#fatewoven

[theredconqueror]

He's fortunate that Lucanis looks away, or else he might have had to, the too-close remembrance of the recklessly yanked threads. "So was yours," he breathes out, but the exhaled memory is not of drowning, but of earth and heat. Perhaps he shall never get to that story now, how such sentiment scrapes away at the professional paint that has already been scratched away too much in just a single conversation. It is better this way, he thinks. Is it not the grander story, to meet under such burning stars and destinies? It is sweet torture to hear Lucanis say his name. "Likewise," he answers with warmth, and a curt nod and the barest slow, savouring blink. He wants, oh, he wants for the other to say his true name: to see how the other's tongue would form those cursed words into something almost beautiful. But liars don't get such luxuries. He tilts his head, as if trying to change the angle the other sees, as if that might blur the reading. He purses his lips, but it's not displeasure, only an instinctive caution at being seen. He almost learns little from Lucanis, a scolding almost coiled on his tongue if it were not for the fact that his answer was no better. However, he does learn one thing, which surprises him: wyverns. He thinks of dragons, because of course he does, and it causes a fond, if nostalgic smile. Fortunately, he gets his chance at a much needed parry, the turn of the conversation feeling like it has slipped from his usual steady control. "Oh, I would not subject you to such a dull opponent." A wicked smile for a wicked game. Though the tempting look in his eyes ponders: what would be my prize for victory? It lasts only a moment, the cards reshuffled. "Is there anything Spite would like to ask me?" He inquires, unconsciously having his gaze move closer to that flicker before he pulls it back to the assassin. "I can only imagine that I put him at unease, given what I am," he acknowledges, a sympathetic smile to the demon's origin. A kind gaze, now meant only for Lucanis himself: "And I only wanted to say, you do not need to worry about speaking about him with me." A whole conversation has passed by without a mention, as if another person hasn't resided in the room with them this whole time. "There is nothing about you that could possibly frighten me away." He looks at him, as only a monster can, with recognition.

Tevinter's ochre dirt blends well into clay; the consistency crafted into a town, then a city, then an expansion fit to swallow the horizon beneath its banners — the tint of blood evident in each brick and stone laid out across the famed highway. True, it's an empire built on countless slaves, each one broken and ground into the foundation; defining itself as much of a graveyard as the Necropolis is, and it's a hungry thing, this land built from the ruined remnants of gods both terrible and flawed. It cares not whether the veins are noble-bred or slave-worthless as long as there's blood to spill. These are the observations he's gleaned from working on those soils — and as Valrys speaks, there's ever a moment to consider the truths slumbering under the sandstone-carven surface. How much blood has this man shed for his homeland? How much of it was his own?

The answer, Lucanis expects, is more than one might expect.

"Trust me, your first impressions were anything but." He leaves the comment at that, gaze trailing upward. The ceiling is not made of brackish water, held back by centuries-old (crumbling) magics, and neither is the room cold from the fathom-deep chill seeping through the cracks. It's a place to be, somewhere dark and quiet and warm. There's purpose here, at least, when the prospect of going home remains impermissible. You— We don't. Recognize it. Your city.

No, he thinks bitterly, having felt no different than a stranger as his steps walked once-familiar canals and rooftops.

Instead of dwelling, he slots those thoughts into their respective boxes. Seals each tight as coffins, only to be examined by dire necessity. "Valrys Sarithan, yes. A pleasure." The name rolls off the tongue with the exquisite ease of a decapitation. All sinew and gristle, familiar letters that stretch his mouth into a smile in the aftermath. "As for that question, you will simply have to find out. Here, I shall offer a few sentences at least," he adds, tone tinged thorn-teasing. A tut. A perceptive awareness conditioned in him to find those softer spots in people. "Even your pursuits of leisure are about winning. I wager you would be a rather dull opponent at cards. Wicked grace in particular."

Yet, even as his eyes shine at the simple response, he knows they are no different. A Dellamorte must live up to improbable expectations, and for that, they must attain the time-consuming ideal. "Train, mostly. Cooking is much a necessity as a hobby... If you ask what I might rather do, I would say: go see a wyvern. And if I ask you that same question, will you say agree to a game of cards?"

[winterfromtevinter]

stop smiling at me like that. / from femme fatale

╰ ⋄⋆⋅✧ ⸻ ⧽ @fatewoven inquired | 𝐔𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒

She tries her best to quell the incriminating expression. Truly, she does. The corners of her mouth straighten for a moment, curve downward into a rather false frown, before she can no longer help herself. The smile dimples her face again, wide enough to thin her lips.

Oh well, the jig is up. "Smiling like what?" her voice high and tight with suppressed laughter. She can cheat at cards just fine, lie in the face of a dozen people in a row to keep them off her tail. But there's something disarming about being here, amongst allies who are all quickly becoming friends. Lucanis, who is becoming...something, to her. She isn't sure of the shape of it yet, so for now she enjoys any company he'll spare her.

Generously, she'll allow herself to enjoy the furrow between his brows and his clever eyes studying her. A guilty pleasure to make the day a little sweeter.

"You really should blame Andy. It was her idea," she caves. It's too funny not to. "You'll see, it's nothing bad. Just...a new friend that has been relocated."

[venombloom]

[ pressure ] / emmrich!

@fatewoven

[ pressure ] sender sets a hand on the small of receiver's back

The Necropolis is interesting...that's for sure. Not as offputting as she would have thought. Perhaps a bit too lacking in the sunlight department.

But the area she fell in love with at first sight was the Memorial Garden. The first time Emmrich had invited her, it had taken her breath away. In awe she had followed him around, taking in every sight and sound, simply enjoying the wonder. One might ask why. To which she'd give the rather dull answer of It's beautiful and peaceful. Not the most eloquent response yet true nonetheless.

So anytime he extended the offer for her to tag along to the garden, she would excitedly accept. Including this round. They chattered back and forth, her stopping to pick flowers or to leave a bundles of flora for the dearly departed. He's easy to talk to, albeit sometimes she feels her verbiage isn't as eloquent as his and there's the slight insecurity of not being smart enough to keep up.

As they're finishing up another grave catches her eye. With a bit of pep in her step, she makes a beeline for it, murmuring an apology as she starts to wander not too far off.

Daisy let's out a quiet gasp as her gaze roams across the marker. What had caught her eye at first where the intricate designs carved into the smooth stone. Fingers tenderly trace the pattern while she reads the epitaph. As the digits wander up it's the blossom laden vines that she takes notice of. A quiet 'Ooh,' is gasped out when her attention is turned to them.

She's so focused she doesn't pay attention to how close he's gotten beside her even though he's still speaking to her. Then she feels a weight on her lower back. Body tenses till she realizes it's a hand — his hand, rings and all. The touch is feather light the first few seconds yet settles more heavily. Tightened muscles relax slowly, so much so, Daisy even leans into it and towards him. Usually any sort of touch to her back is concerning simply because the implications of vulnerability and usually if a Crow is going to take anything to the backside, it would be a blade. Or a lashing.

This though? This is oddly comforting. That doesn't stop her heart from giving a few extra rapid beats. Almost dumbly she stares up at him for a long few seconds, eyes wide, then quickly diverts her gaze hoping the barest hint of pink on her cheeks isn't noticeable under the dim light of the Necropolis.

"Thanks again for inviting me along, Emmrich. I really enjoy getting to have these walks with you. Or just hanging out in general."

[fornalhaut]

❝ i’ve been watching you fight. your skills are improving. ❞ lucanis / gimme that kaien da verse :>

he didn’t remember much of the north that first winter he crossed back past its borders. 

but that was wrong, he knew. it was less that he didn’t remember (because he did, of course he did, all of it), and more that the memories he’d held onto all these years were no more than history now. he remembered the faces of his father and mother, their voices, their laughter, remembered the bustling taverns, the delicious foods and calling out for seconds, remembered the way passersby would smile at them (at this happy little family), remembered his mother’s beautiful singing and his father’s (determined) efforts at keeping tune, remembered scuffed boots and dirt and leaves and grass and a thousand more things that were of no use to him now.

it was no miracle and no stroke of luck that had the crows welcoming him into their ranks (the stability of having someplace to return to again was what he’d asked for, his only real stipulation), but it did take a fair amount of adjusting to.

“that’s me,” he agrees, spirited as usual in spite of how ass-backwards this entire night’s been going so far. “always improving. rapidly. ‘specially in dire situations.” he flicks a bit of gore off the plumage of his antivan coat, a fair bit more off his sleeves (hearing it land with an almost comical splat on the stone of an otherwise deathly silent back alley), and mourns the fact that he’ll likely be performing intensive surgery on it later. 

he meets lucanis’s eyes from across the field of dropped cultists, managing a smile. “is it my turn to say somethin’ nice?”

@fatewoven accepting.

[emmliches]

@fatewoven asked: ❛ how long have i been asleep? ❜ 𝟐𝟎𝟎 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌 𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 (accepting)

“Oh, only for a brief spell.”

There is no sense of time in the Lighthouse with its eternal Jupiter gas of sun. Lucanis has returned, waking seated in the kitchen where Emmrich has already prepared himself a prophylactic cup of loose Nevarran tea. The rest are still asleep. He knows drip coffee will miasma the air soon. 

“Lucanis, that’s wonderful.” He lowers his over-read copy of The Waking Scrolls. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear you’ve allowed yourself rest.”

He assumes it was real sleep, anyway. Spite finally assuaged and sated, no longer taking over to escape when Lucanis drops his guard to REM. Does he dream of kaleidoscopic Fade?

“Rejuvenated, I hope? I was just regaling Spite the experiences of my more— spiritual companions.”

[avernusdamned]

@fatewoven / for gortash.

It's quite obvious that sleep was not something Karlach was able to achieve very easily last night. She's been waiting for this moment for years but it isn't excitement that brings her to such a restless night. No, it's fear. What if it doesn't work? What if this kills her? What if this is just another one of Enver's schemes? What happens to her? What happens to Wyll?

" So ... you're sure this is gonna work? " her words are hesitant, claws digging into the armrest of the chair. Her chest is laid bare here, ready to be burst open, and softly dimming with the bright light of her engine. It fluctuates, growing dull and dull and duller until it realizes it wants to live and a sudden burst comes from it. And then dullness, dullness, dullness. It repeats, though one of these times she may just blow.

All her vents, valves, and mechanisms to control and enter her housing of ribs where the engine sits lay ready to be tampered with. A multitude of scars, much more than Enver had ever seen her with before, paints along her limbs and weaves around the workings of her machinery, making her a canvas well worked upon.

It's hard not to think of the last time she was like this. (She is suppressing the thoughts. Bashing them down in the corners of her mind like an ant beneath her boot. You will not infest this place.) At least the chair is much more comfortable. " I mean really work. "

[silksworn]

❛ show me how much you missed me. ❜

❛ —— ☾ ₊ ⊹ 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 / @fatewoven

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐓 is fetching against Enver's dark skin. Cold steel warms itself upon his breastbone, moved only by the gentle rise and fall of breath. An idle threat with no real intent, not yet. The dead do not speak to her the way that he does, do not worship her with palm and flesh and fervor. Their cold veins no longer remember how to properly bleed. Only a quick flick of the wrist to artery and he would spill out for her a font of red as vibrant as a bouquet of spider-lilies and poppies. You have missed me too, for you have brought me flowers, she would say.

Enver makes a show of ignoring the weapon, though he cannot hide flittering pulse in his neck. Moth-wing heart, animal dread. She wants to sup of his fear like sweet-wine.

Ah, but she rushes ahead of herself. That would only spoil the meal.

Her lover's saturnine face is upturned towards her. Candlelight paints Enver's features in broad strokes. She is left with the impression of his leer, the high cheekbone and the architecture of a nose broken more than once. His deep-set eyes are lined with sleepless nights and smeared kohl, both hungry and arresting. He is some crepuscular creature that has crept into her bed, a version of himself that belongs solely to the few stolen hours they find for one another.

Only here does he kneel for her. She still tastes the power of his willingness all the same. His attention is almost as satisfactory as physical touch would be.

"You presume much," she breathes, face kept as placid as she can make it. "Who says that I have not had my share of pleasures in your absence?" Yet she cannot contain the undercurrent of longing, voice little more than a suggestion of speech. The insides of Iraestra's thighs are wet with her desire for him, telltale tremble as she spreads her knees further to show him the lilac bloom of her cunt. Her hand works practiced, languid circle over her sex. She dips two fingers inside of herself just to hear the slick, filthy sound of it. The loudest noise in the room is her fluting breaths.

A crude mockery of how she takes herself, Iraestra exerts enough pressure so that the blade may open delicate skin. Blood wells quickly to the cut, a small river of pain traveling the broad muscle of chest. She gasps at the sight as if she had been the one pierced, body tightening around the trivial intrusion of her slender digits. It is not enough. She would have him bleeding and on top of her.

"Come to me," demand or plea, she does not know any longer. She does not care. "Let us see who missed the other more."

[dimensionalspades]

@fatewoven said: ❛  yes, but how much longer til your luck runs out?  ❜ / luc to rook :)

- epic the musical || accepting -

. "We're crows. You know our luck doesn't run out, Lady Luck just.. runs thin on patience, sometimes." Just a month ago, he'd consider a stakeout to be a waste of his considerable talents- now, he was just grateful for a respite from touring all of Thedas itself. Not that he would express that openly.

"She wears down for Treviso, though," he added as he leaned on the railing, frowning out at the lights that swung over the city's canals. If the lights didn't catch the Antaam barricades, he could've pretended they were just spending time on the rooftops. "I imagine it looks different from last you saw it."

[theredconqueror]

❝ there’s no glory in war.     it’s just something they tell soldiers so they’ll risk their lives. ❞ / lucanis (@fatewoven)

There's an idle thought on the tip of his tongue that no one is as gloomy in conversation to him as the assassin is. Everyone else tries to be upbeat around him, to a point that it begins to feel grating. For good or for ill, Lucanis tells him exactly what was on his mind. "You don't see the pursuit of the Grey Wardens as noble?" He asks, curious rather than combative. Most around Thedas seemed to see the Wardens as an unfortunate necessity, and that pledging one's life to it was an act of bravery, the soul pitied for their sacrifice. He has a concealed, mixed opinion. The trace of guilt that they would not exist if not for the blight, that whisper of darkness he'd unintentionally let out. Then there is the fact, of course, they would kill him without a second thought. Mixed, indeed.

[winterfromtevinter]

[ WOUND ] / fretting wife noises

╰ ⋄⋆⋅✧ ⸻ ⧽ @fatewoven inquired | 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒

[ WOUND ]:          upon noticing a recent injury on the receiver’s person, the sender carefully moves closer, running a thumb (or hand) across the wound in a gentle, troubled manner.

Burns, bad burns, are always an ugly healing process. Neve's had just enough of them ( fire magic is deadly, but so many Tevinter mages prefer blood magic ) to know that this one is going to give her all sorts of trouble. Neve's healing is only rudimentary even after years of getting herself into dangerous situations. Mending a layer or two of skin is easy enough work for children, and about the extent of what she's capable of. Lowering fevers, easing some aches, knowledge of herbs enough to settle the stomach; nothing that would earn her any accolades.

Thankfully, her ice had done well enough to soothe the wound while they fled the melee. Long enough to let her limp her way back to her quarters, hand clasped firmly to her side. In the confusion no one had looked at her twice. Her scream had been mostly masked by the war cries of the Antaam.

She's glad for that. There are more pressing matters to be dealt with. She's handled worse on her own.

That won't make this pleasant. The first order of business is to get out of her leathers and assess the extent of the damage. She's up and walking, so that's always a good sign. Money could probably be safely bet that she has other injuries too that she isn't feeling. Pain's funny like that.

Her fingers clumsily work at the ties on her uninjured side. Slow, tedious, painful work. Neve's tongue is thick in her mouth and her blood pounds dully in her skull. Maker, is that smell her skin? Ugly curses pour unabashedly out. Only a second had the fire licked her, and still this much pain.

Her distraction is to her detriment. She doesn't hear the door, or the call of her name.

[venombloom]

∗ 84﹕ sender  accidentally  injures  receiver  during  sparring . / luc

@fatewoven

When it comes to sparring with Lucanis, Daisy knows her skills don't hold a flame to his. She maybe good, perhaps even one of the more skilled fledglings of House de Riva (if she were being prideful), yet his experience both in the field and training wise far outweighs hers. But that's what makes their sparring matches more exhilarating.

Maybe she's just a masochist.

Especially considering each time they fight, she tells him (stresses to him) not to go easy on her. Such a luxury has never been afforded to her. For him to do so would feel like pity. And she didn't crawl and bite and scream her way through hell for anyone, including him, to treat her so.

SHE IS NOT WEAK.

Whether he listens and grants her request is debatable. Of course neither of them go the full distance to try and actually kill one another, obviously. But what's the point of practice if one isn't challenged?

Their matches have a tendency to last longer than one would ever expect. Time means nothing during them, and Daisy has no care about it when focused in.

It's always a workout; one she welcomes. And he certainly has her sweating this go around. They're both down to just a dagger. She knows there's already the blossoming of bruises along parts of her ribs and one knee is lightly scraped. In her humblest opinion, she's done pretty well.

Until she tries to dodge too late. Then it all happens in a blur. The blade grazes the upper portion of her right arm, make a laceration deep enough to dribble a steady stream of crimson but nothing serious. It's when his fist collides with her face that causes her pause, which in turn brought about the knife wound. The taste of metal settles on her tongue. She's bitten the inside of her lip along with her nose being busted.

Back from him she staggers, dagger falling from her grasp with a clatter, letting out a growl of 'FUCK!' as well as several other curses in Antivan. It brings about a myriad of memories; black eyes, split lips, a never ending soreness and tears --- lots of silent tears shed away from prying eyes.

When Daisy looks up, she notes a flash of concern across Lucanis' face. Hands are held up in reassurance, coupled with a blood smeared grin. "Hey, don't look at me like that." She teases, panting as lungs try to recoup their normal oxygen levels. There is a flare of anger in her chest. Not at him. No just at herself for such a mistake. She knows better. "I asked for it."

With a nod she settles back into a fighting stance, knees wobbling just a hint, unwilling to give up. "Let's finish this, yeah? It's getting close to dinner time." A laugh rings out despite her rough shape.

[timewounded]

how long were you going to hide this from me? / omen to cypher !

patching up wounds // @fatewoven

at first the question was met with silence.

coat was an easy tool to cover up any sustained injuries & as painful as the gunshot was, cypher was rather used to it. be it a lesson from the past, showing weakness like that still was a death sentence.

yet as the path they were going through kept becoming longer, even his resilience gave out. a stumble with a hiss, more blood splattered on the floor as hold weakened. enough to alert Omen & force for the whole operation to temporarily come to the stop.

a bit of relief as he was able to sit down, yet at the same bit uncomfortable. no matter how close with protocol, it still felt wrong to be openly vulnerable.

which brings him back to the moment, as fellow agent was dressing up the injury.

❛❛ just until i got it all stitched up. it's not really a moment for details like it, is it? ❜❜ of course he wouldn't say a word about the injury if he wasn't caught.

[blindshoot]

How do they advise the player character on Raphael? Do they have comments on who the Player Character chooses to spend the night with?

COMPANION QUESTIONS

ADVICE ON RAPHAEL

Dareth has a general disapproval around making deals with things, especially if it's the devil himself. He is immediately disgruntled at the sight of Raph when he first shows up to taunt the group. He also hates Ethel and Mizora <3

[ during Raphael's encounter ]

Dareth: Poetic riddles get you nowhere and neither will this man. Tell him to shove off.

[ after bringing Tav back from House of Hope ]

Dareth: If you are considering a deal with this Devil then I can see you only as weak. There is never any need to make deals such as these.

( if Tav responds with something along the lines of 'I'm not' ) Dareth: Good. I do not wander with idiots. / Dareth approves.

( if Tav responds with 'Maybe I am/It could be useful' ) Dareth: Those who seek the quickest end will surely find it. / Dareth disapproves.

ROMANCE OPINIONS

Dareth doesn't care who you spend the night with because what you seek pleasure in is your own business as he expects you to treat him with a similar amount of respect. He does have little quippy comments though, we love a gossip queen sometimes! These are not full romance dialogues (I absolutely would write out a whole chain of dialogue for him) but just the comments he makes at the tiefling party

on astarion. Dareth: I see it is more than his teeth that have sunk into you. on shadowheart. Dareth: You would do well to treat her with kindness, souls as haunted as that crave what they don't know.

on lae'zel. Dareth: If she does not break you like a twig you will have earned my respect.

on wyll. Dareth: I saw you talking with Wyll. That is perhaps the first time I have seen his face light up in some way since what had happened with Karlach.

on karlach. Dareth: It would perhaps be more efficient to toss yourself into the firepit.

on gale. Dareth: I would not bring any magic attire if I were you.

[avernusdamned]

Karlach rolled an intimidation check against @fatewoven for total of: NATURAL 20

Karlach walks up to Gortash with a cool and steady walk. This is all she's ever dreamed of for ten years. Ten long years. Counted days and counted nights have lead her to this path. A path she never dreamed of walking. It could have been so much different. So much better. They would have ruled this city together but not like this. Never like this. Not seriously.

And she'd be lying if she said this is actually what she's dreamt. Her days in Avernus were mostly spent wondering why. Thinking of how she'd spit in his face if he ever apologized. She didn't even get that. Not really. He apologized for her emotions not his actions. Cruel devil of a man. She should have realized. She should have known. But her days were spent thinking of that dream he had asked her of. For comfort. Stability. And he gave her this...

" Do you remember what I said before? When I was denied taking out your disgusting little throat in favor of that little 'deal' you tried to make? " Despite her voice being nowhere near the state of rage it still booms with the gift of thaumaturgy. " I said you were going to beg. " Her teeth snarl, grinding together before she gets in his face, sword gripped in her hand tight. " You would cry and weep: Please, Karlach spare me. "

She spins the sword, burying the tip into the ground. A burst of flame engulfing her as she prepares the full range of her voice. " So BEG. BEG ME FOR YOUR LIFE, LITTLE MAN. MAYBE I WILL BE MERCIFUL. Maybe I won't. "

[silksworn]

[ approval ]  mixed with jewelry or laces....him complimenting her attire while adjusting something :)

[ approval ]  your muse complimenting mine on a choice they’ve made + [ jewelry  ]  your muse clasping a piece of jewelry for mine , such as a necklace , or earrings . 

Perplexingly enough, Enver lingers after he has been spent in her bed. Irastera herself had stood as soon as sweat had cooled and breaths been caught, making note to instruct one of the servants to change her sheets before she returned to her chambers next. Better to let the maids have the merry chore of scrubbing blood from the linens.

His staying surprises Iraestra more than it probably should. When better to study another than following a vulnerable moment, after all? What secrets might they reveal after the being bound to another so? The fleeting thought comes to her before she dismisses it, already moving on to more pressing matters. Such as where her robes and underthings have been banished to.

She feels the weight of his eyes on her as she readied herself, putting back on once more the vestments of a feared wizard in place of a paramour’s nakedness. Enver’s little quips as she paces the room thrice in search for the sister to the emerald bauble clutched in her hand only adds to her mounting frustration. Suddenly, she can’t stand the sight of him. The prick of the post against her palm goes quite unnoticed.

“You are taking far too much pleasure in this,” she observes crossly, holding out an expectant hand for her jewelry. Enver only serves to astonish her further when instead of handing it over he beckons her closer, hand wrapping around the back of her neck as if to kiss her once more.

His hand is a hot brand at her nape, fingers tightly twined into the hair at the root. Hold tight enough to be a collar or a lead. Ordinarily, Iraestra would rankle at such a clear show of — authority, possession, dominance? — and part of her still does. The venomous words on the tip of her tongue are instead stymied quite soundly as he places the missing earring in it’s place, calloused fingers soft on her earlobe. An astonishingly familiar gesture, somehow both service and claim. Of all the lovers she has ever had, she cannot say she has ever had anyone do such.

Enver’s touch is intimate in the same way a blade would make a home of a chest. Even though he is flushed flesh against her, mortal and touchable, Iraestra suspects that any true warmth in him would be found in the hot rush of heart-blood after the cut.

She barely registers what he says next.

Non-Sexual Acts of Dominance / @fatewoven

[limpfisted]

When you were the Blade, Dammon wants to begin with, but he holds fast to what Karlach divulged about Wyll, voice softer. More tired. The mantle of Duke fits him like a poorly made suit. As in, it's too constricting a role. Dammon turns his head, smiles at Karlach waving at them before she scoops up more kids on her shoulders to spin around, and he steps closer to his partner's best friend. Soulmate. However their close bond goes. "As the Blade, you're obligate to slay fiends and heartless monsters. I think, if I ever hurt her, I would fall into that category rather easily." It's softly spoken permission for retaliation. He blinks, gaze cast to his hands. "I'm glad she has you in her life."

“I may tease her. And I will always tease you both…” He smiles. He does not look at Dammon. His eyes both focus on the children, on Karlach. A part of him always wonders what Mizora thinks, when she sees Karlach so happy.

“But I have never, not for one moment, wanted her to be mine.”

He nods his head. “She is not mine to give or take. I want Karlach to always be what she is, everything she is, wild, brilliant, impossible, free as she made herself, free as she was meant to be. She should burn, she should touch, she should sing, and dance, she should be with whoever she likes, whenever she likes, whether it makes her sad, or joyful, or angry.”

He sighs, a cheap, hot breath of laughter. “I fear more for you from her, if you hurt her.”

“I owe you a great deal, for letting me see her smile like this. More than that. For all you’ve done for her engine and her heart.”

“You will always have a place at my table. As long as I draw breath-you shall want for nothing.” He pumps a fist to his chest, over his heart, the badges on his uniform from new accolades, new years of service, “My Father always said—‘repay your debts, not just with ample interest, but with an investment in further kindness betwixt both parties.’ One good turn deserves another, and all that….”

“So, all that being said….”

He finally turns to him, with a much more serious, resigned expression.

“How much of a dowry should I prepare for the wedding?”