@ofonyxshade // starter
“Living Dead, Ser Ompagne called it? The runes?” A pale hand traces ghosts of ancient letters into the tabletop in front of the other, written in a circle before Zephirin rests his hand in the center of that imaginary ring. The mug of apple wine is warm in his hands, its presence lifting him just slightly over the din of the tavern- Like spectres, snowflakes piled on a branch, leaves on the surface of a pond. His face is warm, his arms ache, but it’s a satisfying feeling, warm and drowsy, too tired to pay the background noise as much mind as he normally would.
It’s anchoring all the same, the feeling of that little bubble around their table. The young knight looks up at Fray sitting across from him and stays awake.
“Have you or yours ever had to use it?” The question comes without thinking- And after it falls, he winces a little. Though his hands have scarce been dipped in the black, he knows that consorting with the abyss can be a risky thing- Surely a skill called Living Dead couldn’t be good for you. But also, all the spells and skills sound similarly dark- He remembers Unmend prickling at his fingertips, and keeps that feeling in the hand grasping the handle of his mug.
