#b4dguys

[muraenide]

plotted starter // @b4dguys // Rafayel

Rafayel had always been kind to him, and Jade is grateful for it. The Prince he grew up alongside of, received lessons with, and developed into adults together. There were more times than he could count, when Jade watches the pride in the King and Queen's gazes, lithe with expectation as they look upon their son. When they ruffle his mauve hair with long fingers, Rafayel's laughter following after. Deep down a part of Jade had always find himself envious of him, but he was also happy for Rafayel. The part of him that was grateful for the graciousness of the royal family of Lemuria for adopting him wanted to dedicate his life to defending this family.

❝Your Highness,❞ there is a snarl in his voice, barely noticeable for anyone who didn't know Jade Leech enough. Rafayel hasn't quite been himself ever since they met her. The way he looks at her, gaze lingering longer than necessary, longer than Rafayel stared at him even if Jade brought up matters pertaining to Lemuria. Suspicion arises, and it's been a while since Jade come to terms that he was suspecting their prince of all people. ❝There is something I wondered if you might be interested in.❞ Part of him hopes it's not true, but the evidence has been unwavering; piling up like a graveyard of bones. ❝When I left Moray City, there is something I have always carried on me... an unusual artifact of my people. I thought perhaps it might assist you in your endeavour?❞ His eyes watches for any sort of reaction on his prince, ❝I've seen the way you looked at her.❞

[foreplagued]

@b4dguys

He'll never get used to these sweltering American nights: how thick the humidity leaves the air stifling, like breathing in Lake Pontchartrain itself, sullied by the smell of petrol from the passing cars on the main street. But there's ameliorations to the discomfort. Like the scent of heliotrope and honeysuckle that wafts upon the night breeze, mixing with the minted scent of the curling smoke that blooms from her crimson lips, snakes its way around his shoulders like a lover's embrace.

Thomas's smile comes unsure and uneasy, only because he's not sure how to be appropriately eager. "No one 'waiting at home'— no," he replies, and the answer sounds like reassurance. His mouth still forms around English words with some difficulty, but his accent is softened now with his fluency. "Not anymore, at least. I'm a widower—that's a peculiar word, isn't it?" He ducks his head shyly, the tips of his ears turning bright red under the pretty woman's gaze. "It sounds like I'm making widows. I'm not. I'm just ... alone."

Fidgets where he stands. "What about you, Miss Renee? I'm sure your dance card is never empty. At least, it ought not to be, if anyone's got any sense 'round these parts."