#lothis

Here is a list of all the Del Barian characters I found, if you know about others please let me know.

Florian (he/him)-the king of Del Bar

Lissa (she/her)-Viren's ex-wife

Manken (he/him)-dragon hunter

Joffran (he/him)-satirist

Winda (she/her)-hunter

The last days of August had bled into a rainy September so peacefully Lothis had hardly noticed. Passage between the months and seasons came quietly this year, so quietly that he decided Autumn was yet shy; it only revealed itself to him in the privacy between ‘late’ and ‘early’, when the cool whisper of change lingered on the night wind, or when the sun picked out every leaf that had beaten the others to wear Fall’s livery of crimson and gold. The change started slowly here, even if it was more pronounced than it ever was in Quel’Thalas.

A thin piece of twine, pulled tight between her fingers and looped in on itself, made a fine ‘ribbon’ to finish off the parcel. Crisp, pleasantly crinkling parchment sounded downright magical to her ears.

She set this larger package- far more fragile than the first, down atop the heavy, old quilt spread across her’s and Kori’s seaside bed, and assessed the gifts with glimmering, amethyst eyes. 

The wee one was adorned with pine cones she’d picked up near the tavern the other night, when she absently followed one of the hounds that milled about the yard from dusk to den. Inside was a delicate, glass vial she’d prepared especially for her recipient: chock full of sweet dreams to be had, and sealed with her own thumbprint set in dark wax. It had been nothing to put together this particular item, an extension of the work few knew was in her ken. But it could- and would, she smirked to herself- prove a great deal more significant to the man whose nightly ventures it could improve. And then there was the larger package this one simpler still in its plain wrapping, evergreen tucked into the rough string ties. It smelled like winter by the sea, and this suited her senses well. Inside lay the result of many hours’ worth of collecting, sorting, and careful construction by hand with a pot of glue and fragrant smoke curling around her head. Sea glass and riotous colour, coaxed into order within its own chaos. She had instantly thought to invoke the sunshine imagery of the elven capitol- though she’d opted instead for a low-burning eventide in lieu of bright, midday splendour. It seemed a more appropriate image to offer a man who’d obviously seen his fair share of sun-ups and sun-downs, and been left less than whole over the course of their travels. That she’d thought to frame a simple mirror with her handiwork was merely a practical choice- though if the man chose to take a good, hard look at himself now and again, she knew it couldn’t hurt.  Completing the arrangement was a brown note card, slipped beneath the taut twine and secured. Here, she’d fashioned a holiday greeting of sorts, her untidy scrawl stretching across the card in thick, dark ink. Now it was perfect for leaving outside Melisande’s door.

Dear Lothis, I thought to offer you two things this Winter’s Veil: restful sleep, full of sweetness and light, the kind of which everyone is deserving at some time or another, and a glimpse into your present, here in Tol Barad with the rest of us. Tuck the former beneath your pillow, lie back and enjoy (you can do this, can’t you?). And the latter is best hung somewhere you can’t ignore.  Everything you see in these parcels comes from right here, in this strange, place we call home. As much as it’s full of cobwebs and clouds, you can rest assured there is a great deal of beauty to be had if you are willing to look.  Cheers, Lothis. I hope you enjoy a splendid holiday season. Warmest regards, Vesper

I can’t recall - what devil or spirit carries fire in their hair and forgiveness at their fingertips? What are you - other than impossible - to be in my arms again as Dawn approaches with His grey lantern?

Myth comes closest, but even that stumbles in the end. Humans tell stories of selkies, beautiful daughters of the sea whose precious skin is held and hidden for love's ransom. They're torn from the water and made wives by guile or force - but sailors never sang of any who flayed themselves raw by choice. None of them walked willingly ashore with open arms and open eyes.

None other than you. Only you're that foolish, to freely pass your life into this beggar's cupped and dirty hands. Charitable to the point of self-destruction, you dutifully mutilate yourself to make a shelter of strong arms and stout ribs, murmured charms and warm lips on mine. You tear away your spotted flesh to swathe my ugly, hateful self, and sew it tight with the heart's bloody strings, to keep the world away from me. And for what? You spat the question at me and forgot it in an instant, but I remember; I know that your love is frittered away and cheapened by my paltry recompense. All my strength pales in comparison to this unyielding spirit and my heart is withered, too narrow, too thoroughly bled dry to shield even myself against misfortune, so what succor could it provide for one like you?

What do you want? I've asked so often that you must suspect, by now, that I don't believe your answers, about wanting my heart spread over your tongue. They come to you guilelessly. The flush in your cheeks when you bare yourself to answer time and time again is too pure to be wholly trusted.

A nail scratches my side slowly when those lovely fingers ball up. You're waking. I'm struck by your eyes as you stir. They harbor their own peculiar light, like beacons of burnished metal and glass; I enjoy a glimpse of the dawn with each flutter of your heavy lids. It won't be long before you rise and turn that lighthouse gaze on me once more, to bring me in from the depths of my musing.

I wonder how long I can rely on those burning signals to reach for me. Silence is preserved awhile longer as my hands knead your back, and your breathing slows once more. "I'm here", I murmur, another half-truth. The way your ears twitch at the sound inspires song just before rumblings of self-loathing drown it out.

I could hate how perfectly you fit when cradled in my arms. I do, sometimes. Your sacrifice is worth far more fleeting touches I gift and the breathlessness you bid me dive for between your thighs. There ought to be a golden moment heavy in your pocket for every gentle crash of your heart as I feel it murmur against my chest.

Love deserves a fairer trade for a fairer soul. But for now, I'm as much a beggar as you named me, or a thief, living hand to mouth and night to night. I'm powerless to resist you, the legend turned on its head: instead of hiding away your sealskin, I've been snared in it like a prize catch. Everything is out of order. Almost everything.

Beggars can't be choosers. I'll not turn you away, though I should.

A thief believes everyone steals. My suspicion is shameful but insistent, pernicious in its evaluation of your 'real' aim.

And in every story I can bring to mind, the selkie always returns to the sea in the end. But so long as our pleasant fiction bucks tradition, I feel compelled....

It's easier than I thought to form the words, the first time in years they haven't been uttered with metal thorns in my palm.

"I love you”, I whisper to the seamaid. And I do.

On the first night I saw you, I had traveled to a distant shore for idle pleasure. You traded drinks for answers, morsels for merriment, and I forgot to remain aloof when you smiled. Still, I divined your true nature at night’s end as you tempted me to meet again in your home harbour. Temptation was meant to be endured no matter how appealing. I promised nothing. I knew, as sure as there was ground beneath my feet, that I would never hear your call again. You meant to take me to deep waters if I answered that call, and I was still wary of drowning.

By the second night I had waded into familiar shallows looking for temptation, casting my net for silken tresses to surpass the dark between the stars. Fishing for eyes that reflected the Twisting Nether above. Resigned to slack, wholly unprepared for when the line drew taught, I found myself beside your wave of bloodied-sunset hair. Your lips split into a grin fit for a shark.

Later, aimlessly splashing in your wake, I saw an isle that had once been known intimately; the memory of bones broken and treasured things lost weighted my limbs, and I sank into the bottle you offered when that freckled coast slipped beneath the horizon. Later, I had a chance encounter with white sails and golden lanterns, a patchwork vessel guided by unbreakable faith--one that knew me by name and approached me without shame. It was all too much to bear in one night. You guided me to a safe depth while I wept over all the things I’d jettisoned in years past.

Waking alone the next day, I judged that there was still no danger. Your playful darting called to mind too many near disasters for me to succumb. I would remain unmoved. I knew I would return to shore soon, unhurried, in my own time. So why not swim for awhile, if the opportunity was there? What could the harm be, after so long?

Excuses made in the privacy of my own head, justifying the slow erosion of my desire to remain alone.

Each encounter came as regularly as the tides. You would appear to me each night and I would fail to escape the current encircling you, finding myself drifting inexorably away from the safety of dry land. Day and night began to blur. Each half-hearted push away was weaker than the last, and I soon found myself treading water even in your absence, scanning the horizon for streaks of crimson, head filled with your echoing call and the taste of salt ever on my lips.

In the end, I sought you out myself, only a full week after our first meeting.

My last night atop the waves was a clear one, both moons limning the sand and the water alike in silver. There’s a special recollection of your greedy smile and the warm, exploratory fingers against my chest. I question you the final time, reminding you there are many others you could coax away to be your willing meal.

“I’ve had my fill of little fish.” The smile reaches every part of your golden eyes.

I happily drown.

So he’s a rake?

An epicurean, perhaps.

People aren’t foodstuffs.

For him, there’s only consuming.

It gnawed away until he bled disquiet, staining all thoughts, each bite driving his mind toward confession.

He had, eventually. Sunhawk recognized his concern, retreating to ruminate.

Later, new guilt for old. Platinum exchanged for crimson.

Honeyed fire teases, sieges my lips. Cold pride goes crawling down my throat. Warm Sweetness lingers at my fingertips And on my tongue, as your kiss once did.

I can’t bear to rise and meet your sight To say: “I’ve changed more than I should like, And while sea breezes thrill, warm, and bite As I require, still…” My shame forbid

All confession, hopes the same as sins. So it’s honeycakes and pepperflakes, A gaze in passing, once a moon. This Aching, thorn-worked feeling I have hid

Will, with honest labour, be eclipsed; Imperfections hidden from the light.

The folded note had been placed in an envelope more for modesty’s sake than any practical purpose. Unmarked by any postal codes or stamps, it had been left just inside the Velvet Brier’s door early in the morning, weighted down by an equally unassuming drawstring bag of grey linen that made up for it’s appalling drabness with the pleasant, chiming heft of gold inside.