Noctus Sanguinare

|| Dragxnsfire || Indie Multi-muse TES RP, featuring the Dragonborn, the Vestige, and Morrowind-era RP || 21+ || D & D, Baldur's Gate, LOTR, and Dragon Age AU blog

“Aw, nothing witty to say~?” the vampire croons, returning the dagger he’d been using to pick the steel claws of his gloves clean to its sheath at his hip. Leaning back, he all but drapes himself over the back of the chair he waited in, clearly making himself comfortable. Provocative: goading. He accepts the satchel with a surprising degree of delicacy, tucking it amongst his things with a low hum.

He simply sits, then, waiting for a reaction to his lingering presence. A grin curls across his face when he gets that reaction: a flash of wicked teeth.

“I’m glad you asked,” he purrs. “There is indeed something else I require, but we’re having so much fun here. Why don’t you try to guess?”

Anoivs continued to focus— perhaps a bit too hard— on his work, at least for a moment. “No,” he retorted simply, before turning back to the thief. “I don’t have much interest in banter, usually. Especially not with one with teeth like yours.” He shifted, ears flicking as he watched his visitor drape himself over a chair— one Anovis himself had grown not a few months prior, his finest work at the time. “We Telvanni aren’t afraid of much, but—” he drew a short breath— “that doesn’t mean we want vampires around our tower. Especially when we have elder family members visiting.”

He waited once more for Quanalil to leave, growing more anxious by the moment. Surely there was nothing more here for the vampire— especially if Anovis refused to partake in whatever game he was playing; but the longer he waited, the thinner the Telvanni’s patience became.

"But you are afraid of me," he all but croons, finding far too much joy in tormenting the Telvanni. He leans slightly closer still, his hands folded neatly behind his back. He clicks the tip of his tongue against the back of his teeth in that classic scolding 'tsk tsk' sound, shaking his head slightly.

"Such a terrible host, refusing your guest a drink," he chides. His gaze lingers on the other mer's neck. "You look healthy enough to me to sacrifice at least a little to your dear Guild-Brother."

With similar hound-like loyalty, Quanalil and his own steed- a sturdy black creature called Wraith- followed not far behind the former general in silence. He paused his horse when Manarion came to a halt, side-eyeing him for a few moments before finally speaking.

“Remind me what we’re supposed to be looking for?”

“You said it, not me. I was merely referring to your height,” Quanalil replies, gesturing vaguely up and down with his dagger for emphasis. Manarion was, after all, a good foot-and-a-half taller than Quanalil himself.

“Does Giant blood run in you as well, or just dragon?”

"Dalamus, you're bleeding." - Quanalil (@quanalil) "Really? No shit?" - Dalamus

Instead of any form of anger or offense, it is smugness that crosses Quanalil’s features; his lip curling not in a snarl, but in a wicked grin.

“No offense taken. You’re welcome. Greedy, overconfident little wretch, that one… his excuse of a coven was pathetic,” he drawls, finally stepping forward out of the treeline and into the light to approach the fire. He halts again a comfortable distance from the little campfire, crosses his ankles, and allows his legs to just fold under him: dropping from standing to sitting cross-legged in one easy, fluid motion.

“…Eggs inside of smaller eggs,” he echoes, mulling over this phrase. “…I don’t get it.”

Anovis’s heart clenched, and he prodded at the fire more fiercely, brows furrowed as he stabbed at the dying embers. The wicked grin across the vampire’s face was almost an insult; a reminder that the bloodsuckers couldn’t really empathize with their victims— at least, not in the Telvanni’s mind. “Pathetic or not, he tore dozens of families apart. Not just my own. I wouldn’t be proud of it myself.”

He watched the vampire sit, and he tave a soft huff. “You don’t have to ‘get it’,” Anovis retorted with a slight, lop-sided smile. “I’m Telvanni; we explore what could be, what might never be— anything that seems too strange for any regular mage. But think about it! Could be a useful way to, say, protect kwama eggs— they’re rare enough as it is, and with an extra layer, they’d be near-guaranteed to stay safe!” The silver-haired mage’s smile fell, and he waved a hand.

“You are rather dense, aren’t you,” he utters dryly, eyes halved. “I said ‘you’re welcome.’ Because I’m the reason Piquine is gone. Him, and his coven. I killed him.”

“…I don’t eat much, myself,” he remarks after a beat, pulling his dagger from its sheath at his hip and moving to help with the task at hand. “But I’m sure Faendal can help find use for this. Bosmer, you know.”

The elf in question follows Quanalil’s lead to help carve up the dead cat, saying nothing. Many hands make light work: between the three of them, this process likely would not take terribly long at all.

“Besides, I imagine a mer of your stature can eat a fair bit,” Quanalil adds, unable to resist saying something on the matter.

As Manarion’s blade plunged into the feline’s neck, two more bolts pierced its hide: this time in the chest, no doubt puncturing its lungs as they became embedded deep into its sandy-coloured fur. Not that it was needed: the Dragonborn’s blow was no doubt already lethal, as blood immediately began to gush from its wound.

This fight was over just as quickly as it had begun, the great cat gurgling a final snarl as it staggered and slumped over onto its side to perish. Quanalil simply straightened, stowing his crossbow once more over his back as he observed the beast’s final seconds.

“Pitiful.”

The elf in question follows Quanalil’s lead to help carve up the dead cat, saying nothing. Many hands make light work: between the three of them, this process likely would not take terribly long at all.