#oooomgggg

@ramblingsofamoonwatcher

Dibella sparks him onto Immortal Glory, as Ophelia’s soft, false lips in all their glamor press gently to his lips, struck’d for the golden Bell at those salt-smelling docks beside RIften’s lower apothecary.

Is Roland frozen to the spot, those boards what slosh from their quiet ripples dabbl’ng gently at his lithe boots, and his lips remain soft and awe’d as he stares down upon her; as she cups his cheek, and kisses him again, and Roland hast that instinctual gall to reciprocate into that nurturing press.

Is he naught the Cunning, the Beguiler, the Poet and the Handsome Quirk, but his brows furrow and he resists to kiss her again at her tender, innocent mouth. He swallows tightly: conniving with his own Pride and feeling that swirl of moral disquiet twist inside his own belly, at his own wants and needs to taste at her inhuman tongue. “That---” breathes he, his voice cracking from the limb of base hiding. He clears his throat.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!!!!!!