☁️🦈☁️

The note that Darius finds is far cleaner this time, less ruffled. Though he does find it perched perfectly on his coffee table. I would hesitate to use animal blood as a comparison to human or elf follicles. Perhaps an additional variable is in order? The comparison of animal blood to animal follicle against the blood and follicle of a person. It could help to potentially define the efficacy of animal byproduct to that of conscious, thinking individuals. What are your thoughts on the matter? Here's hoping your companion shall be less demanding in future correspondence. N.N.

Cain leans into Darius with purpose - an attempt to tease as much as it's an opportunity to speak quietly. "Only if Hightown isn't too far out your way?"He glances down at the empty goblet between them. "Another? On me." -- If Darius acknowledges the closer (and closer) proximity, he does not outwardly show it. Though his eyes do follow Cain's down to his empty goblet. "What happened to keeping our wits about us?"

In such a large, empty house it was only a matter of time until the two brothers, despite their differences, sought each other out to combat their loneliness. It was harder still for the first born to deny himself the company of the one person who expected nothing of him, nothing but to return (in part) the love he was shown. But expectations bore heavy, settling across them both with time until, eventually, it drove a wedge between the two: an altus, and a soporati.

Before magic was a weapon. Before magic was a tool. Before magic was a punishment. It was art. At least it was to them. A craft to be honed and refined-- beautiful, mesmerising. The world was a canvas for magic to brighten and imbue with wonder. It was easy to believe in a world so small. Before it was leveraged with a threat.

For those born into service, a name may feel like a shackle that binds them to the past. You can shed it, change it, sharpen it into something new, but it will still be there. Festering in your memory, until the name is spit like acid back at you again. Sometimes - when the chains are immaterial, when your autonomy feels so wholly out of reach, and your body becomes a vessel for something greater stronger better else - sometimes it's simpler to go without a name at all. "What do I call you?" "Anything you like." To instead become an ideal.

The youngest of the Basileios family prefers to operate in the shadows - whether in taverns, soirees, or across Minrathous' rooftops. Yet amusingly, most would consider it a trait of their lineage to do their work where idle gaze would not roam, so why - despite his arcane dysfunction - would anyone assume Cain would be any different? Perhaps because he is too insignificant to be worth considering at all. Yet still it begs the question: in the light, who is Cain Argyros Basileios? Well, whomever you desire him to be.

Even Death would not keep me from you, amatus. The Void could not hold me, nor the soil you'd bury my body in.

🦉 × 🦩

He feels like a worshipper to his own personal Maker. Reverence in his touch. "Then have me. Take all of me, mi amor."

🦉 × 🦩

𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎? 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜, 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎.

🦉 x 🦩 x 🦅

"Just... don't let go. Please."

----

MerMay x Rooks Roost 🧜‍♀️

⚠️ Small warning for arachnophobes.

🔍 Find who is killing the magisters, and recruit or dissuade them