#dirgeforthedead

Black eyes narrow a bit as he looks at his companion, as lovely as she is, with no shortage of consternation. "I said what I said, and I meant it. No. More. Silverware. At. My. Table. If eating with your hands is good enough for you, my sweet, then it's good enough for the patriars we sup with."

How quickly he closes the distance between them, and how tenderly he takes her face in his hands. Calloused, rough, but always so gentle with her, like she was a china doll. "Perish the thought, Darling. Your blood doesn't control who you are, no more than mine does me. You're so much *more* than your father's spawn. No one will reduce you to that, not as long as I'm here. On that you have my word."

It was a close call. even Enver would admit. A careless moment on his behalf and suddenly a bhaalspawn is wrist deep in your guts, and not in the enjoyable way. Once she had come back to her senses, he managed to talk her through setting up a sigil. The items, where she could fetch them, and he busied himself with holding pressure and trying not to let the fade to black be the end of Enver Gortash. But his dearest Dirge pulled through and the yawning portal to home hell was opened. He didn't wait for her, he simply chucked himself through and wound up bleeding out on Raphael's nice marble. A flurry of activity and movement later and Enver was relaxing in the healing baths, the hole in his gut no longer a threat. "Nonsense. I won't hear a word of it. She was not to blame for this, it was an error on my part."

Now they'd piqued his interest. And the interest of a lich was often eternal.

"Well, at yeast you were merciful about it."

This wasn't his Dirge, this was a half-mad Bhaalspawn. She'd happily continue to stab him. "If... we're feeling frisky, dearest one, there are other ways to solve that..." He was reeling, but he didn't want the weakness to show, to let her smell blood in the proverbial water. A gut wound wasn't ideal, hell getting stabbed in general wasn't idea but thems the breaks when your girlfriend is a murdercat. "Re-really need you to come back to me, love." A hiss of pain seethes through his teeth and he forces calm, even breaths in and out, all the while holding the knife - and his guts - in.

"No, it seems not." He steps back as the pool of blood slowly makes its way to his feet. It's not the first time his darling had done something rash, he knows she didn't *mean* to.... or tells himself that, at least. "Well, before she becomes any more stiff, we ought to dispose of her, hm? Come now, darling, before rigor mortis sets in."