schemed. However, the moment his senses apprised him of the horrifying truth that the ring was gone, appropriated, his heart dropped to his stomach and his blood drained from his face. The urchins? Or the rogue? His dark blue eyes regarded the blonde elf while he bolted and amalgamated with the crowd. None of the bystanders even remotely attempted to apprehend his assailant — the shackles were probably off-putting to them. Cowards. Useless pigs... Blinking the pain, and loss of his family heirloom away, Luran commenced his pursuit, snarling at the onlookers, the commoners, to get the hell out of his way.

When he arrived on the other side of the congregation of feeble-minded halfwits, he could finally sprint, though his gait was impeded by the pain administered by the bane of his existence... Despite his suffering, he’d do anything within his power to track the other elf down, and retrieve what was rightfully his, even if he had to prise it from Curumë’s cold, dead husk...

[deaddoveadventures]

You don't seem to have a lot of good to say about your mother. What's up with that? Do you even know who she is?

Ask my muse increasingly personal questions. See how far you can push them.

"Oh, please," Curumë said, rolling his eyes at the anon. "Why bring up some long-gone stories from yesteryear? But if you must know… I know who she is, although I doubt she could say the same about me." His lips tightened, betraying the hint of bitterness hidden in his voice. He didn’t think about his childhood much—avoided those memories whenever he could—and bringing them up only served as a grim reminder of why he had opted to forget and suppress.

"What business do you have with that woman? And more importantly, what business do you have with me, asking these nosy questions? A death wish, perhaps?" The warlock sneered. Resorting to violence was easy—better than dealing with bygone things he couldn’t change anymore.

[deaddoveadventures]

[So for context, this is for a roleplay set during his time in prison, and it's an interrogation scene (that also involves torture). He was offered freedom in exchange for information, and there are a lot of things that have happened before this. The Curumë in this situation is much younger (barely 20) and a lot more naive and prideful than older Warlock!Curumë. I really love this roleplay a lot because I am basically writing out some of the reasons for his Character Growth (some growth, some decline haha);

He started out very optimistic and blue-eyed in the beginning, very much arrogant, and now he is becoming increasingly cynical *sweat*.

But there are still a lot of scenes that will help him develop some of his better sides, as well.

So yeah anyway I am proud of my writing in this because I love Call Out!Curu. He is so much fun to write hahahah. :')]

It was Curumë's turn now to pin the man with his piercing eyes, amber set ablaze as he clenched his hands into fists under the table. "Tell me then," he snapped, "how can I trust the words of your king when his grace and mercy end at the entrance to that room, and his infinite wisdom can't even differentiate between a man seeking magic to control others and a pig resorting to violence to do the very same thing?" His words tasted like bile on his lips and left their bitter undertone on his tongue long after they had been spoken. The noose around his neck had been tightened. Curumë felt the lump in his throat, the cold sweat against his palms. He did not want to become a martyr. He did not believe in martyrdom. He missed the dirt under his feet, the smell of ale and roasted meat, the thrill of a successful heist. He missed the sun, the stars, and the bickering between his companions. He yearned for freedom. But the freedom the man had offered was the freedom of a dog groveling before his masters. And Curumë was no dog. He was a force to be reckoned with; the man's final whisper once Nyx and he had made it out of here alive, and on their own terms.

[deaddoveadventures]

ᒥ🔥ᒧ—        ❛ the gods must be angry. i sense a storm brewing. ❜ - Dante to Curumë @dm-tainthairs-collection Because I know how much Curu LOVES Paladins XD

"Or perhaps," Curumë answered, honey-sweet mockery lacing his words, "you sense what every simple man can see with his bare eyes: heat lightning."

Much like the Tiefling cleric he had met, the paladin was yet another member of the caravan of adventurers the Half-Elf had decided to travel with for the time being.

A gust of wind suddenly blew thick strands of his blonde hair into his face, and with a shiver, Curumë pulled his hood up. The weather was already grim enough on its own; the foreboding mutterings of the paladin were just the cherry on top.

@dm-tainthairs-collection