HIATUS - Break

official notice that i’m taking a break from tumblr for a bit. just a typical “need time away to rest, relax, recuperate.” work’s been wearing me down and my desire to write has been worn down with it, so i’m just going to make this a hiatus until i feel like picking things back up again.

i’ll be logged in on mobile over at @vattghcrn and will likely still be very slowly doing replies on that blog, but activity will be dead here for an indefinite time.

sorry for the sudden disappearance, but thanks for your patience and i hope to have my energy back soon!

——— 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕗𝕖𝕖𝕝 𝕒𝕟𝕪𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘.

gamenu:

        “I-…oh c’mon! Me shieldin’ my eyes ain’ gonna stop othas from lookin’! Quick, where’s tha bes’ place ta kinda hermit this stuff out?”

     “Hm... Very well.      Shall I BREAK the fingers of the artists—?      Or simply blind the entire world?”

    “My dear— They wield a POWER beyond even me.      An artist will do as an artist PLEASES...      Simply—shield your eyes.”

         “UNCLE AARAVOS! Please don’t let them draw creepy thin’s of me!”

( @arcanawise​ )

burstbombbitch:

           ☪️ —— Chin and cheek, pillowed by fingers knitted within mirrored crevices, teeter left come tilted head’s intrigue. Lengthy lashes fan face, blinks slow and observant as her body cranes forth, elbows pillowing her quilted digits and their toted head.

Heels hang ‘round the metallic base of her stool’s legs, the sharp angle that kept them three inches from ground hugging the rims as her drink — still within periphery — has been forlorn in favor of fascination.

Tap twice does the swing of idle feet — though reverb renders a rather metallic sound, hollow-barreled and leather-gripped   ( though clarity uncorrected with ethereal haze disguising their indistinct shape, were those… guns attached to her boots? ).   ❝ Is that so, ❞   sings she, brow arched atop narrowing doe eyes.

❝ Good. ❞  

While her words held water, in regards to her content for his companionship, her trigger-finger’s density could drown all sense of compassion should halo hover over head. Such animosity hides beneath painted portraits of placid pleasantries, tongue breezing by parched lips.   ❝ Oh… onecould say that. ❞  

Twisted fingers furl 'round flute’s stem, glass toted to lips for liquid relief as bustling conversation abound drowns her guzzling out.   ❝ I call this world my home, though the inhabitants harbor hatred for my kind. ❞  

Her gaze pierces glass, for it remains before her mien, content betwixt rosebud lips.   ❝ So forgive my suspicions — I anticipate battle as one does the tick of second-hand. ❞   A taut smile.   ❝ Though it eases my nerves to know one of those two is snugly under my control. Where, then, would you deem home? ❞  

    And indeed—he is no more IMMUNE to her than any other poor soul to wander into her orbit, because she FASCINATES with little more than a blink of thick lashes over cheeks that seem to SPARKLE as much as his own. She tempts and intrigues without effort beyond the little twitches of shapely lips and how they ripple in effect over her face; Aaravos drinks her in because SIGHT is all he has. Because he must, should he hope to achieve any small thing from this chance encounter—a great many persist in their tediousness, their MONOTONY, and so the few to garner his curiosity beyond a simple need to toy and play... He cherishes them as fleeting as they are PRONE to be.

    This world isn’t his. This world will NEVER be, for he is devoid of that desire altogether.      He cannot say how long this little STAR in the galaxy of his being will twinkle before fading out.

    Close eye tarrying on her mouth to not miss a single uttered syllable, he in his silence regards the momentary PINCH as she addresses her thirst, concealed for the moment behind the lip of her glass before providing more. Then does he press in close to the counter and find perch for his elbow, as the POISE of his character slips into something more RELAXED: his own discreet ruse of innocuity. A display meant to demonstrate all lacking hostility—and that is far from a LIE.

    “Then I suppose it is not too ‘homey’ of a HOME, now is it?” the archmage suggests, chin rolling in his palm to cant his head. And it is not the first nor last experience of what she mentions; no... Aaravos is rather positive he has not yet found a world where HATRED doesn’t exist. Sentience is what creates it. 

    His fingers drum over starlit skin when he successfully deciphers her own inquiry, PILLOWED by pleasantries. Slowly do his brows lift toward the matching tendrils in his face; he peers away for a BREATH. “I can imagine an answer of ‘Somewhere you’d not know,’ or ‘Far from here’ would not suffice for your SHARP mind—disregarding, of course, how true both statements stand.” The glowing moons in their SHADOWY pools drift back to her face. “My home... Well, I can’t in confidence say I have one—not anymore. But where it once was... a plane entirely apart from this one. I suppose I don’t much belong ANYWHERE.”

dryadalismagicae:

AN INTIMATE SANCTUARY? Somewhere in which he could curl up and feel safe in theunknown world around him should it all become too overwhelming, though given howcomfortable he had been made within an instant meant that Lyrian somewhat doubted he wouldreach an overwhelmed stage. Aaravos gave off an air in which was wonderfully relaxed andcontrolled – that the Dalish male couldn’t help but be perfectly at ease. That didn’t mean, however, that he would not take time to adjust – Lyrian was nomadic, remaining in one place for too long was often distressful to him but since he couldn’t leave where he was - - - it would be a journey into acceptance. THEN, HOWEVER, DO Lyrian’s thoughts stagger and the understanding of having to adjust was pushed aside with the image of resting soundlessly alongside Aaravos to rest and within but an instant did his pale features and elongated ears flush a vibrant red. “Well – “ Lyrian found it in himself to begin to speak, twisting the ends of his hair around his finger in a mild distraction; “There’s nothing wrong with a nice cuddle.” And it’s a decision he stands by – it wasn’t something he was  entirely shy of, or he wouldn’t be if he wasn’t so very aware of Aaravos’ beauty and stature; Lyrian was dainty in comparison and he didn’t doubt that it would be rather warm and comforting; for the both of them. Still, his cheeks shone red. BUT EYES WATCHED; the grazing of his knee eyed softly before resting upon the upward palm; glittering and once again does a smile overtake his features. Once he takes a pause, Lyrian accepts the hand he is offered, with long fingers, and takes but a moment before he decides to stand. Wobbly was he upon his legs, seeking brief stabilisation by reaching his other hand out so to grasp Aaravos’ bicep, a shaky breath following;

“At least – I know if I do fall you’ve more than ample strength to catch me – hmm..?” And thus he casts a cheeky smile upward, emerald eyes full of mischief alongside shyness. Bare feet shuffle in order to get a better stance and though Lyrian remains somewhat shaky he doesremain upright, if not only for his grip on Aaravos.

    This, perhaps, is the CHARM he’s missed the most of interaction—though even then he cannot recall what more has been ABSENT, centuries all but erasing recollection of the deeper intimacies involved in CONTACT; Aaravos latches on to what minimal access he has without truly fathoming he’s only brushed the tip of a deeply submerged iceberg. Even after so extended a solitude, this aspect remains simple, natural, HABITUAL—and as those quips and coltish teases roll off his tongue as easily as if he’s not been ALONE, the reward continues to encourage him. Swaths of red splash over his guest’s cheeks, creep up to the sharp points of his ears, and an excited HUM at the archmage’s core beckons his smile to encroach on the splattering of stars beneath his stare. Oh, how delightful it is to incite such a REACTION—! He’s not been able to play in quite some time...

    But he humbles himself to not be OVERTLY obvious. Joyous as the sparkle is in his eye, Aaravos keeps an inclination to chuckle at bay, warmth rolling through his lungs but refusing to expel anything but a small breath. The tilt of his head sends weight of alabaster locks SCOOPING over that shoulder, and his nose crinkles with mischief. “Nothing wrong indeed,” he agrees—as if he has a RIGHT to, much less the gall to imply that he’d not be utterly taken, overwhelmed, weak to touch so encompassing. It is, without his conscious reckoning, a threat very real to a countenance too PRIDEFUL to shatter. A dignity: like he’s to lose so much as a shred of it by revealing the true FRAGILITY at his core.

    No harm in a little FUN, he wants to believe.

    Though some part of him is reminded of the CONSEQUENCES when that hand finally slides into his own—and the other solidly anchors itself to his arm.

    They are two different points of contact. And two different TYPES: gentle fingers grazing over the sensitive skin of his palm, sprouting TINGLES in their wake, and the firm, impossible-to-ignore grip over his muscle. Aaravos tests the weight against him and ensures he properly HOLD it while his own legs feel a peculiar QUAKE down to the marrow of his bones. Not visibly, discernibly... only to himself—he swallows down a fluttering breath and meets the CHEEKY grin proving how utterly purposeful this is.

    “You should HOPE as much,” he comes back as if he’s not so pathetically lost himself for a moment. Acquainting himself further with the sensations incredibly STARK on starved flesh, Aaravos ventures another hand forward (a risk he’s willing to take) to slide it down one of Lyrian’s elbows—from there, he hoists him up to a STURDIER position. Then, he begins to lead him toward the door, eyes persistently gliding down to assure that his feet won’t SLIP out from under him. “Is it a habit of yours to FALL often—?” An impish brow quirks in his sidelong glance. “Perhaps I am to better PREPARE myself. I'd not want you to swoon before I can catch you.”

"What use could I possibly have for you?"

@chosenrule

    His steps HESITATE—one foot freezing on the heel prelude to a graceful roll which keeps his gait quiet—and he is, for that moment, GRATEFUL that his face is turned. That his back is all an unanticipated guest can see while a visage SLIPS, lips part, a stare goes nearly fearful as it directs itself straight ahead. Aaravos cannot read him here, even the placid silk of his tone; he cannot tell if there exists an IMPUDENCE to the query—and perhaps due in part to the error of permitting his own emotions get the BEST of him. Because certainly… he knows, deep down, what PATHETIC weakness in him yearns for the other to stay. Foolish and trivial. The archmage DESPISES that he be so vulnerable and go so far as to need a complete stranger for reasons mundane. He WONDERS…

    Does this curious thing understand that trifle? Or does he wield a question in innocence Aaravos does not know? People are always wanting something. Always SCHEMING on their own ends to meet a desired result, and those who do not? They’re the PITIABLE. And so what of Sephiroth?

    Why do you wish to know? Have you not already put together those PIECES?

    Somewhat of an irritable twitch in his ears. An exhale rides out slow, and then Aaravos twists his torso to shoot his companion a look once he’s GATHERED himself; he paints a simper over his lips. “Why, provide RIVETING company for educational purposes,” he breaches confidently, and there is some TRUTH to his answer. “You are, after all, unlike any being with whom I’ve the PLEASURE of speaking.” A hand brandishes out beside his hip, and the eager flames in the hearth dwindle somewhat under INFLUENCE. “There may be plenty we’ve yet to learn from each other. Is that of no interest to you?”

                     ❄❄❄ Independent and Selective Itsuki of Sengoku Basara ❄❄❄                                                   ❄ Loved by Beckowsky ❄

Crossover and AU Friendly

Multiship and Multiadoptable

Script, Dialogue, Para, Novella, etc.

Mun is over 18 (Muse can be aged up depending on what verse)

Mostly SFW, but might contain some NSFW content, which will be appropriately tagged and censored.

Also featuring side muses of the same series

Blog is not spoiler-free

                              FAQ // ITSUKI AND CO. // OTHER BLOGS                                        ART CREDIT -  弥南 AND むなかた

@witchxr​ || starter!

    “Are you at all FAMILIAR with the concept of sleep—?” Indeed, he says this as he himself remains awake, alert, far from BOTHERED by the hour which paints the sky a pattern kindred to that flecked across his own skin. From behind does he approach his companion, and despite that distance still erect between them, his timbre hums FULL and rich in the weave of their minds—what the physical world cannot otherwise TOUCH. He has, for a considerable lull, left the witcher to his devices (momentary and SCARCE, long as Aaravos has trotted at his side like a CAT he’s fed and now refuses to leave him alone).

    But it is WEARISOME, boring, and an extended period of lacking any amount of attention has spurred the archmage seek it himself. As he does now. Not without the playful CAPER of his fingers over curls (he can only assume their SOFTNESS from vision alone) at the back of Will’s head. A further summon of his regard, should voice alone not be ENOUGH.

    Too does he lean in, arc his body over the smaller, and crane his neck to get a GLIMPSE of what book wields interest. His lips gently purse, and his alabaster brows sink in toward each other with THOUGHT—accentuated in a melodious hum. “What have we here?” The idle twirling of golden locks around one finger is undoubtedly played to be NONCHALANT, mindless. But he does so in entire cognizance of his actions. “Are you taking notes of some manner?”

— He’s not gracing that with an answer.

@dryadalismagicae​

dreamsworn:

                Pride colours the aristocrat handsomely, even as His Excellency poises himself as (almost) convincingly humble before the eyes of his companion in his determined veneration. Not quite an illusion, for there is nothing untrue in the deep, sea-like growl of his praising voice or the careful performance of every kiss that has joined the elf’s diamond-bright skin–all meaning something, all genuine in their implications. But he does not hide the way his cunning eyes darken with glee below the gilding of his lashes, or how his pointed smile creases into his cheek when the archmage melts into that miniscule kindness of his caressing hand–when he so indulgently ponders just how long the Count can stand to charm and amuse and entertain. His answer first is laughter, canorous and velvet as it seeps into the intimate quiet of their surroundings. The hand poised in idle adoration on that star-swept cheek emboldens its efforts with a thumb dancing tenderly upon the constellations brightening the man’s skin, as volcanic eyes lazily blink into the wolfish stare of his companion. “I could find myself asking the same of you.” He drawls pleasantly in a tune that is hushed, mirthful–the expression gilding his face turned theatrically impish as much as it is adoring when it accompanies those words. All the better to sell the effect of a voice he knows is not quite heard to his other’s imagination. “A fountain of plenty, a cup that runneth over, an endless vein of the extraordinary that never does cease to please and bespell. You fascinate me, Aaravos. That I fascinate you likewise in our togetherness, or that at least I amuse and delight? Ah…you will forgive that I am empty of any intentions to relent in my effort to delight you.” The thought is joined by that hand mapping its dauntless way elsewhere, fingertips whispering delicately over the shell of the mage’s ear when, needlessly, another moonlit lock is brushed away and behind (an excuse already seen through the first time, one he deliberately proposes again–this time with a look of knowing exchanged between them.) A purr rises in His Excellency’s throat when his touch lingers, considering and anticipatory before his fingers swim through the other’s hair in earnest–and he keenly watches the illusion of it slips fine and silken and sea-foam white over the blue of his beckoning hand. “I imagine you as no less persistent. Or perhaps it is that you cannot help the persistence of your magnificence. You are, by virtue of merely being, a storm upon the senses. It does not shame me to admit that I cannot watch you, share time with you, and be else but enraptured in your company.”

             Honey-sweet, thick with blessings. Their praise as always pours with the deliciousness of honesty as they croon and warble to one another like this, delighting as much in the saying of it as the receiving of it. And what praise can’t fit into words and tongues, the Count fashions into the sweeping gestures of touch–no matter that hidden place inside himself that laments the same as the elf in knowing it can’t be relished at its purest. No less, he treats the imagination to a scene with the delicate performance of his smiling lips, expressive eyes, the hand that wanders and grazes the base of one obsidian horn crowning the mage’s head as the Count tilts back his own. Drinking all of Aaravos in with his bright, lordly eyes as they shamelessly rove the ethereal loveliness of the other man’s face. “You prove it possible,” he insists in languid reply, both to that midnight voice and the lavishing hand that strokes its path down the strong cut of the Count’s jaw, that he leans eagerly toward (where it leaves a shudder of delight in its wake, a ripple of phantom magic upon the chill of his flesh.)  “As perhaps I merely withhold my awe for what demands its deserving. The many colours and spectacles of this world and its people, or even of the stars now so far outside of ourselves from whence we came–they dazzle me no more as once they had. But so I have already confessed…you have appeared to me, and are bewitching simply in being who you are. Yet have I myself not done so little to deserve the sweet music of your praise? Your eagerness to satisfy?”

              And he does not keep them from deepening the intimacy of their togetherness. He does shy from that hand reaching overside his head for purchase on the chair at his back, the knee positioning itself between his own to hoist that comely figure closer into what little space between them there was. But he rises to meet it, even as his posture opens and relaxes into the velvet seat of where he finds himself held suddenly (willingly) captive; where one hand wavers to instead cradle the nape of the elf’s neck, the other opens the cool, welcoming breadth of its palm upon the man’s thigh. Gentle–ephemeral, even, when it airily saunters a path toward the mage’s hip, only then to travel higher to press itself into the narrow trim of his companion’s waist.

           “I ponder what more I could ask of your abundant generosity.” His voice deepens in his throat, eyes heavy with new, unbridled pleasure–hiding nothing of himself before the yellowing moonlight of the other’s gaze when the hand at the elf’s nape welcomes him closer.Dangerously close. Forsaking perhaps some clarity in the shapes his mouth pronounce when his head is set to a tilt, when the words spinning off his silver tongue are spoken instead in whispering softness against his other’s lips. “When you have given so much that already I ache inside myself with its immensity.”

    He cannot recall a time when he has felt so much while having so LITTLE. When he has experienced every numb sensation like it is a tumbling wave, every skittering jolt of static beneath the surface, and all without having the TANGIBLE world from which it is offered. Because undoubtedly, the nature of his being has not shifted for this interaction alone: wise enough to not permit his hopes lift higher than reality can MEET, and yet... humorously— This is far from REALITY, and somehow through it all, it is as exquisite as if there is nothing barring him from his company at all. His flaw, perhaps, resides there, in that notion that he require a physical presence wherever his broken soul wanders to DELIGHT in what comes only natural for all others. That he should make the mistake that each touch be fruitless on flesh that cannot sense it—that it is FAKE and the work of a mind pathetically attempting to remember what it craves.

    How MUNDANE can he possibly get?     Illusions, imagination, stories illustrated from within offer so much more than the outside world; he has, he muses then, simply needed the perfect SCRIBE to drive inclinations into ink, and now—?

    Oh, how SPLENDOROUS their creation.

    Aaravos soon chokes all reminders of the shackles pinning him an entire world away, and as if not a mere PIECE of a whole, focuses every ounce of his being into this exchange alone. He recreates himself for this soul by whom he is fascinated, ATTRACTED as much, if not plenty more than the Count is in return. And whether or not a thread of this will resonate across the candles he keeps burning—counting, TALLYING in a near endless isolation—is a future he for once cares so LITTLE about. He does not think to the outcome as he is wont to do, a mind trained by the STARS and their portents. Peculiarly. With no degree of regret, nor thought to an impending, Aaravos lives, exists in this moment all on its own.

    Words from his side have lessened considerably in their exchange; though he with a mighty THIRST drinks in all that this doting character chooses to give him, simultaneously does he lose himself in compliments and caresses alike—like one FEARING he may miss a stuttering beat if he steals even a moment to embrace the other in a sonorous tone only their minds can reach. Further does he sink down—both body and soul—into the space they’ve chosen to occupy TOGETHER, and steadier do his eyes steel on the gems like licks of FIRE in front of him: both appearance and in the way they burn by mere contact. A good, molten warmth cherished as much as everything else. Aaravos turns his head to every movement, minimal or otherwise, as if a feline following the hand of the one person whom they’ve permitted touch. Fingers through rivers of starlight, he can CRAFT for himself the minute pull and the weight of those long tresses that shift languidly on the same trail. He senses—in his own way—the venture of those same curious and reverent digits while they glide over the elegant curve of one horn. And, much more noticeably when within immediate sight even as he declines RUPTURING the lock of their eyes, how brazen passion has evolved—

    A palm grazes along the length of his thigh, slow to his hip, finding a home on his waist, and... indeed. He needn’t the physical plane to divulge how DELIGHTFUL it should (rather, does) feel; there, beyond corporeal, the gesture filters life into his bones. A single exhale that SWELLS in a flutter through every limb. Oh, there is more yet. Just now is he learning how to BREATHE.

    “My dear Count—” After so long a QUIET, he beckons his voice. Without need for any slight twitch of his lips, Aaravos still moves them, plain and CLEAR as they draw closer to eliminate any distance still endeavoring to stay between. “I would not extend so ABUNDANT a generosity were it not too suitable of my own interest... my own DESIRES, and those I’d claim unspoken if not for the conversations woven in our silences. You shouldn’t mistake my declaration for disdain, but it is not so simple a matter as that between HEARTS; I believe we equally are too beyond in years and mature to fall for something so banal. This is, INTIMATELY so, of our minds.” Like a phantom, those lips dance over his: another breath to his body gasping for more. “And perhaps it is that I find aching in myself—for what you’ve offered and what yet will COME.”

    Fluid is the turn of his head, slow and DELIBERATE as his mouth brushes plainly over the corner of the Count’s. A tease returned. “So you will INDULGE me, won’t you?” His hand mimics that of the palm on his nape, but rather cushions the cut of a shapely jaw to graciously—but with PURPOSE—steer him precisely as he wants him. The promise he has given him in so small a touch upon his mouth brandishes itself fleetingly in his face before Aaravos has in pronounced nonchalance chosen a different path: that which brings his own mouth to the cheek opposite of his hand POSITIONING him. A slow, deliberate venture of his lips, ghosting across skin that can only be yielded from imagination, and he pauses only at the gentle slope of his neck. There, a KISS asserts itself.

    “—if it in turn means I can keep you enraptured?”

i don’t need to say this since it’s obvious in all interactions and just a widely accepted thing in general but  aary having touch deprivation?? makes it actually super easy to sit him down and put him in his place tbh.

because the thing is, he’s the kind of personality who teases and torments and lives off the reactions he can incite in someone—because he on his end maintains his composure and doesn’t have to worry about it being turned around on him in most verses where he doesn’t have the “threat” of touch available.

he can dish it out, but when it’s returned? he’s honestly pretty pathetic. and i’m saying that in a nice way bc understandably the tiniest touch after centuries of isolation SHOULD be ground-breaking, but yknow.

not even sexually (hooboy that’s a whole experience and a half) just legitimately someone holding his hand—even less: someone just barely brushing his skin and he has a reaction, whether it’s muted or not.

so the point i’m trying to make here: aary acts all tough and dominant and in control but

barely even lay your finger on him in a verse where he can actually feel it and

honey, you’ve got a big storm coming.

"Only while bored?" Lyrian responded, feigning hurt: "You make it sound as if my COMPANY wouldn't be SATISFYING enough at any other time." Fingers tapped lips softly, in thought though he couldn't resist continuing to smile. His fingers move, trailing along the very edges of his companions ears: so softly, so gently.

@dryadalismagicae || Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

    “Well, well.” His words are predominantly on an EXHALE, timbre light and wistful. “It may interest you to know, my dear Lyrian, that I am ‘bored’ quite often, and should I wish for something, SOMEONE to fill that monotony, then…” The weight of his head swings to one side, angling so that he must regard his companion with an upward stare, impish KNITTING of his brows shadowing pools already dark. His fingers drum with juvenile playfulness upon the table, and yet— No, oh no; Lyrian has not quite finished this brush of COURAGE.

    And no matter its LURE, Aaravos pities that he is not more aptly PREPARED.

    Long has he prided himself in preserving a composure in all situations he weathers, in constant hold of an upper hand—of the REINS of interaction so that he may not expose what weaknesses he himself refuses exist. But, without recognition, without it possibly being as CONSCIOUS an effort as it seems, Lyrian has keenly uncovered one. Futile. A MISTAKE from Aaravos’s end that he let it be known for even a moment how desperately his body yearns for touch—

    Moreover, how pathetically sensitive the whole of him is, particularly those ears to which the FIENDISH little feline has shifted his focus.

    Feather-light. But it is the TEASE that makes it all the stronger. Star-kissed skin shudders beneath the wanton glide of fingers, flesh against flesh resounding and igniting a fresh crack of ELECTRICITY down his spine. When he takes in a breath, its pace is slow enough to betray the QUAKE, and so his exhale forces itself out in a sigh to combat it. “You should know—your company is beyond satisfactory.”

The elf's smirk widens; "If you'd rather me on my KNEES, I am sure that can be ARRANGED."

@dryadalismagicae || Part 1 | Part 2

    Tempting. So remarkably TEMPTING, and it sings more in his expression than any words can convey; Aaravos squares the eager little thing with an unabashed smile. His chuckle remains deep in his throat while he scrutinizes a fiery SMIRK stretching plush lips, and he takes opportunity to feign needless contemplation of the offer.

    “Perhaps it can be,” he hums. “Something we most certainly must EXPLORE, should we find ourselves dreadfully bored.”

☆*｡◦ A A R A V O S

youareaservant:

His memories of the Sunfire elves’ “purification” is a blur now, though his body remembers it well enough. Viren’s vision is still hazy in the corners and his head pounds, his throat burns in the aftermath of the–creature’s ascent through him. It doesn’t matter. Power still thrums through his body like a heartbeat and it is intoxicating, more intense than the day he and Harrow slew Thunder, than the day he willed the earth to thaw and the seasons themselves to bend to his will. He’s still chasing the high, hands clutched tight around the spoils of their victory, feeling its energy course through him like a closed circuit.

The final battle stood before them, and Xadia would never see them coming. Retribution a thousand years in the making, justice long overdue.

Viren knows instinctively that it is not the wind moving through his hair, and his breath catches, a chill running through a body burning hot.  

“Loyalty?” Before, he might have rolled his eyes at that suggestion. Now his only reaction is a smirk, as he admires the swirling void of the orb atop the staff. “No, I trust you’re not serving anyone’s goals but your own. But our goals line up adequately enough, for the time being.” He closes his eyes, letting out a contented hum at the flow of magic through his body. “More than adequately.”

    There is something utterly ALLURING—if not entirely infectious—about seeing his prized partner in such a state: suspicion waning beneath the power now alive like static burning through every vein. That he should now refrain from SCRUNCHING his nose at the archmage’s every word, second guess all correspondence hardly different from a skittish CAT refusing to let down its guard for even a blink... Indeed, he keeps his WITS about him, understanding better than many the personal benefits to arise for each, but that if nothing else secures their RELATIONSHIP. Viren can trust him because this too is what Aaravos needs, and truly—what AMUSES him so—there is no better guarantee of alliance, of loyalty.

    Perhaps now they comfortably see eye-to-eye.

    “For the ‘time being,’” he parrots, contented smile sharpening the more he observes the other, and the more he in turn can feel a ripe and INTOXICATING energy. “I do hope that time LASTS. This has been far too fun to wish for a conclusion; perhaps we’ve yet to even reach its HEIGHT—the climax.” Closer he brings himself, now poised prim and PROPER by his side: one tiny step behind to illustrate their roles. “You have me until then. I would wager even LONGER. Xadia will see just what we—what you—are capable of.”

There was no denying the utter BLUSH across the elf's expression but he remained entirely still where he was, grinning. "Ahead of myself? Ah - says he of whom has done nothing but PAMPER me since I arrived." A pause; "You already let me sleep on the end of your BED. Perhaps i should start brushing against your leg when I'm happy to see you." And once more does he angle plush lips to an ear to speak lowly; "And purring in gratitude."

@dryadalismagicae || Part 1

    Oh, so he’s becoming BRAZEN now, is he? Beyond expectation, and EXQUISITELY so… Though Aaravos is rightly taken aback by the audacity, it reveals itself only in the minute widening of his stare—because no, his lips hook higher and the STONE in his chest hums a melody with which he is unfamiliar. Charming. Lovely. This is a DELECTABLE turn of events. Like a giddy child, a newfound energy pops and roars like fire through every vein.

    And his shudder exposes itself PROMINENTLY, the second instance: something more deliberate about the positioning of those lips alongside the shell of his ear. Again, he stiffens because he cannot help an innate response, nor how much he YEARNS for even so slight a touch as mere exhales over his skin. His blink is long, SLUGGISH, and his own breath falls in a stutter before he wills his composure back—wrangles it into SUBMISSION before giving too much of himself away.

    Since then have his fingers curled away from Lyrian’s face, forming a gentle fist his elbow props sturdily from the desk. He arches a brow when their eyes meet again, and at first grants him only a contemplative HUM while skimming the features of his pale visage. “Tempting. But then that wields implications that there ever be a time you are not pleased to see me,” he raises. “Or do you plan on always having yourself at my FEET, ready to commit your GRATITUDE?”