#fatedfateless

That stuttering. It had the Watcher wondering if he had gone too far. Doing what he had felt like doing — not even considering what it would do to the other. That short moment of being selfish already beeing too much. It was so rare that he even got comfortable with another that he had the urge to be selfish for once. He should have known better.

Slowly an affectionate smile formed on his features. Softly pulling his lips into a thin line white the corners of his mouth curved up. Barely notable. Obviously with this smile he gave it his all, as faint as it might have been. It was honest, and his way of apologizing.

He was the last wanting to make the Knight feel uncomfortable. Even if this blush on him was one he rather liked.

@fated-fateless

    Everything came to focus with a start.  A freezing cold start, the small-statured woman coming to with a gasp--hands pressing hard into the cold stone brick beneath her as she pushed herself into a sitting position.  It wasn’t just cold, but it was dark; moonlight coming through the clouds in the smallest of slivers.  Silence reigned over the area, and maybe that was the most unnerving part of it all, the absence of the hum of traffic, or the soothing buzz of the powered lights that illuminated the beauty of Cloudbank.

    Wherever she was, it felt...wrong.  This wasn’t Cloudbank.

    A shiver made an audible and visual escape through Red’s mouth as she stood, the air clouding for a brief moment around her lips as she made the effort.  It was then, as she stumbled, trying to keep balance with a broken high heel that she saw another light--a turquoise pulse brightening the area briefly every few seconds.  Arms hugging closer to herself, she stepped closer to that light, eyes glancing about to try and make out where she was.

    It was a bridge.  One long enough to extend past the glow and into the night beyond it, and it was dark enough to where she couldn’t make much out past the sides of it; maybe some faint indication of trees, nothing more.  A frown tugged at the corner of her lips as she tried to bite back the panic that kept raging in her mind and beating rapidly in her chest.  The questions of the whats, whos, and whys were so quickly firing off in her mind that she couldn’t find answers to any of them in time--so instead, it became a routine of putting one foot in front of the other and repeating the process.

    Red closed the distance to the glow, quick enough, blue eyes glancing down to take in what it was--a sword.  Bright and shining, with a red core, the tip of it buried into the old stone of the bridge.  Leaning down, she brushed her fingers across the hilt.  Or at least, that was the intent.

    Something shambled just feet away from her in that deep darkness, a dry hiss coming from a throat that had long since started to decay.  Maybe it was the noise of Red’s sudden arrival that brought the undead knight closer to investigate; decaying fingers gripping tighter onto its rusted sword and shield as it loomed closer.  Red couldn’t make it out completely, but it looked broad in its silhouette.  Instinct won over the still rising panic, and her hands took hold of the glowing sword in a knuckle-white grip, and she pulled.

    ...and pulled.  The sword didn’t budge.

A long wooden chest containing an ancient, but extremely well-preserved, egyptian Khopesh. The 24" sword is made from bronze and has a full metal grip. Along the hooked blade egyptian hieroglyphs and imagery show warriors surrounding and attacking a tree-like monster. There are iridescent stains along the blade and on the grip.

Lorian dips his hands in curse-prevention wax before picking the blade up, watching how the light catches the odd stains. For some reason, he feels hungry...

Go anon and pretend to be my character’s child

Ah, there it was. Curiosity spilling from that little mouth like the rain did outside from the thick clouds hanging in the night sky. It was far too late, he should send him to bed and be done with it — escape being reminded of what the tall male had tried to ignore all this time.

Why did it still hurt so much.

A deep exhale was his way to calm. At least so he tried, knowing very well that shooing his child off to bed now would not be the right decision to make. With the boy still on his lap  the man leaned back making use of the backrest of the couch; managed another exhale to now brace himself for the inevitable surge of feelings about to drown him. Not that he would let his little one know.  Not that there would be the slightest change of emotion in that stern face. Not that he would be anyone else than the apathetic man with his statuesque mien.

Never had his face been the one of a loving father.

Yet oh, he was. How he tried his best to be. Always. That slight change of façade —marble features turning softer for the sole sake of the child. Corners of his mouth curling up barely notably whenever the boy did do something to make him smile. Oh, he cared. He really did.

“ He was… a bit unlucky. Got himself into trouble more than just a few times. “

How clearly he remembered. How they first had met in the depths of the swamp. How he had told him he had been lost there for several hours and was unable to find his way out. Or that one time where he had found him with a broken wrist. How could he forget, the moment revealed to him that beneath all that dirt lay something so beautiful. Or that moment where he had found him almost unconscious, where he had only just managed to lift him up and get him back — with him to faint right in his arms.

Looking back it almost seemed as though life wanted him gone.

“ He was right, and fair. Always wanted to give when there was something he got.

Just like you. “

With the hand on the back coming to a rest the other reached for the child’s bright white hair gently stroking some of the strands aside to reveal to his eyes his lovely face.

Go anon and pretend to be my character’s child

Attentive eyes observed the little one to his side unsure whether it was warmness he craved or body contact. For a moment he considered reaching out and around the smaller frame with an arm, pulling the young boy against his form to give comfort but also find it himself. Every good parent did not want their child to be cold. Eyes traveled to where he had thought the crackling blaze nestled in the fireplace embed into the wall in front of them would be enough. Perhaps he should get up and add some more firewood to stoke the flames. Distraced by his own thoughts again it was not until a faint yet familiar warmth kissed his skin that his eyes widened and shot back at the child and the hand holding out to him what he had thought not to see ever again.“ …I told you not to go into the attic alone. “So cold in tone; harshly spoken to his curious boy as if he had done something bad. With that he simply averted his eyes again; focused on the dancing flames mirroring in his crystalline eyes. Remained indifferent. The crackle of the open fire and bad weather raging outside the only sound to both their ears for a long time, as though the man willingly did ignore his son’s ask. Silence spread over several minutes as he considered what to say.Eventually an arm did extend and reach around the smaller frame to pull him closer; let him sit on top of his lap while he kept the arm around his back to support the boy if he should not feel like leaning against him. The entire time however he did avoid eye contact. Especially with what his son held in his hand. “ It was his, yes. ”Confirmation. Somehow it felt as his boy deserved more. Yet how much could he tell without going too far, how much should he tell before it would be overwhelming potentially hurting the younger one more than it did him any good? Would it not be better to know less than be aware of what it was one was missing. He was deserving of the entire truth.

My muse just coughed up blood! What’s your muse’s reaction?

Hœnir only shook his head to either question as response, pressing lips together in a thin line trying to swallow any further coughing in front of the Knight’s eyes fearing that more red would stain his hands or worse if he did, like spilling some on their attire.

There was no way the Legionnaire would take anything as important as the healing liquid from a man whom owed him nothing, possibly leaving him with the chance to be in need of it later only to be missing this particular flask. No, he would not take that risk.

The Knight was in no way responsible for the Watcher’s health. He did not want him to be and made so clear — refusing the help offered. Instead he just brushed it off, would act as though there was nothing serious going on anyway that could possibly need that sort of treatment, while he did try ignoring that pungent taste of iron in both throat and mouth.