Tiger of Qarinus

An independent roleplaying blog for Janus Murgi, a canon-divergent Rook from Dragon Age.

Written by Sam, 30+, he/him.

BIO and GUIDELINES are currently WIP.

Janus wasn’t a healer yet he wasn’t a completely fool. For every moment that he laid on the streets soaked in carnage and sea water, he found himself counting the rhythm that each pulse of pain brought. He was practically a painting, smeared in mixture of his own blood and the maormer admiral’s. 

Turning his head to the side, he closed his eyes at the sight before him. In all honesty, Janus wasn’t even sure that he made the killing blow but what he did know was that the admiral managed to jab a sharp blade just under his ribs. Nonetheless, he couldn’t bare the sight of another corpse, even his enemy’s, any longer. 

First his fingers tried to dig into slick tile for purchase then his legs. His heels, despite all his strength, simply slipped from the damp. This little dance continued on until the last failure became too much and he gasped from the sharp agony radiating from his stomach. 

“... Sol...” 

     “ Aw, you’re sweet. ”

Always, of course, but this meeting seems … moreso. Perhaps it’s the loneliness inherent to immortality, or caught within the fabric of anti-reality. Perhaps it’s something else.

                   Arixis can’t say he’s immune to the intense loneliness that so comes with such curses, himself. Perhaps he’s not untime, but … well. He has his realm and his followers, and he craves, always, so much more.

     “ I think, ” he ventures, “ that there’s much we can learn      from mortals, but … if you want to skip the debt repayment      bits … sure. Why not? You’re welcome at my door any day. ”

Janus realizes, after a moment, that he’s been rather callous. After so many years of jungles made of memories and unshifting desert, he briefly despairs that not even he can read others like himself well enough. 

“I see...”

He trails off, the wind taking away his words as the sand rests uneasily at his feet. There is irony in being absence given form and focus yet still succumbing to the deep ache at his core. 

Janus has a weird relationship with romance. While he’s pretty open and lax about showing affection towards friends and family, he’s quite reserved when dealing with any sort of romantic feelings. 

Regardless of his homosexuality, he will always assume that any and all feelings are unrequited. Does this lead to a lot of pining and heartbreak for him? Absolutely. 

Because of … ?

                           … Oh, well … suppose so, now that the mention rises. In that context, yes, Sil suspects it … helps, sometimes. He doesn’t tend to think back much on the circumstance.

He holds a little tighter, still, at the inquiry, turning his gaze to the horizon.

     “ One of my former friends murdered me. ”

                                 Friends, he says, because he can’t bring himself to call her a former lover – never again, and only now, barely, can he refer to her as anything other than a traitor. Bitter as the thought may be, though …

     “ She was right to do it. ”

Janus stares into the horizon. His mind devoid of thought as setting sun warmed his face. In fact, he barely registers the tightening grip of Sil on his arm. 

“You... think she was right to murder you?”

He pauses for a moment, his feet now refusing to go forward. A surge of protectiveness mixed with a hint of ferocity nearly overwhelms despite his lack of expression. 

They’re almost sentient.

                                    Arixis is, in turn, nearly distracted by them, but his attention returns to the untime being, vestige within shooting restless elation at the touch on his arm. It’s damn near maddening, to feel what should be impossible, instead, beside him.

He returns his gaze to Janus’s, as well, locking there.

     “ Something about reciprocity … ? Isn’t that what mortal      peoples always preach about? ”

The edges of a smirk pull at the corner of his mouth.

     “ C’mon, now. If I can see your realm, you can’t get away      with refusing to see mine. ”

His lips pull tightly into a smile. A little bit of his past, one of brightly burning eagerness, shines in his uneyes as he gazes into Arixis’s. His hand never removes itself from his arm -- instead his fingers travel down towards his inked forearm.

“Never said I wouldn’t visit, Arixis...” he teased, his grip finally loosening. After all, even a being such as his friend could only stand his touch for so long. 

“Hush, old mer…” he tries to jest but it falls flat. Solúrion was usually right and this was no exception. Flipping through some more pages of the dusty archive, the only thing he managed to do was make himself sneeze as he slammed it closed. 

After staring at the cover of the old tome for a few awkward moments, he finally sighed in defeat. It was a shame really… Since the Mages Guild had Altmeri origins, one would think they would have taken care of decade-old records but alas…