𖤝 sending your ass to #𝘆𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗻𝘂𝗺. independent and selective multi-muse colosseum run by havi. [ ft. characters predominantly from fantasy and urban fiction. ] twenty-seven, they/them. medium activity & duplicate friendly. affiliated with cautionarys and veilmotel. please read my guidelines before following. warnings ahead of mature content.
a narrative study in : the edgerunners of society, committed to being damned by love and danger, eldritch truth and the cost of insight, finding faith in oneself through madness, the tyranny of heaven, demons as the knights in spiked armour, dismantling shame, embracing the bitter and the dark.
this is a private space where i write characters i'm bananas about. i am busy with work throughout the week so patience is both expected and appreciated. reach out for plots and questions any time!
a few guidelines for newcomers :
duplicates are entirely welcome. duplicate anxiety however is not. open to feedback, won't tolerate rudeness. any bigotry, islamaphobia, sexism, anti-semitism, zionism, and use of ai art will result in block.
i can take a few days to follow back, just because i like to make sure i properly read your rules / dossier! i’m also more likely to follow your other blogs if we have at least some writing or plotting going on the blog i currently follow to manage my space better. i frequently write in high fantasy and love plots involving horror, romance, adventure and dark gothic/sci-fi themes.
please read, accessibility request :
i also request that colours, fancy letterings and double / triple spaces between words be avoided when writing with me. kindly soft-block when unfollowing and feel entirely free to re-follow whenever.
art by amy thompson. psd by hesperides.
primary :
▪ neil josten, all for the game. rising exy star for the palmetto foxes.
▪ jem carstairs, infernal devices. dark hunter of beasts and demons.
▪ alice liddell, madness returns. dreamer and champion of wonderland.
▪ clive rosfield, final fantasy xvi. heir to the duchy turned rebel.
▪ leon kennedy, resident evil. hero of raccoon city and private investigator.
▪ vinsmoke sanji, one piece netflix. cook and a gentleman pirate.
▪ galadriel, lord of the rings. witch of the woods and elven princess.
▪ jason todd, under the red hood. resurrected vigilante and rabble-rouser.
secondary :
▪ lord severin, folk of the air. alderking of an eldritch unseelie court.
▪ kassandra of sparta, ac: odyssey. daughter of zeus and mercenary.
▪ lady maria, bloodborne. firsst apprentice turned warden of nightmares.
▪ messmer, elden ring. the impaler of a forsaken and endless crusade.
▪ pinokio, lies of p. puppet under the instructions of a cold father.
▪ stefan salvatore, vampire diaries. religious guilt vampire and hearthrob.
▪ lucyna kushinada, cyberpunk edgerunners. arasaka’s runaway netrunner.
original characters :
▪ kazheir asghar, child of nox in the riordanverse.
▪ phira katsaros, child of aphrodite in the riordanverse.
▪ freydís sveinsdottir, skadi reborn in god of war.
▪ viziera khātun, janesyr from witcher inspired lore.
▪ farah hosseini, time-travelling vampiress.
voice testing :
▪ eleonora, elden ring. a dragon hunter turned bloody finger.
▪ mohg, elden ring. lord of blood and accursed omen.
▪ needle knight leda, elden ring. sworn knight of an elusive god.
▪ radagon, elden ring. wild warrior turned elden lord.
▪ minthara baenre, baldur’s gate iii. former lolth sworn paladin.
▪ kaneki ken, tokyo ghoul. infamous one-eyed ghoul king.
▪ rhænyra targaryen, house of dragon. the dragon queen who ever was.
private : the dragon, ha do-yeong, sephiroth, oliver marks, andrew minyard, achilles, dark sun gwyndolin [ *includes hiatus muses : the darkling, jude duarte, zagreus. ]
“You're lucky the cut wasn't deeper.” for clive rosfield
𖤝 blood on your sleeve, accepting.
there is a heavy and unwelcome hobble to his step, as he reconciles failure with chance. a swing of his sword, at the right second, had spared his life but had not prevented this : an agonising crackle against his leg, splitting apart sinew and blood that he felt the wave of the damage only after the thick of battle had conceded. panting low under his breath, clive had trudged his way to a corner when they had shown up at his side. he grunts low in his throat, slides down the rubble, and with a weary gaze as any, takes stock of the damage.
he has half the mind, in his stubbornness, to turn them away entirely, but she makes it apparent this would serve none lest he provoke her ire too. whether they sought to help or merely mock him was still undetermined. ❛❛ lucky is not what i would call any of this, or myself. it was a mistake — and mine alone. do you dog my steps for insult, or wisdom? ❜❜
for writing purposes i’m going to shift nyra’s character a bit. leading up to her father’s death and confrontations with alicent i think she has visions similar to daemon’s, though hers are linked to dragons or merely they’re constructs of her own fears; she has to confront the fact that she’s grown up relatively spoiled and unhindered, and if she’s to succeed as queen, she needs to project the part.
it’s basically the conversation with daemon she has in the sept but i want her to come to those conclusions by her own growth rather than prompted by his. she has loved harwin, she is a mother, she has an internal conflict of love/disappointment in her own father. it’s not fair on a base level that a woman as to prove herself to be worthy when a man (aegon) does fuck all and is still accepted as king even if he’s a terrible person. but she plays the game even with that unfairness.
simply vouching for peace over violence doesn’t make a good ruler. grown with mysaria’s influence, she realises this more as the dance of dragons actually starts. her relationship with daemon is stripped of any marital implications; from start to finish, theirs is a dynamic of mentorship and envy. he trains her in the sword to shift perception of her as more than just a delight but a symbol capable of strength that caters to men (because they would never see her being a mother as sufficient evidence alone of strength, and she realises this!), and she learns that sense of assertiveness from him. where they differ is in temperament which is the result of most of their arguments and slights.
on the topic of bastards. she is well aware that having children with harwin was a reckless move. however i like to think of her as someone who really does hone in on destroying older traditions by raising quite literally ‘an army of bastards’; she’s already epitome of one by being the first queen. why buckle? and because she doesn’t remarry after laenor, it makes her doubling down on jace more poignant despite the risk involved. this forces everyone who is loyal to her to REALLY come to terms with the fact that she is not their version of ‘ideal’, but to love and serve her regardless.
from strahd to farah : come into the light. let me see your face. (vampire on vampire violence)
𖤝 blood on your sleeve, accepting.
one would think she comes from squalor and ash. dusted across her cheek bone is a smear of dust, grown thick for the rain water that has darkened it. it connects cross her nose in a bridge. her hands, by contrast, are powdery from dried blood. it has caked over her knuckles now and left her stinking of sweat and gore.
when the terrible, yet pleasing voice thumps from the shadows, she straightens her spine despite the discomfort of glass digging into her breast. accustomed to this, of the mirror she has sown into her body, the inflammation of it behind her dress, as a familiar fuel for motivation. her mouth grows heavy, it grins and waters.
as she had stepped through the portal into time, it had discarded her with less than half her strength. her hunger, never tired, had chosen rather delectable volunteers to sate that issue. the guilty verdict of her intrusion is painted on her: the stock this lord might have owned had been gored and consumed. tentatively, her steps stalk cautiously out of the shadows. ❛❛ here i am, ❜❜ she says, though she spreads her arms as the light hits her face; not quite the noblewoman, with her tangled hair and blood soaked dress and barefoot nuisance, though her father some three hundred years ago liked to pretend they were of that substance. ❛❛ i might have eaten your sheep. or your stable boy. i could not say — only that there was much pale hair, and whining. oh, will you smite a guest? i can tussle for my honour and rights, if you wish. ❜❜
❛❛ freydís! save your breath! ❜❜ but things will begin not to make sense to their wife soon, if that world-bleariness has not already begun to grip her. she will babble and cry and draw attention, though it isn’t her fault. despite how eivor’s grinding tone may feel like a strike, urgency speaks, not anger. unr has forged ahead, doing what he can to clear the way, but some stragglers —like hunting hounds— smell the blood of the wounded and weakening and surge toward it for the kill. fuck, fuck! curse it all!
the raven king scoops the half-limp body of his wife around the waist, twirling freydís out of harm’s way with a partial pivot and jerking her feet from the ground. a hand-axe blocks and incoming swing with just the strength of one arm against the assailant’s full strength bearing down on that blade. powerful muscles strain, grunting harsh enough through their teeth that spit flies from between the gnashed bone. with a surge of adrenaline, eivor howls the language of their people at the mercian like a wild beast. he will not understand what she is spewing at him, but it doesn’t matter. he’s dead with a brutish kick to take his knee out, and a final swing of the hand-axe cleaving his skull in two. then, they are moving again.
somehow the pair makes it back down the hill. with freydís now mostly carried, eivor sloshes into the muddy bank of the river where there are some kinsmen already awaiting at the longboats. they hoist their queen in as carefully as they can manage in a rush, and over the edge of the vessel, eivor commands : i will return. you are not permitted to die in my absence, freydís.
an unexpected battle won not without casualties and injury … even eivor is wounded upon returning to the boat as it casts off to return home. she kneels beside her fallen spouse, weary and filthy. the ravens have done their best with her with what little healing supplies they had on hand. there is nothing to give her for the pain. eivor’s trembling hand rests atop the crown of their wife’s head.
❛❛ by týr, ❜❜ she exhales. ❛❛ you did well for such an ambush, skjaldmær. we are to return home, where you will be mended. this injury will make for a fine scar. ❜❜
the incoming swing is met with a startled scream. her eyes fall shut tightly, her hands grasping at the arm around her body. but the strike never lands. blocked by the strength and strain of her husband’s axe, it is repelled by sheer force and the language that is home to her ears. in a frenzy, freydís reaches for the arrow lodged in her own calf, and unthinkingly pulls it free. alarm leaves her little time to acknowledge the pain, when instead her focus hones down on this; sticking the arrow point into the mercian’s foot.
he is forcibly held in place long enough to be kicked, his head cleaved in half moments later by eivor’s unforgiving axe.
somehow they reach the bank. her arms, now curled morosely around eivor’s neck, cling half-heartedly to him. it is not until freydís is left in the care of the retreating raven’s that it becomes apparent they have turned the tide of this ambush. she hears them whispering: those vultures wanted for the queen’s head. [this was enough to stall their boat in the waters, as it had persuaded their leader to turn back for the fight in order to met out judgement and brutal punishment.]
she hears, above all, her lover’s voice commanding her to live. with her brows furrowed in pained discomfort, she stiffens her expression and nods curtly. the passage of time is a blur after the fact. she quietens from tonics and eases against the cool press of cloth against her temple. mead has dulled her thoughts entirely, but when she recognises eivor’s touch, freydís turns her head to see her.
her smile, drowsy, is pinched with love. she felt none of eivor’s pride in her survival, her scrappy and scrambling desire to live against all odds, ducking and swinging madly, but she had done it all despite the advisors encouraging their queen to flee. how could she have faced eivor, if she had abandoned their ravens to fight and die alone?
❛❛ ástin mín. ❜❜ croaky, she attempts to sit, her hand coiling around eivor’s wrist. she can feel their palm resting atop her head, an affection that brings her great comfort. ❛❛ stay with me, if you can. my head is splitting open— i do not know how this has happened. i was asleep... ❜❜ her fingers brush her own ear: a huntress, she had heard the footsteps in the silent night. ❛❛ you’ve saved us all. ❜❜
⊹ , centuries come and go and the soft skin never fits quite right over where scales used to lay. yet it is in a dragon's very nature to shift and change form. never appearing the same way twice to those lucky enough to behold them twice without perishing. a learned fragility, or perhaps a learned gentleness, when a glorious creature makes a choice to bring itself low. each warrior a minuscule speck in the endless tide of time, while age may not touch her face as it does foot soldiers which come ambling through the temples she can now look them in the eye. a leveled stare that could not be achieved in her grander disguises.
is it pity? she is not sure, wearing human flesh did not make her heart so. she may have begun to uncover its newfangled depths. yet still, there were many shades in that spectrum of this foreign emotive world that eluded her still ( even so, one would be hard-pressed to encounter a creature that did not understand the gravity of blood ) this language she is quite fluent it, it is the stinging taste of iron on her tongue as their ailing body is spread across her lap, the metal plates of their armor coming away like a molting serpent. ❛ i am perfectly capable of choosing what is worthy of my attention and what is not, knight. ❜ as it is not undisguised benevolence which guides her hands but rather a sense of responsibility. her command is that of a general, not a god.
❛ you will lay still or risk worsening your wounds. ❜ the creeping sense of worship in the unfocused torment of their gaze is almost too much to bear. driving her sense of purpose, turning to reach from the curving blade strapped to a bejeweled scabbard at her hip. striking her own wrist, tapping the vein for its essence of red which was clouded by an unearthly tinge of silver. dripping into a shallow dish which is then brought to the crest of the felled knight's lips. ❛ drink, if it is your intent to live to fight another day... perhaps under a more worthy banner but i will not sway you past a mere suggestion. ❜
the smear of blood across their mouth is incessant, splotches of it that they cough out as if the lord of blood’s curse attempts to escape their vessel now. they manage to move their head long enough to nod in acceptance. their voice, a shell of it’s own strength, and unfamiliar to their own ears, is an awkward tangle of vowels and sounds. ❛❛ yes, my lady. ❜❜ with a sluggishness that eleonora deems unimpressive and disgraceful, they come to realise that the priestess before them is not one they recognise. perhaps this is the one the tales spoke of, an outlander left on the side of the veil of shadow. at any rate, their hypotheticals are cut short as their mind scatters, their limbs jerking from pain as it engulfs them.
the drake knight holds their silence well. it is after all, all they have known from birth. yet as their armour, hot to the touch from dragonfire and bloodflame, is peeled away from their injuries, their face is exposed enough to take to drink. they see red, and silver within, and a bronze cup pressed to their lips as they are bade to drink.
they hardly show reluctance in this form of communion. if their method of prayer could grant them the mysterious powers of mortal dragon’s, why could it not heal too at the bidding of an ancient dragon priestess, superior to the lowborn dragons? eleonora drinks, reddened eyes a blue so pale, they glint white. ❛❛ ‘tis mohg... his duplicity is at an end. ❜❜ eleonora winces once, as the blood settles. it is gruelling and unlike the consumption of hearts. yet in seconds their body heals, soothes over its aches. they come to sit, hand to their temple, thoughts bruised but heart alive. ❛❛ you honour me... my charge was for— ❜❜ a cough interrupts, the last splattering of blackened blood. it is the first they inhale so deeply so as to know, mohg’s influence had been eroded.
they were at last in control of their own actions. turning to the priestess, they are startled once more to have gained her attention. ❛❛ bayle the dread. father to all lowborn dragons, and foe of the ancients. but i cannot leave, priestess, until i have served you well. that is my creed. where do you go from here? ❜❜
and with that, i am off to watch the cursed nolan movie and weep. in the meantime, fantasy-pilled roster is in full swing so feel free to send memes to get things started with short stuff or im for plots!
i’m a bit slow this weekend bc of trans pride things but will be around in the background here and there 🖤
You could have died out there. You could have died and I would have been the last person to know. ( farah 🥲 )
𖤝 blood on your sleeve, accepting.
dreadwitch, entangled with the work of her own disturbance; how her subortinates, these skeletal warriors who were once men desperate to kiss her, rush to war. the darkspawn toil in her service, blind and agonised with blight, and scramble to the pack of upstarts that have decided they are to stand against the lady ghilan’nain.
she has sunk far enough into the blood-red pools to see herself enlivened, yet the resurgence of resistance has drained her. impatient, she smarts against this dire impossibility. why does the goddess not answer? alas, one such fighter draws too close. surrounded, she nearly meets her end, and he is there to witness it. her hands, desperately, claw through her armour to unwind it. just as his arms catch her in the darkness, she has pressed her bloody hands to her split throat and attempts to croak out an infuriated command to heal. yet, robbed of her voice, she is unable to until his own rises to the occasion, and he speaks the spell into her hands.
at once, the dark obeys, and her throat seals itself until she gasps violently against his chest. his hands, flitting through her damp hair, hold her as fiercely as if he had lost her to death.
❛❛ oh—! those heinous fools... ❜❜ at her ear, he chides her in a manner that momentarily takes away her fury at the intruders, the make-believe heroes — and instead she smiles, rewarded by his ire, his agony and his disturbed thoughts all in worry for her safety. his love, most of all. ❛❛ my love. kos... ❜❜ and then, as she regains her voice and speaks his name at last, and her frown conveys to him her desire to be held, he does so. and speaks ever quietly to her ears alone: you're safe now. you're here, you're safe, and i’ve got you. just breathe. ❛❛ i would never leave you. look at us, we live!— we live and they... ❜❜ it is only a moment later that she realises why he has thawed against her so quickly.
fatigued and frail, his thumbs wipe away tears from her red-eyed gaze. distraught at her loss, she lets the shudder quieten her, press her face to the warmth of his beating chest. ❛❛ they will pay. ❜❜
gimme some elden folk from voicetesting ( explain the plot to me like i'm a toddler): I've seen worse. I've also seen men die from worse, so let me look at it.
𖤝 blood on your sleeve, accepting.
accursed blood ruptures their senses. they have endured far past the expiration allotted to them by the lord of blood; yet eleonora resists the temptation for such ignoble madness. a purifying crystal tear, shed from the weeping bark of a minor erdtree, as been their answer. upon its chilling consumption, it has evaporated the unseen decay that has festered in their blood, and controlled their body and mind. they quietly take the belief that it was the very draconic blood within their veins, that they have ingested with communion and prayer, that has prevented them from truly becoming the blood lord’s insolent swine.
yet they have not evaded his wrath unscathed. that a dragon priestess would find them now, on the brink of frailty and defeat, is another wonder they silently thank their masters for. surely, they were still yet within the favour of the ancient dragons, if one were to bestow upon them their aid. drake knights, sworn to mute service, have been their creed since their inception — yet eleonora has been dismissed of this, and their hoarse, unfamiliar voice, is shamefully used.
❛❛ yes, priestess. ❜❜ their breath strains, and with one hand over the wound, their other peels away their horned helmet to cast its shattered remains aside. their pale eyes have darkened with fatigue, and with both parts reverence and dismay, they look to the priestess with hope. ❛❛ this... is beneath you. yet i thank you. please, he attempts still to take me— i can feel his fingers around my throat. ❜❜
Lay back. You're not getting up until the color comes back to your face. (redquick)
𖤝 blood on your sleeve, accepting.
❛❛ well, what do you call this then? ❜❜ there’s hissing steam, the steel-like red helmet creeping back over his face. ❛❛ red as a smacked peach. hey! ❜❜ and a smacked arm. she’s thoroughly, rigorously had enough of him for the time being. despite his petulant humour, he has put a considerable amount of strain into denying her hands of the only thing she had broken through the crossfire to do: to take care of him, tend to his wounds. it was what she was desperately trying to do now, commanding him to be still, her compassionate leniency with his skittishness gone out the window.
he’s only momentarily surprised when, sick of it, she pries back the helmet with her own hands. it would be startling if it wasn’t also hot.
❛❛ christ. can’t you get enough? ❜❜ no. he battles and paws at her hands. catches her wrists, and tugs her forward with a swift and unyielding aggression. jesse, kneeling, drops over and against his chest. his face, bruised beneath an eye and shattered, smiles a little through the ache. ❛❛ hurts when you worry, jess. don’t look like that sad. i’m alright, okay? swear it. ❜❜
fingers slippery with blood sternly grasp their wife's jaw to direct her half-limp head. the raven lord's moon-blue gaze is as sharp as hoar frost, rasp stronger than usual with the urgent tightness of her throat. the raider's bark is harsh, grating to the ears, and sparing of no feelings :
❛❛ be still! ❜❜ quicker than freydís can further panic, eivor removes the arrow with what is certain to feel like sheer brutality. the king is no healer, but has spent too many years licking her own wounds to not know how to tend to one well enough that a person will not die until better care is sought. her flesh will need to be sewn back together, or burned together— but since eivor does not have the means at this exact moment, tightly grips with his large hand to press split skin together.
' unr! help me rend my tunic! now! ' they command to a nearby warrior, who skids to his knees beside eivor to assist their one, free hand with ripping their own clothes. the fighting has died down enough that the two can make quick work of fabric with a knife, then eivor wraps, tight enough to cut off circulation. a temporary fix, and undoubtedly excruciating, but this will pass. freydís must remember that and endure.
❛❛ i know. i know. you are strong, you will survive this. i have you, freydís. you must stand up. up, yes. i will help you move, come, woman. we will take care of you. ❜❜
the raider’s bark startles her down to her bones. a visceral jolt that in effect, momentarily silences her shouts, stills her body and soul. and in that moment of shock where her tears dry in confusion, does eivor spring to action.
they tear out the arrow as if they had done so a thousand times and more to count. the wave of pain comes back to her delayed, through the erratic pulse of panic, and it is only when the second soldier comes to their aid, does her throat give up the next scream. a heinous slew of accursed words string together her sentences, hexes five sagas long until unr paled to ash, but she is held still by those four hands, no matter how the tightened band about her arm aches.
her breath gives out, face pressed to the slant of eivor’s armour. bloody, and dishevelled from the squirming and the fighting, she has no heart left to stand with. nevertheless, eivor takes a hold of her long enough to haul her to her feet. her steps falter, the cry in her throat stifled as her arm screams with agony. unsteadily, she clasps a hand over eivor’s shoulder, and leans just enough into her lover’s arm that she is able to, however pathetically, walk forward.
❛❛ no more— no more. ❜❜ too hot, the battlefield was on fire and unbearable heated. her eyes scan for any mares that might have survived but she hears and feels nothing. trudging along on one good leg, her vision wavers from the loss of blood. how eivor continues on, is lost on her and not without envy. ❛❛ i tried. i’m — i tried, they come from shadow. what, what happened? ❜❜
"hold still. i mean it. hold still." / from eivor for freydís
𖤝 blood on your sleeve, accepting.
spoiled too long in the comfort of her wooden throne, in the furs of her bed. in the arms of a lover, who was tougher than a hard place! a lick of shame worries at her throat as she thinks of her shield and sword. weapons of a shield-maiden, lying flat and abandoned at her side. ought she not honour them better than this?
there was a strong cut splitting open the length of her arm, courtesy of an arrow lodged in her bicep and subsequently, at the behest of a foe, dragged down the length of her arm before he had taken an axe to the neck. eivor’s tall body had engulfed her screaming form in shadow.
though her body could do nothing but recoil from the sting of pain, eivor’s grip on her body was stern. she attempted to heed her lover, and hold still; and when she flinched reflexively anyways, the hands over her limbs, kindly, remained as firm as much as they were gentle. yet time was of the essence, and already, cold sweat flushed her cheeks. the effort and strain had left her panting.
❛❛ no, no— ❜❜ her breath fluctuates, blood pooling too quickly for her mind to process. paling, her lover appeared to wear only half her own dread, as they had determined already, that this was to be salvageable despite the fucking blood. ❛❛ it hurts. i can’t think— it hurts so much— eivor. ❜❜
✦ ⋆ 𖤓 ⋆ ✦ 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐕𝐄 ··· a collection of injuries tended in silence, pain worn like armour, the intimacy of being seen at your worst. genre: hurt and comfort, angst, romance, drama.
• You're bleeding through your shirt. Don't tell me you're fine.
• How long have you been walking around like this?
• I'm not going to hurt you. I just need to see how bad it is.
• You should have told me the moment it happened.
• Hold still. I mean it. Hold still.
• This is going to sting. Bite down on something if you need to.
• You've been hiding this for days, haven't you.
• Who did this to you? I need you to tell me who did this.
• Stop being brave for five minutes and let me help you.
• I've seen worse. I've also seen men die from worse, so let me look at it.
• I found the bandages in the trash. You want to explain that?
• Don't you dare apologize for bleeding on me.
• Your hands are cold. That's not a good sign.
• I'm not angry. I'm terrified. There's a difference.
• Come into the light. Let me see your face.
• You should have stitches. I know you won't go. So sit down and let me do what I can.
• You're white as a sheet and still trying to stand up straight.
• I could hear you in the night. I didn't say anything. I'm saying something now.
• Don't look at it if it makes it worse. Just look at me.
• It's not weak to let someone see you hurt.
• You came to me. Of all the places you could have gone, you came here.
• Lay back. You're not getting up until the color comes back to your face.
• I'm not going to ask what happened. Not yet. First let me fix what I can.
• You've been holding your left side since you walked in. Think I didn't notice?
• This is going to leave a mark. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
• I've patched up a lot of people in my time. None of them scared me like you do right now.
• You could have died out there. You could have died and I would have been the last person to know.
• Sleep. I'll be right here when you wake up. I'm not going anywhere.
• You're allowed to make a sound. Nobody's watching.
• I need you to stay awake for me. Just a little longer. Talk to me.
• You're lucky the cut wasn't deeper.
• Stop apologizing for needing help. Stop it right now.
• I've seen what it looks like when someone's used to this. That's what scares me most about you.
• Tell me your name. Tell me what day it is. Stay with me.
• You're going to be alright. I promise you.
• You went back out there after this? With this?
• Nobody takes care of you, do they? That ends tonight.
• I've been gentle with you. I need you to be honest with me in return.
• You're safe now. You're here, you're safe, and I've got you. Just breathe.
You've been holding your left side since you walked in. Think I didn't notice? (minthara/gwayne)
𖤝 blood on your sleeve, accepting.
❛❛ what exquisite sight you possess, good man. would that you were capable of directing such keen attentions to matters more suited to your... plain station. ❜❜
the lady drow keeps the pressure of her flat palm against her hip, subduing the wound. though she walks with a worthy injury, she has not erred in her step, nor bent her spine as an old fool, nor winced in pain. although her experience had made her much aware of the handiness of quick recovery, and to safeguard against infection, minthara basks in the delicious exhilaration of her own pain. it’s layers, it’s texture, it delights the senses. by contrast however, she is far from amused by the young man’s audacity to speak. had he attempted to proffer concern of all things? she detests the scent of it on him. blood, sympathy, or worse, any manner of smugness to have found her wounded at all. ❛❛ sir — gayne, was it? i would remind you to speak only when spoken to, boy. fetch me the priestess, she will see to my needs — and if you are so content to utter nothing of use to me of the grove, then i shall have your tongue. ❜❜
