@crowspoise // â don't let me regret saving you. â | dragon age: the veilguard prompts pt 2.
In the low light of the tepidly fed fire, the fellow crows eyes appeared to glimmer and gleam, depending on the angle one glimpsed them at, their unnaturalness emboldened by the flinty edge lurking within. A lesser man, with not even an inkling of a crow in their midst, would've taken it as some unusual luster, and not wickledly glinting knife edge that it was.
The rest had all filed out awhile ago, one by one, placated in their questioning or otherwise haggard by their own fatigue, until it was just the two of them. The dining table covered in a myriad of reports, missives, and playing cards from an attempt to salvage the evening. The days earlier events had been a sour reminder of the grim reality of their lot. The steadily ramping slog, which would see them further than simply waist deep in uncharted waters before long.
Fires, which weren't so easily put out, nor the ones he was accustomed to.
He didn't necessarily resent nor begrudge Lucanis for the pointed comment, but it didn't mean he had to like it. Because whether he liked it or not, Crows circled Crows. They held lofty expectations of excellence, and an opportunistic bouts of uncompromising contempt â which were often swiftly followed by violence, if the source didn't correct their course. The livid bruise dappling the curve of his feather-patterned cheekbone gives a particularly nasty throb, and it's almost enough to drown out the minor complaints from the cuts and other bruises. They were easier to ignore by degrees, by virtue of a lived in experience.
It was a statement as much as a warning, and the de Riva heard it plain.
The coffee Rhen drinks, beneath it's rich aroma, carries a sourness not part of the blend, nor is it the bitterness of one of Hardings elfroot drafts. Part of him wants to ask if Lucanis is accustomed to regret, as if it's some novel concept he knows yet doesn't understand, but decides against it. Rather, he levels his fellow Crow with a mercurial expression, using his free hand to pick at one of the cards in his abandoned wicked grace hand, haphazardly spread cross an antaam report.
"Perish the thought." He intones with wan, performative mirth. "Viago would never let me hear the end of it, could you imagine?"