#anmehil

[gryffn]

@anmehil, ren: kisses his stupid stubborn lips.

there is a tenderness ren so oft beholds him with that lazare does not understand try though he might. it comes in quieter moments most often, between bouts of the throws of passion or intervals preoccupied by little but themselves. it comes in the wake of arguments, even, when the tides have yet to settle and vexation would be most understood.

no, lazare does not understand it at all. he also does not feel an aversion it when it comes, for the novelty of it is intriguing enough for the witcher to almost feel pleased.

lazare does not understand it now, either, in the aftermath of another small spat. he can feel ren's eyes set upon his back as he stands before the other's hearth and stirs the flame with a small flare of igni, just as he hears when he approaches him. a retort coils on lazare's tongue—he is wont to let ren have the last word, though their quarrel had petered out in an unsatisfying wash. that retort dies as ren cups his hand against lazare's cheek, turns his head, and presses his mouth to the witcher's. ren's lips are firm and solicitous. for a moment, lazare feels naught but want.

but then ren pulls away all too soon. lazare can do little but stand in place, his gaze rooted to the elf's face, as he asks, "is that an apology?"

[bladewarde]

' you’ll exhaust yourself into illness. ' / @anmehil ( from ren. )

Some part of her knows that to be case, try as she might to ignore the buried truth in Ren's words. His concern is sweet, albeit misplaced. She wasn't raised to be a slouch, not when others around her put in the hard work. ❝ Hm… and if I do, at least I'll 'ave you to take care of me. Again. ❞ She teases, stirring a pot of stew she's spent the better part of the day throwing together. ❝ Although, I'd really be of no use to you then. Maybe then you can finally be rid of me. ❞

She's stopped counting the days after ten; maybe it was more than that if she includes the days she was knocked out cold. Showing up uninvited and bleeding all over his floor is certainly a way to get know one another… She's already thanked him several times for bothering to care for her when letting her die might have been the easier choice. Had the roles been reversed, she isn't entirely sure she would extend such kindness. ( He's a good man. Better than most. )

The first few days were a pain; it became easier after that. Caught off guard by a uncoordinated bunch of bandits and she's ashamed to say they got one over on her. Her side was split, and as she leaked blood all over herself and Ren's floor, he did what he felt was needed to keep her alive. When she moves a little too far to one side, or twists the wrong way, she can feel the muscles straining to remain connected. ❝ It's stew, Ren. I can make stew, but if it'll make you feel any better, I'll just watch you do all the 'ard work tomorrow, aye? ❞ Not that she would mind, but that's a thought she keeps to herself.

[gryffn]

@anmehil, ren: ❝ there’s no shame in fear, my father told me, what matters is how we face it. ❞

the night sky is brilliant. lazare stares up at its magnificence and traces the shapes of the constellations as he listens to ren. he had not wanted to join the elf, drawn from the privacy and isolation of his borrowed dwelling and into the woods beyond the village, but he had reluctantly and querulously come nonetheless. he had spent three days in his withdrawal, which it seems had been deemed long enough.

ren had fetched him in the middle of the night, though lazare had already been awake.

"fear is a tool." the witcher responds without looking at ren. he suspects ren may want more out of him than few-word responses and stubborn stargazing—thus far, lazare had yet to even contribute to tending the small fire ren had started for them beyond lighting the flame with igni—but he is, thus far, unlikely to get it. lazare's poor mood persists. ren is merely an undeserving recipient of it. "pray tell, what is your point?"

[swordma1den]

a familiar place, the whisper of a past long gone ... the world continues to spin, regardless of who remains standing, and reduces passing thoughts to flickering candles against an endless backdrop. on occasion, it becomes quite the challenge to tell lives apart; pieces blend together in ways that she cannot begin to articulate, yet the colors are muted and hard to distinguish at times. the only thing she recognizes is the mouth of forest - it's expansive, yawning canopy impossible to ignore from even the deepest parts of her core. an old friend, or perhaps something much more nefarious in nature haphazardly disguising itself.

not that it mattered.

a heavy inhale, a heavier exhale; it would be a lengthy trek without a horse, and for the first time in awhile, she so boldly regrets not bringing mount with her. but monsters were nasty work, and if the townsfolk had been lying about the severity of creature tucked into the dim light ... it could create a problem, and more than that, put a steadfast steed at risk. one could argue them replaceable, eithne would argue that horses already rode into battle were become harder to find, and even harder to authenticate in soundness. again, it didn't matter.

odd jobs had replaced the regimented existence of the life she'd grown fond of centuries prior: whatever kept her blade sharp and her stomach full, of course. until the return of crown, surely.

stranger's don't last very long around here. ⚔ the dragon's hoarde for @anmehil

" i am no stranger to this place, good ser. " the voice sounds familiar, but she doesn't place it quite as quickly as she perhaps could. there's a fleeting irritation when she turns to greet the man who dares speak ill of potential fate, only for that irritation to evaporate. what's left in its wake is something almost terrified ... color drains from the highest points of her expression, mismatch stare settled on a figure she'd once devoted hours to memorizing. it feels like witnessing the dead return, to see them breathe in once more.

and yet, for a second, she can find no strength in her voice. lungs collapsed, tone but a breathless kind of whisper against the heaviness of early morning. " you ... "

[gryffn]

@anmehil, ren: "I don't care what you do, but please don't give up the chance to be happy."

there rises in lazare a caustic surge, and the witcher must stifle it before he is able to turn towards ren with his face formed into a cool mien. while not entirely a genuine expression—it's crafted, intentionally set—it serves him, lazare thinks, as some kind of armor nonetheless.

these arguments of theirs are as unpleasant as they are wearisome and he is always left to wonder if the next might be the last. at what point will ren wash his hands of him, disappointed and disgusted in the difficult witcher he has chosen to be beguiled by? there are more worthy options here, surely. the undercurrent of concern in ren’s tone is lost on him.

"if you do not care, why have thoughts on it at all? why should this matter to you?" he bites out, each word as heavy as a stone. he stays rooted to his place. though the distance between them is only a few scant feet, it feels as if it were a canyon.

[battlec4ster]

he looks at you as if he could devour you whole. does it please you ? ❚ medieval, marriages & mistresses, @anmehil

saying he corners her would be absurd ... but elle certainly seems to wait for ample opportunity to keep her stationary in the moment. how quaint. she does not need to see the distress across his features when she can all but taste it in the tone of his voice; an idle discontent that sits heavy in every syllable. poor guy - what drives the envy, she's unsure to an extent, but merla is not one to shy away from a troubling infatuation with playing with her food; it becomes perhaps too apparent when form hoists, long and languid, along the broad curve of tabletop. everything is hushed behind double closed doors, the social nature of gathering is a thousand miles away, leaving only them.

head tilts, heavy earrings glinting beneath low light - hair spills over shoulders, pools behind hips and along the splay of fingers ... she keeps stare settled upon his lingering form.

" and if it does, my darling ? " mouth tips upward into an idle kind of smile, " what is it that you intend to do ? "

[gryffn]

@anmehil, ren: ‘ what are you making today? ’

though the low, cold wind of a storm moans in the gloom beyond the walls of lazare's hut, within them, it is warm.

it is strange to think of the space as his—the witcher is reluctant to do so. he has organized his personal effects and supplies as best he can in the mostly barren structure and scattered a few of the things he has crafted in his idle time throughout the space otherwise, but that reluctance is as if a physical thing itself. it is painfully obvious that lazare doesn't know what to do with this dwelling (home?) he has been given.

the quiet this hut provides has given him ample opportunity to while away the time and indulge in the interests he allows himself, at the very least.

the griffin does not look at ren as he answers, "hair sticks." he carves at a length of antler with assiduous focus as he sits on the floor before a fire in the hearth, the accessory half-formed. he has not made up his mind yet if they are for himself or if they are to sell, trade, or barter with. "i mean to make a few."

[gryffn]

@anmehil, larawen: "what’s  your  name?" the woman asks, holding a small basket of clean linen and antiseptic .. which she sets down on ren's old bed table where the strange man now lies. darker eyes calculate the mess on lazare's body and purses her lips, scorning the hasty work. " what a mess. "

as lazare stares up at the ceiling of a hut that is not his in a village of aen seidhe to which he does not belong and that do not seem to want him, he turns over once more the twist of fate that had brought him here.

it had been luck that ren had found him. it had not been luck that he had chose to help, that he had pulled him from ruins lost to time. the beast he had slain as the structure crumbled around them lay partially concealed by the rubble that had pinned them both, its heft and size reduced to naught but an obstacle as his consciousness had faded.

he awoke in the hut of a healer who would not touch him proper before the thread of wakefulness had slipped from his grasp. he came to next in a warm bed, disoriented and riddled with pain. ren had been there to explain, but true comprehension had at first eluded him. he came to understand.

"...lazare," the witcher answers thickly, tiredly. he stares at her through half-closed eyes and wonders what he must look like to draw the disdain so obvious in her expression. he has yet to look at himself at length though feels he may not want to at all, at least not yet. he asks himself, a touch slowly, "are you a healer?"