shapeshifter

rust on his hands, in his throat

[glamorgore]

glamorgore; glamor gore | glam or gore - a study in opulent wrath, menace that glitters. from ugly rebirth out of struggle's wet womb to duty's chains burning bruises blackened like frostbite into the throats that wear them, there is exploration into the regretful, the wronged, and the ravenous. —travelling alongside @vilifyme , @enregards , @cert4inty a private & exclusive multimuse rp blog written by tori (30+) with emphasis on high fantasy; dragon age and baldur's gate 3 / rules, roster

[glamorgore]

my brain is tired mush but i miss writing and plotting and seeing you folks on my dash

[resrerum]

The setting sun

[enregards]

he hasn't lived so long in the house that whispers his namesake not to've adopted foresight enough to know when the last of someone's threads have snapped. at least her does so with entertaining flair. earns him the captured gift of a bow that's seen better days. how it quivers in his grip, its string caught at its knock and fluttering, otherwise, freer than either of them. and to his credit, zevran does as he's asked. deft fingers force limbs into place with unquoted strength.. this too he'd been taught as a fledgling. at the opposite end of a crop that did well to remind him when hands faltered or walked too far out of place.

the bow isn't long for this world, but the string is set, he's held it loft from where he's perched and pulled till the arch has peaked. " not to sour your plans, my dear, but.. this bow will not be killing much of anything much longer. certainly not your archdemon. though.. " another pull and oak creaks, " perhaps if you angle it just so, you could hit your target with its pieces when it snaps. "

if he'd thought her approach to be anything but amicable, it doesn't show. her weapon is lowered before she sits and, in doing so, fawn gives him pause enough to take in the torque of her features. where anger excuses itself, something delicate remains. untapped and wobbling, face towards the dirt, what comes, eventually, is neither expected, nor surprising.

" when i choose to be, it seems, " an assassin without affiliation often fell before they could second guess themselves. but he isn't second guessing these days. zevran is careful but lackadaisically so. he offers the hands in question for her appraisal, palms up and fingers absently spread, " do they appear deadly to you ? " more useful was the way in which they, mostly, don't. devoid of callouses, scars few and far between. " crows are taught at a very young age to never favor one method other another. " not until they'd left the nest. flown to their first contract. their second. third.. it's a shallow pattern, but useful. " you ask what weapons kill best but this is not the question you should be asking. many things can kill. if you wish to know what i prefer.. then yes. i have always found it most.. satisfying when in close combat. be that with blades or something more fanciful, is irrelevant. "

[glamorgore]

at least the bow is fixed. fawn regards it in the pale ice of eyes that look right through it—this creaking thing, this ramshackle weapon handed down from her mother's chest of leftover keepsakes. she'd never known what to do with the bow besides secret trips beyond the city walls for a selfish breath of air clean and fresh and wild. now it seems that its age and wear are catching up with it and she knows it'll snap soon. into shrapnel like the rest of herself, warped and split.

so she focuses on zevran, on the hands he offers her to try and appease her curiosity. at first, she only stares at them, gaze narrowing slow into a squint she shifts to his face in skepticism, before she gazes back down at his palms open and exposed so freely. so she lifts her own hands, holds his in place as she reads the smoothness of flesh, the suggestion of dexterous muscle, the bend of ligaments, the lithesome spread of fingers she's seen dance with the hilt of his daggers.

and they're warmer that she'd expected. warmer, more solid. strong.

so she doesn't let go and keeps them there for her to survey. her own fingertips lift to brush across one of the lines in his palm just below his fingers. it's smoother than she'd thought it would be. unmarred, not roughened or blistered with misuse.

"they do," she answers. her eyes don't lift from his hands. "your fingers aren't too thick or too thin. i've never seen them shake and they always move with confidence, with purpose. they can finesse a touch how you please, tight or tender."

she breathes and looks up, studying his eyes in the careful catch of her own that holds his in a watchful gaze.

"… so what should i be asking?" her hands don't retract, thumbs even rubbing along the sides of his in careful consideration. "because i need to become better at it." killing. the darker lurch of herself wedged just beneath her breastbone wants to know… but so does the warden who needs to know, needs to forge some sense of direction out of the glacial rage that works best filed into a point. better a point than mindless, formless mouths aching to devour both out and in.

[glamorgore]

@2vinters asked: it was all so strange and so surreal.

such a tangible aura of mystery sinks within every crack and crevice of tevinter and its people. it doesn't take a mage to feel it, to see it. tarquin here is proof of that—a soldier with a shadow shifting past his dark eyes that emmrich glimpses in the turn of his gaze. he cannot help the urge in himself; the pull like a string tied into his sternum that wants his ringed hands to reach out, his palms to cup the hurt nested beneath the rough roll of the man's voice and give it a home elsewhere. such has always been his gift… or his curse, as johanna had always named it in the huff of a scoff.

but she isn't here. it's just him and tarquin seated at the table in the dark with only the fire flickering its orange glow across solemn features. emmrich's gaze traces the lines in his face, the juts of bone and the pull of exhaustion dark beneath his eyes. but such is a look that sits in the faces of most shadow dragons. their fight has been a long and tiresome thing, after all. he's only been here so long, coming and going at rook's side, and he himself can feel the exhaustion dragging its ache into his joints, his bowed neck.

all the more reason to offer what compassion he can. all the more reason to share what light he has even in the thick of night while the rest of the hideout sleeps.

"i can only imagine," he agrees, shaking his head. hearing some of tarquin's story— of the shriek's ambush— has his skin prickled tight with the unpleasantness of it all. but his voice is all softness as it falls from his lips; a tone of tenderness with his utmost respect. "but i could see it when i first met you, of course: your strength. it's no wonder you're so important here. like a rock for the others to lean to as the waves swell and crash." his stare falls to his own hands resting atop the table. "though i'm sure it's been a long and rough road. all the more reason to find what little peace you can in the little moments in-between, hm?"

[glamorgore]

@prophetries asked: “sometimes i think it's getting better , then it gets much worse .”

the inquisitor is a symbol built up in reputation, experience. she conjures a shine in the eyes of those around her, even craning several necks within rook's close-knit fold. but he himself watches her with faraway eyes half-lidded like he's tired or bored. like apathy drapes itself a pale veil around his head to match the shimmer of long, sleek hair draped down either side of his face. he's got a lock of it between his fingertips, toying idly whilst regarding her in his expression unchanging.

he doesn't see what all the fuss is about. he doesn't see the icon, the mythic figure—he just sees a woman with words to coax a soft hum alive in the back of his throat as his head tilts to one side.

"like certain types of plague." his voice drifts lazy in spite of the subject matter, his gaze straying from her face to lose itself somewhere in the ceiling. "in some variants, there can be euphoria just before all symptoms worsen into unimaginable suffering. luckily, it's when death is close at hand so this doesn't last long."

ilya sighs. his eyes fall closed. "just need to cut out the rot before thedas even tries to break the fever. until then, there's no point getting optimistic." his stare opens again just slowly, returning to trevelyan's face. "…did the doubt ever crush you, inquisitor?" he blinks slowly. "did it ever sink down so deep that you didn't know what to do with it?"

[miyku]

Dragon Age: The Veilguard | ▶ dev. Bioware

[glamorgore]

@eluvhians asked: things go wrong , no matter what i do

there's a sharpness that poises itself just beneath his tongue. like needles, like knives leaning into the possibility of his snark just waiting there to dig into merrill's doubts and carve them that much deeper. but that is an ugly pettiness in him—an aged, jaded piece of him that looks at so much of the world and wonders, in his exhales of exhaustion, what's the point?

but that isn't all anders has become and he tells himself this in the bowing of his head, in the clenching of his long, bristled jaw. for all her faults, merrill carries a light in her large eyes that he shouldn't snuff out in all his scrutiny and skepticism. he shouldn't, no matter how the iron cut harsh in the air reminds him of the blood magic she wears in her pariah's shroud. no matter how often he wrinkles his nose, feels an angry swell in him righteous and hot. she still holds a light… a precious light in a city dark with rot.

so he sighs slowly and lifts his head. "you do have a knack for it: bad luck and misfortune. like a black cat." like a broken mirror.

anders manages a slight half-smile hitched up one side of his mouth as he stands from her ramshackle table and chair. her hovel in the alienage is still a mansion in comparison to the backroom he collapses in between patients at his darktown clinic. and the haunted shape of the eluvian in the corner prickles something behind his eyes and presses an eerie heat between his ribs. so he wrenches his gaze from it and wanders toward her hearth instead. "…the thing about luck is that it usually comes around in the end. at some point. trust me when i say i'm living proof of that." maybe. he himself still isn't quite sure.

[glamorgore]

@karving asked: sometimes i think it's getting better , then it gets much worse

twilight sprawls a lavender haze cradled within the branches of the vhenadahl. it's quiet in the alienage—a welcome change that has fawn sitting with her legs tucked up, a basket of flowers in her lap that her fingers slowly pick through. father's never liked it when she takes them past the gates to sell, but she's been feeling especially bold lately. perhaps being around kara stokes that small fire in her she never quite knows what to do with.

"…mm," she hums in thoughtful response, not yet looking up at them when they join her. she… doesn't disagree, necessarily, but has never been one to complain, even when her skin itches uncomfortable with human closeness, even when she's felt her insides plunge ice-cold with dread to see her friends, her family, suffer again and again and again. her father still smiles at her, though. still tucks her hair behind her ear and says he's proud of her gentle spirit and kind eyes. "i guess it's silly of me. to keep hoping it might change someday." without bloodshed is the unspoken thing that she doesn't want to bring to life in her voice. it's what so many of them wonder about in secret… but she'd like to think it won't come to that. she'd like to believe in a goodness even here in dirty, dreary denerim.

"it could be worse, though." she laughs weakly, finally lifting her head. pale eyes regard them with a softness she knows has her mocked often behind her back. "i mean, it could be… couldn't it? somehow?"

[b1gtimerush]

actions speak louder than words non - verbal / action prompts from yours truly. (add a "swap" to swap the sender/receiver in the prompt (or just do it manually).)

back, sender gives receiver a back hug.

beckon, sender beckons receiver closer with a finger.

blood, sender cleans blood off of receiver.

book, sender helps receiver get a book from a higher part of the shelf.

care, sender takes care of receiver when they're sick.

catch, sender catches receiver by the waist after they bump into each other.

choke, sender saves receiver from choking by giving them the heimlich.

cold, sender places their jacket over receiver's shoulders.

cry, sender wipes tears off receiver's face with their thumbs.

dance, sender sticks a hand out to receiver and invites them to dance.

dip, sender skinny dips in front of receiver and invites them to join.

dog, sender's dog pulls them in receiver's direction.

drive, sender drives receiver somewhere in their car.

drag, sender drags receiver into a room and closes the door behind them.

draw, sender draws receiver like one of their french girls.

face, sender turns receiver's face towards them.

flower, sender gives receiver a flower.

footsie, sender initiates footsie with receiver under the table.

forehead, sender presses their forehead against receiver's.

grab, sender grabs receiver's wrist to stop them from leaving.

jump, sender jumps onto receiver's back.

kiss, sender kisses receiver.

link, sender links arms with receiver while walking.

massage, sender offers receiver a massage.

patch, sender patches up receiver's wounds.

piano, sender teaches receiver how to play the piano.

pin, sender pins receiver's hands behind their back.

pluck, sender plucks something out of receiver's hair.

press, sender presses receiver against a wall.

propose, sender proposes to receiver.

quiet, sender gestures for receiver to be quiet.

rest, sender rests their head on receiver's shoulder.

serenade, sender serenades receiver with a song.

sign, sender walks into a sign and receiver sees.

size, sender measures the size of their hand against receiver's.

shoes, sender removes receiver's shoes for them.

sun, sender rubs sunblock onto receiver's back.

tattoo, sender gives receiver a tattoo.

tie, sender helps tie receiver's tie.

tuck, sender tucks receiver's hair behind their ear.

umbrella, sender lets receiver under their umbrella.

warning, sender presses a knife against receiver's neck as a warning.

zip, sender needs receiver's help to zip up the back of their dress.

[glamorgore]

@2vinters asked: what has been done cannot be undone.

minrathous reeks of blood and blight. creeps its itch beneath rook's skin, presses sharpness behind mismatched eyes like a bone-threader's point. some say he shouldn't be here — the idiot nevarran who took sides with treviso and assassins to fill some wayward agenda. good, a part of him thinks with bitterness blatant on the back of his tongue, what else did they expect?

but obligation bows his head, tightens long fingers around his bone-crested staff. he can't turn away from the consequences of his choices. not when they lurch and limp through the streets crusted in blight. not when they come in the form of a masked face ilya has trouble looking at directly.

"i know," he replies. not snapped, not snarked: it sits in simple acknowledgement when ashur's own words are hardly harsh at all. in fact, they're quite the opposite. in fact, he seems not so eager to sling blame where plenty of his colleagues might flash their teeth in unimpressed sneers. no, none of that here. which maybe creases confusion into ilya's pale brow. has him finally lifting his gaze to study his face—what can be gleaned from what can be glimpsed, anyway.

nothing accusatory, nothing confrontational. which tightens his ribs all the more. that's not right. that's not... normal.

so he averts his stare, takes a breath, and continues with his voice soft, but not in the dreaming, lazing wander of his tone that so usually paints his words. "i don't really see the point in wasting time with apologies or excuses." he sighs slowly, forcing his gaze up again now with sternness fixing it forward. "so tell me what's needed here and now. maybe something like this." he sets a satchel on the table, clearly stuffed with medical provisions like bandages and potions. there's a beat, then rook nudges it somewhat... sheepishly closer. "there's herbs there, too. they help with… symptoms like yours."

[ohisms]

✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐀 𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 . ( a collection of lyric prompts based on various works by florence + the machine . adjust phrasing as necessary , will likely be updated in the future . )

it's always darkest before the dawn .

we will find new saints to be canonized .

holy water cannot help you now .

the horses are coming , so you'd better run .

i never felt so alive and so dead .

i'm damned if i do , i'm damned if i don't .

i've always been in love with you .

what has been done cannot be undone .

i don't care whether i live or die .

we will never be afraid again .

i feel nervous in a way that can't be named .

it was so far a fall , but it didn't hurt at all .

the saints can't help me now .

i want to find you and tear out all of your tenderness .

sooner or later , the things you love , you lose .

run fast for your mother , run fast for your father .

i like to think , at least , things can't get any worse .

i would give all this and heaven too .

i was in the darkness , so darkness i became .

all my stumbling phrases never amounted to anything worth this feeling .

in order to get to the heart of things , sometimes you have to cut through .

i'll be dead before the day is done .

time after time , i think "oh lord , what's the use ?"

the heart is hard to translate , it has a language of its own .

it was all so strange and so surreal .

i'm not here looking for absolution .

now and then , it seems that life is just too much .

be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers .

if you could only see the beast you've made of me .

pretty little face stopped me in my tracks .

i'm aching to attack .

you want a revelation , some kind of resolution .

it's so easy to say it to a crowd , but it's so hard to say it to you aloud .

i don't want your heart , it leaves me cold .

i am no mother , i am no bride , i am king .

she's a cruel mistress , and a bargain must be made .

well , me and my ghosts had a hell of a time .

with all my education i can't seem to command my heart .

it's a conversation i just can't have tonight .

you left me in the dark . no dawn , no day .

jesus christ , it hurts .

a woman is a changeling , always shifting shape .

the very thing you're best at is the thing that hurts the most .

i'll cut your little heart out 'cause you made me cry .

i knew that somehow , i could find my way back .

a thousand armies couldn't keep me out .

i'm ready to suffer and i'm ready to hope .

you've got the love i need to see me through .

is this how it is ? is this how it's always been ?

you keep me up at night .

oh , tell me it's not over yet .

no walls can keep me protected .

i'm going out , i'm gonna drink myself to death .

time goes quicker between the two of us .

would you leave me if i told you what i'd done ?

now , there's no holding back .

oh god , you're gonna get it .

you need your rotten heart and dazzling pain like diamond rings .

in the dark , i can hear your heartbeat .

i never knew my killer would be coming from within .

i was never as good as i always thought i was , but i knew how to dress it up .

don't forget me when i let the water take me .

this world is a beast of a burden .

you know i still like you the most .

what a thing to admit .

sometimes i think it's getting better , then it gets much worse .

i'm on fire , but i'm trying not to show it .

you are the space in my bed .

would you have it any other way ?

things go wrong , no matter what i do .

you make a fool of death with your beauty .

now she sleeps with one eye open , and that's the price she'll pay .

they were there when i woke up this morning .

heaven help me , i need to make it right .

until i wrap myself inside your arms , i cannot rest .

when someone looks at me with real love , i don't like it very much .

would you leave me if i told you what i've become ?

i'm always running from something .

it's good to be alive , crying into cereal at midnight .

okay , but let's discuss this at the hospital .

i know everybody lets you down , and i'll do the same .

your heart is the only place i can call home .

i wish to remain nameless , and live without shame .

sometimes i feel like saying "lord , i just don't care" .

i would put my words into poetry for you if i knew how .

if they ever let me out , i'm really gonna let it out .

but know , in some way , i'm there with you .

i've been wandering the streets for days .

don't let them get you down , you're the best thing i've ever seen .

how could anything bad ever happen to you ?

you couldn't have it any other way .

it's the only way i can escape .

what a place to come from .

little did you know your home's really only a town you're just a guest in .

run for your children , for your sisters and brothers .

you can't choose what stays and what fades away .

you'll be sorry that you messed with us .

call me when you need me .

although we stick together , it seems we're stranging each other .

this is as good a place to fall as any .

in your place there were a thousand other faces .

here's to drinks in the dark at the end of my rope .

lay me down , let the only sound be the overflow .

there's no salvation for me now .

i'd do anything to make you stay .

what's in a name ? i still remain the same .

i've been taking chances , i've been setting myself up for the fall .

tell me what you want me to say .

you are the silence in between what i thought and what i said .

i've been a fool , and i've been blind .

i never knew daylight could be so violent .

regrets collect like old friends , here to visit for your darkest moments .

so you packed your bags just to wait out the shitstorm ?

my doe , my dear , my darling ...

you're my head , you're my heart .

everyone lets you down in this brief hole of a town .

i'm not giving up , i'm just giving in .

i've been losing sleep , i've been keeping myself awake .

sometimes i feel like throwing my hands up in the air .

the only solution was to stand and fight .

i don't know how it started , don't know how to stop it .

i'm done with my graceless heart .

i can never leave the past behind .

do they speak to you ? 'cause they speak to me too .

i thought that love was a kind of emptiness .

it's hard to dance with a devil on your back .

sometimes i wonder if i should be medicated .

every demon wants his pound of flesh .

tell me what all the sighing's about .

could you tell from the moment we met ?

i heard your voice as clear as day ... you told me i should concentrate .

all my girls have their lace and their crimes .

i like to keep some things to myself .

no one asks any questions here .

the feeling comes so fast and i can't control it .

you came over me like some holy rite .

i was screaming out a language i had no idea existed before .

i thought that love was on stage , giving yourself away to strangers .

leave all your love and your longing behind , you can't carry it with you if you want to survive .

i thought that love was in the drugs , but the more i took the more it took away .

i never wanted anything from you , except everything you had and what's left after that too .

i don't want your future , i don't need your past . one grand moment is all i ask .

[infernaldaydreams]

Eldest of the Sun

[zendeyas]

Anok Yai as the VETEMENTS runaway bride – closing Spring/Summer 2025 Show

[bolyde]

"Funny that we should have in common a leash." Morrigan muses, shivering partially from the cool water and other part watching Maeve baptize herself in it with hardly a flinching look. She follows the other's gaze to the colony across the river.

Morrigan dries herself, reapplying her layers once she's satisfied that she is no longer damp. She warms herself with the aid of magic donned once more in her mantle of feathers.

"Should it matter at all to hear it, the mud and trees seem to suit you just fine. Perhaps your mother knew it would." She wants to touch and inspect the scar shown, tissue like that told stories.

Morrigan hands the last of the dry cloth to Maeve so she might dry herself, and Morrigan focuses her gaze upon the treeline to make sure they are truly alone.

[glamorgore]

funny indeed and maeve feels it in a tension taut in her jaw, in a bitterness biting at the back of her tongue that she swallows down like always. especially now, when it feels… wrong to taste anything besides grief, salted and stale.

her mother was a brave warrior who held her ground so she, her ungrateful child, could live to fight another day.

maeve's brow softens as she smooths down the bristles frayed from old pettiness that must be buried. she… isn't that naïve girl anymore. and her family deserves to be honored, not resented. especially when the lessons her mother taught her have kept her alive, have honed her sharp, have enticed the allies needed to get done what is required to save her cold and hardened homeland.

"…it does matter," she assures morrigan, taking the offered cloth and drying herself just slowly. "i think you're right." her smallclothes get dragged back into place. trousers, too, which she laces up with roughened fingers. again, the scar on her bicep catches her focus and she pauses to inspect it. her voice falls softer, more thoughtful as she rubs over the pale mark she remembers the bite of so distinctly. "i always told myself i'd run into the woods one day. become wild, like the chasind. learn magic from a witch like you and dance naked in the moonlight with demons. maybe she feared i really would, given the chance."

she shakes her head, scoops up her shirt. "foolish dreams. especially when i never got decent at dancing." she glances to morrigan always with interest agleam in the deep dark of her eyes. "…what about you? did you ever want a different life?"

[zeskalice]

elgar'nan + 💪/🫴

[2vinters]

THERE ARE TOO MANY OF THEM. he realizes when the fourth venatori goes down with a dagger in their chest, and the fifth pops out of nowhere to take their place. there are too many of them. under the brim of his hat, the gears in THE VIPER's head turn. too many... not enough to take down him and fenris without a fight, but enough that it wasn't just a few stray scouts stumbling upon them on accident. they were being followed. ashur realized with a chill, docking while throwing up his cloak; a row of razors sewn into the hem slashes across the venatori's veiled face with a spray of blood.

HOW? ashur curses himself. he has been careful, going to extra lengths to cover his tracks when sneaking out of minrathous to meet with fenris, especially after the venatori took control (he never wanted to bring danger to the elf more than he already had). something was wrong... something that he missed—it's too hard to think with the venatori coming from all sides. "augh!" he twists away a second too late, and the cultist's red blade slices through his leather armor. ashur clutches to his side as he drives the dagger into the assailant's back. his gloved hand wet with blood, sticky and black with blight ...oh.

"dammit..." it must be the blight. it courses through his veins, polluting his blood, making him sick... making him hear and feel the pulsing of the blight infesting the city—it must be how the venatori tracked him. the venatori are in cahoots with the evanuris, who controls the blight; and if ashur can feel the blight, they might be able to feel him too. the realization charges him with a wave of guilt. after everything, after all this time, all of fenris' help and trust, all he could repay the elf with is more danger.

there are too many of them... the ringing in his ears grows louder. not so many that he and fenris couldn't outrun, but enough that the two of them wouldn't be able to take down all of them with blades. and they must take down all of them. he cannot let any of them return to inform their masters of fenris' whereabouts.

"fenris, GET DOWN!" he hears himself shout. a rational, cooler part of his brain steps back, as though washing its hands off his decision. for a moment he sees himself from outside of his body. he sees himself, tearing off his glove; a dagger in hand, drawing across flesh from wrist to palm, spilling red red red a large seal opens in front of him, glowing red like rubies, like eclipse, like BLOOD. a dozen tendrils shoot out from the seal, like a thousand rays of the sun piercing through the clouds, impaling their enemies against the ground, rocks, and trees. the venatori mages' magical shields shatter under the sheer force of the impact. (the venatori's magic is raw, potent and crude—lapped from the hand of a god undigested. but his magic is meticulous, sharpened and honed for years under the scrutiny of his tutors, and away from their sight. what would they think now? to see him turn this magic against other tevinter mages, to bleed and spend his precious blood on an elf—)

"it- it's fine. i'm alright!..." when the last venatori falls, the ground is painted with splatters of blood and a pink mist slowly settles over them. ashur falls to his knees, clutching his forearm to stop the flow of blood. the blight fights with him, making the wound harder to close. he stammers out of habit, because there is always someone to reassure, someone who's watching out for him, someone who worries for him... but then he looks up, and catches fenris' eyes in the blood mist. the look in the elf's face is not worry, it's...

"fenris..." he swallows, staying very, very still despite the sharp pang in his chest making him want to coil into himself. "fenris, please... let me explain." @glamorgore

[glamorgore]

it all happens so fast, too fast. at first, the venatori had swarmed in a manageable flock his blade had been all too ready to cleave into corpses. but then they... just keep coming. and coming and coming and coming like the source of them bleeds endless. fenris isn't usually one to feel the lurch of fear in his chest, not when killing venatori is as natural as breathing for him now, but it isn't just his life stacked beneath the towering odds. maybe they'd known that, maybe that's why they come in such bulk with knives enough to swipe through the chaos and hit paydirt.

wounds bleed from his arm, his side, his cheek in a thin-sliced line he barely feels. because his flesh isn't what concerns him when ashur is somewhere close, somewhere just out of sight in the thickened fray. fenris surges through, cutting down limbs and preparing his marks to wraith him forward through the charging bodies he needs to pass to reach his friend. his friend who needs him, who might be in danger of having his throat slit, his neck snapped or—!

suddenly, something changes. the battle feels different — the air shifts, slants, shapes itself with pointed pressure fenris associates with the sliver of an instant just before powerful magic surges forth. it's his marks that warn him, the lyrium igniting a pale glow as they burn white-hot like an adrenaline rush, thick and dizzying.

and then, right on cue, it happens.

it happens and the scent alone— harsh iron, a twisted sour-sweetness like the kind dripping from the bodies he fells with ease— throws him back to all the times he'd seen it paraded before him as a threat as much as a spectacle. he never gets used to the itch it prickles in his scars, the sickening churn of nausea it conjures enough to make his hands tighten into fists to brace his resolve.

but it's not an enemy who had done the deed. no, that's what truly surges the wave of sickness in his gut... to see ashur falling to his knees in the aftermath; a slumped figure in the rose-flushed mist lingering its putrid fog on all sides. this is what makes the elf's eyes wide, his face go pale.

you should've known. you should've bloody known. this is what he is, this is what they all are. fenris stumbles backwards, shaking his head. his throat has closed up with tightness, with his anger burning into the back of it. and though instinct urges him to turn and run, to put as much distance between himself and the traitor whose blood wrinkles his nose not from the blight, but from what it's done, he… doesn't do that. he remains. because he owes ashur that much, after everything.

"…explain?" this comes out a sharp, raspy growl. fenris shakes his head, brow furrowed to harden green eyes with hurt and disappointment — an old hate in him that actually takes his greatsword and stabs it down into the ground as he gestures out to the fog and the crumpled bodies alike. "what else is there to explain? your blood's done the talking for you!" he hates the throb between his ribs, like one of the venatori's blades had stabbed there and twisted. if only it could be so simple. he swallows thick and turns his face to point his glare elsewhere, anywhere that isn't him right now. "were you... ever going to tell me?"