#sunweaves

Mm. Long-haired, of course. One must maintain a certain standard of elegance.

As for the colour... a hint of fire, red. A magnificent creature, naturally demanding of constant adoration. The sort of cat that curls in your lap one moment. . .and the next, sinks fangs into your throat

@sunweaves asked : ∗ o8﹕ sender  shows  up  at  receiver’s  home  late  at  night .

PEOPLE KNOW WHERE HE LIVES. it's not something he typically SHARES but he has , with her. but like the majority of this already small number , marcella has never been inside of his apartment. until tonight , it would seem.

percival should be asleep at this hour , of course. he rarely is &. luckily for the woman knocking at his door he remains consistent. he sets his drink &. paperwork down to step silently across the living room. briefly , he considers taking his gun from the holster but decides against it. someone intending to kill him wouldn't knock. glancing out the peephole , he's surprised to find marcella waiting. there is no hesitation in opening.

❝ marcella ? ❞ typical formality is forgotten in the wake of his concern. ❝ what happened ? what's wrong ? ❞

Gortash is not altogether unlike his precious machines.

With every morsel of power he draws into his grip, there is yet more work to be done. People to manage, decisions to be made. Everywhere he looks there are inadequacies and inefficiencies just waiting to be corrected—as if the whole world is a tangled wreck that can only be rectified by his careful hands. Any other man might be crushed by the sheer weight of the expectations thrust upon him, but Gortash? He lives and breathes for the work. As it piles upon him, he consumes it wholly, letting it occupy the deepest recesses of his over-eager brain.

Still, he is only human.

He still feels the persistent drag of exhaustion—the twinge of strained muscles in his neck and shoulders from too many long hours poring over books and missives. Despite every effort to stay awake and retain his focus, his thoughts drift and choke like ice upon a frozen river. He is tired. He aches. He needs to rest—for all his eager mind resists.

He savors the scalding heat of bathwater as it seeps into tired flesh, soothing hard muscle. But the pains are still there, like the growing echo in an emptying room. A sigh escapes him as he tries once more to focus on the folio of paperwork in front of him, a disorganized sheaf of loose pages assembled for his review. These things need his attention. But he seems to have little attention left to give.

His exhaustion is interrupted by a gasp from the door, the floundering of a familiar redhead as she moves to escape.

“Stop.” That singular word comes as a command, authoritative and immutable despite the frayed edges of his voice. He sets aside the folio of papers, leaning back against the tiled wall of the elaborate bath.

He was so focused on his tangled, half-formed theories that he didn't notice the woman until he'd nearly ran her over. He caught himself half a pace from bumping into her.

"Sorry I-" he blinked, taking in the woman's dress, the holy symbol around her neck, and scoffed. "Well, that's certainly a coincidence." He pulled the symbol of Lathander out from under his shirt collar, holding it up for her to see.

"I'm Arawn, nice to see a friendly face."