Ah, Lindir! Just a curiosity, have you ever heard Eredin flirt? I don't know why, but he does seems the type.
With mischief,
Narë.
*the note has a splash of green paint in the corner and a burn in another, it looks rather like it had been torn out of the unfortunate notebook of hers*
Eredin knows how to flirt.
He will deny this, of course—insist that he is utterly inept at such things, that he stumbles over words and makes a fool of himself, that he has no skill for charm or seduction. He will say these things with all the sincerity in the world, and yet I have witnessed him wield honeyed words with the precision of a master artisan shaping gold leaf.
There was a masquerade, once. A grand affair, shimmering candlelight casting warm halos upon velvet masks, music weaving soft spells into the air...
I did not recognize him at all.
The person who approached me that night was a stranger—or so I thought. A vision of elegance wrapped in shadow and silver, voice smooth as aged wine, a hand extended in silent invitation. I hesitated, of course. I am not in the habit of accepting dances from masked strangers, no matter how gracefully they bow or how effortlessly they spin poetry into their words.
But he was persistent. A murmured challenge, a promise of only one dance, nothing more. And against my better judgment, I accepted.
He twirled me into the music as if we had done this a thousand times before, each step effortless, every turn perfectly in sync. His touch was light but sure, his presence magnetic in a way that left no room for second-guessing. And as we moved, he spoke—low, teasing remarks, the kind that left heat curling at the edges of my composure.
It was only after the dance had ended, after I had spent the better part of an hour wondering just who this masterful enigma could be, that we both finally removed our mask.
Eredin.
Confidence. Absolute, undeniable confidence. A knowing smile behind the silk, a cadence in his voice that curled like smoke, rich and deliberate. He had learned how to let words linger, how to wield his gaze like a bowstring drawn just to the edge of release. And I, unsuspecting fool that I was, walked straight into the trap. And as soon as the mask was off, his face gained back all those usual shades of red and he RAN for the hills.
He spoke to me that evening as if he had known me in a dozen lifetimes. As if every secret I had ever held was written in the tilt of my chin, the cadence of my breath. He was poetry that night, and worse—he knew it.
And yet, if you ask him now? He will tell you he cannot flirt. That he has no talent for such things.
Lies. All of it.