𝔞 : “Hmm, I think I like this shade the most!”

𝔠 : “Mhm, just like you said about the last twenty.”

𝔞 : “Well yes, but I mean it this time. We can try more out tomorrow but for now let’s go to the kitchens. I’m craving a snack.”

𝔠 : “I’m right here, princess.”

𝔞 : “Ha. Ha. Now let’s go! Oh but I wanna be carried.”

𝔠 : “Number?” ¹

𝔞 : “Hmmm… 6!”

𝔠 : “As you wish, my pearl.”

this is possibly the hardest thing to ever do and I've attempted to describe him multiple times now... let me try to capture him for you...

If you've never seen him, you'd might imagine a man carved from stone, broad shouldered, towering over men and splitting apart battlefields with ease - based on the stories you'd hear of (or from) him. The grandmaster of the knights of favonius that walks into danger like it's an old friend.

But that would only describe half of him.

Varka feels less like a storm and more like the warmth that remains after it passed. The first rays of sunshine creeping through the clouds and warming your heart once more. A man who carries two swords heavy enough to slay every monster, but reaches out with gentle hands to anyone who needs him.

Paperwork vanishes beneath forgotten stacks while he slips away to the nearest tavern, where laughter and good company suits him far better than reports and signatures. If given the choice between a desk and a drink, the drink rarely stands a chance of losing. ("I like to drink on occasion, any and every occasion. Ha! Haha, good one..." —Varka)