#Duke Theotar
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Day 1: Love is in the Air
This is a T-Rated 1,035 word (not quite) drabble for the @daily-writing-challenge February words! Takes place in the universe of my Renathal and the Maw Walker series and features the Maw Walker's little lesson to the Dark Prince on consent.
Note: There is no actual smut in this story, but it is full of decidedly non-graphic references to smut.
The Dark Prince stood stiffly, arms crossed deliberately behind his back, eyeing the Maw Walker’s proffered card with open skepticism.
It was pink. Like the arch behind him and all the decorations the "Mad" Duke had commissioned. Inked across the garish surface was Renathal's name in handwriting he recognised, though with many more elaborate flourishes and an excessive number of surrounding hearts.
“You’re starting to hurt my feelings,” said the Maw Walker, when he continued to refuse her lurid offering.
She arranged her face into an uncharacteristic pout. Renathal was not remotely fooled.
“What is this?” he asked.
“It's a love letter, of course!" Renathal was sure her voice was pitched purposefully to carry through the courtyard. “A visible token of my eternal affection. They’re traditional at this particular festival. I'm sure Theotar explained.”
As though summoned by the Maw Walker’s over-loud words, the Duke materialized at Renathal’s side.
“A love letter? For the Prince? What an astonishing and appropriately lovely gesture! I must admit, my dear friend,” he said, taking the Maw Walker’s free hand and patting it conspiratorially. “We were becoming most concerned your passion for our Prince was mere rumour! You must admit - and it is not critique, but, alas - your demeanour can be somewhat unnecessarily cool at times. Why, the way you practically quit the Ember Court last week when he bestowed the most exquisite of affections…”
The Duke indulged in a reminiscent laugh, shared by the Ember Court guests who’d been drawn toward his shaded tea corner by the ringing conversation. Renathal’s own lips twitched, but he refused to wholly drop his guard.
It was true. The Maw Walker’s reserve had become almost infamous in Sinfall now their relationship was a public fixture. Even the most temperate of kisses in front of witnesses left her flushed and wrong-footed; and in his exploitation of his normally unflappable lover's unexpected weakness, Renathal was unrepentant.
The incident Theotar referenced involved Renathal wrapping his arms around her from behind and pressing his lips fervently to the tip of her long ear, leaving her breathless and violet-faced in front of the Grandmaster and the rest of the visiting Maldraxxi contingent. It had left the Maw Walker disgruntled for the rest of the day.
“It was decidedly inappropriate," she had snapped at Renathal later.
“Oh, come now," he cajoled. "Surely, you cannot consider any part of my affection inappropriate?”
“When you use it to your own advantage for the express purpose of embarrassing me, I most certainly can.”
Renathal had made the requisite apology in order to restore their relationship's equilibrium, but he knew she considered it inadequate, and he had anticipated rebuttal. Which was why when he at last stretched out a wary hand to accept her unusually public gesture, it was with all the same trepidation as if she had handed him some unknown weapon from the Broker's cache.
“Well?" she prompted, her lavender face entirely too innocent. “Aren’t you going to read it?”
“Yes!" agreed Theotar, practically trembling in anticipation. "You must read it aloud for all to hear! We are proverbially dying to know the secret depths of the Maw Walker's passion for our Prince. And you do declaim with such panache!"
Murmurs of excited agreement rippled through the now sizeable congregation of Venthyr and visiting Bastion guests. Renathal glanced dubiously from the Maw Walker's glittering eyes to the folded pink paper, then opened it cautiously, half-expecting it to explode. A quick skim of its lengthy contents, and he thought his face might be less heated if it had.
"Oh, my Prince, you must not keep us in suspense!" cried Theotar, attempting to peer at the paper over Renathal's arm. "What has she written? Is it an essay? A poem?"
“Not ... exactly,” said Renathal, his mouth abruptly dry.
He had no idea what to call the document in front of him. Some portions read like poetry - of the most incendiary and licentious kind - but mostly it resembled a step-by-step instructional guide to the Maw Walker's intimate after-court plans. And a more gratuitously explicit list, Renathal had never seen risked to paper. There were descriptions that would make the Countess blush, and several suggested acts he thought might have condemned more than one soul to the crypts.
“Well, go on," said the Maw Walker. "Read it out loud."
Renathal's eyebrows could go no higher as he met her mirth-filled gaze.
"You want me to read this out loud? In front of the entire Ember Court?"
The Maw Walker shrugged.
"Why not?" she asked, voice drenched in sarcasm. "Surely you don't consider any part of my affection inappropriate or embarrassing?"
Renathal's lips twisted convulsively as he perused her manifesto a second time. There were words on this pink paper he had never said aloud, words whose meanings he didn't even know. The idea of his friends and followers - the stately Accuser, the modest Polemarch - envisioning him and his lover engaged in .... was that one even anatomically possible?
He looked back at the Maw Walker's expectant face. It was a bluff. But one even Renathal could not bring himself to call.
“I am afraid,” he said, pointedly closing the card and addressing the eager crowd. “I must respect my champion’s privacy. There do exist some sentiments best expressed between lovers alone.”
The Maw Walker smiled - a genuine smile, free of mischief - and Renathal reached instinctively for her hand. Then paused. His eyes asked permission, her nod bestowed it and the sedate kiss he pressed to the back of her fingers elicited only the faintest blush.
With the promise of a spectacle dashed, the crowd began to ebb, murmuring disappointments. Even Theotar‘s hair looked sadly wilted as he sighed and turned to his tea tray for consolation.
“However,” Renathal murmured, stepping to the Maw Walker’s side and reopening her libidinous treatise. “I do consider it your contractual obligation to perform every exquisite service detailed herein.”
“Oh, I plan to make good,” was her impenitent reply.
“Really?” The Dark Prince’s eyes glowed hot at the tantalising prospect. “And what does -“
He checked the paper.
“-slonking mean exactly?”
The Maw Walker winked.
“I’ll show you later.”
#daily writing challenge#februarydwc2023#Prince Renathal#Renathal x maw walker#fanfiction#wow fanfiction#world of warcraft#shadowlands#Venthyr#Ember Court#Duke Theotar#Love is in the air#valentine's fanfiction
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No 2 of my “Revendreth Himbos” series. Theo the Edgy Duke 😏
I love him so much. My sweet precious Theotar made from tea and pumpkins 🥹 I swear, this man is my spiritual bro-bro. And his hair…. 🥵
He has some Jean Pierre from Army of Lovers vibes here. It was intentional ofc
#artists on tumblr#my art#fanart#world of warcraft#graphic art#venthyr#pointilism#dot work#theotar#Theotar the mad duke
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"Forgive my appearance, my hair is quite unruly today."
Pov: You accidentaly walked on Theotar brushing his hair.
#theotar#mad duke theotar#game fanart#warcraft fanart#world of warcraft#revendreth#venthyr#theotar the mad duke#digital art#fanart
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Meanwhile at the Ember Court pt 2.
Come warm yourself up by the fire 🔥
#my art#digital art#digital drawing#artwork#artists on tumblr#digital artwork#my artwork#venthyr#worldofwarcraft fanart#prince renathal#renathal#the accuser#the curator#general draven#draven#theotar#mad duke theotar#lilva
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fic scrap, renathal/theotar, 1800 words
“I have always held,” Theotar tells him, “that everyone deserves to have at least one sure thing.”
Renathal calls Theotar to his study that night, as he has almost every night since the Maw. Theotar doesn’t mind; most of the time they discuss strategy, then veer off onto other subjects entirely, running out the late hours. He has the good sense not to ask the prince about what happened while he was in the Jailer’s clutches, and Renathal volunteers little, though he provides a colorful version of his and the Curator’s rescue by the Maw Walker.
The Curator’s fate, Theotar knows, troubles the prince deeply. Renathal had managed to escape the Maw virtually unscathed, his injuries owed entirely to Denathrius’s subsequent efforts; the Curator had come back changed, and there’s no doubt in Theotar’s mind that Renathal holds himself responsible.
A prince, he would say, always should.
But as the nights pass Theotar decides that the prince’s need for distraction is less to do with the Maw, after all, and more with how much they seem to be losing. Their defeat at Darkwall, perhaps, stings the most; the loss at the Menagerie had been brutal and swift, but at least that had been a final, desperate effort, not the culmination of all their plans.
The defeat at Darkwall, meanwhile—
They haven’t spoken of it, exactly, but the shadow of it seems to circle around their conversations, an Endmire beast stalking the firelight’s edge. Renathal is unflappable, indefatigable in his pursuit of the rebellion, but there’s something to the way he’s managed to avoid even passing mention of the topic, nearly a lie of omission, that makes Theotar think that the failure still weighs on his mind. That the nobles hadn’t answered, dashing his hopes and his faith—that Blackbane had betrayed them—that they’d ended with the tower sundered, their ranks broken, forced to their knees at the Master’s feet …
Well. Theotar has yet to forget the look Renathal’s face, when Denathrius had plucked the Medallion of Dominion from him, and turned it on Renathal’s own forces.
That the prince’s momentum hardly seems to have been slowed by this ignoble end is a testament to his perseverance, his dedication. If what he needs to maintain that dedication is a friend in the quiet hours, it’s the least Theotar can do to oblige.
So when Renathal summons him again that evening Theotar has the tea already brewed, kettle whistling even as the stone fiend messenger arrives. He feeds the fiend a scrap of his anima, collects the kettle off the stove, and steps through the shadows to the hallway outside Renathal’s study, tea set held on a tray.
(It would do no good to attempt to materialize inside the study; Renathal’s wards would certainly repel any such attempted incursion. Theotar had reviewed those wards himself, in pure aesthetic appreciation—Renathal’s spellwork has always struck him as beautiful, elegant and natural in a way no Nathrian magister could ever hope to replicate. Little wonder, when the prince learned his art from the Master, rose from the very source of their power himself.)
Theotar knocks to announce his arrival, and pushes backwards through the door. “Good evening, my prince!”
“Ah, Theotar.” Renathal turns to him from where he’s been contemplating the map on the wall. He and the Accuser have spent the last several days sending emissaries and spies to every corner of Revendreth, consolidating their resistance; the document has grown accordingly laden with colored pins, delineations of us and them.
(Or not, as the case may be. Theotar had been present when the Accuser had—in a moment of particular exasperation—suggested an all-out assault on the nearest concentration of loyalists: “It would be less arduous to just do away with them, Renathal. How long can we continue to risk these incursions?”
“I will not have my people hunted like wretched souls in the Endmire.” The prince’s tone had booked no argument. “Make no mistake, whatever color marks them now—they, too, are my charge.” A wave of his hand had taken in the map, paired with a dark look of disfavor. “This war is only worth what it leaves us, in the end. I mean to unite Revendreth, not break it. No. We will not attack until we are certain there is no other way.”)
No sign of that grim expression on Renathal’s face now. He abandons the map and its treacherous pins, and retires alongside Theotar to the couches at the end of the room.
Two hours later they’re both more than a little drunk, the prince stretched out on the couch in his study and Theotar in the armchair nearby, feet propped up beside Renathal. The wine in their bottle is getting perilously low, and Theotar—eyeing it with suspicion—wills himself to his feet. “I shall resupply us at once,” he proclaims, and wanders off towards the stash behind Renathal’s desk.
He’s fished out a particularly satisfying variety of anima red and is making his way back when his eye falls on the prince, making him stop. The prince is pensive, gazing into his empty goblet, which presently lies tipped against his chest; he keeps it in place with his right hand, his left listless at his side. He’s thoughtful—almost grave—and something about that far-under expression nudges the thoughts in Theotar’s brain, and urges him to action.
Not brash action, of course. Theotar is nothing if not a fine courtier, and so on his return he sets the bottle of wine on the little table between the armchair and the couch, and seats himself beside Renathal’s legs. Renathal stirs, but before he can do anything more Theotar takes his hand, and brings it up for a kiss.
It’s a formal gesture—a mere press of lips against the prince’s knuckles—but he finds Renathal watching him with that same thoughtful expression. “Now, old friend,” the prince says, eyes half-lidded, “it has been a very long time since you last did that.”
“Only a century or two, surely.”
“Or two.” A tilt of Renathal’s head. “Why now?” And then, answering his own question, the corner of his mouth turning up: “Ah, but you haven’t been able to visit the Countess in some time.”
“You wound me, my dear.” Theotar presses his free hand to his heart, drawing himself up in mock offense. “To suggest I’d succumb to such base opportunism! It would be a stain upon my character.”
“Of course. My apologies.” Renathal grins briefly, then sobers again, voice gone softer still. “Truly, Theotar. What brings us here, after so long?”
A reasonable question, Theotar thinks, when they’ve been friends for eons, and lovers more than a few times. Their friendship is solid, dependable, and most of the time that’s all they are—though it’s surely wrong to state it with such diminution. They’re brothers in arms, comrades, dear friends; but every once in a while that cup spilleth over, and they find themselves caught up in something sweeter, enduring sentiment blossoming into more. It’s happened enough times before; certainly it will happen again, should they both survive the probable end of reality.
It is very easy, after all, to love one’s best friend.
But: why now, indeed. “I have always held,” Theotar tells him, “that everyone deserves to have at least one sure thing.”
Renathal breathes a laugh. “A sure thing.” No doubt he takes the comment for what it is, a reminder of everything that has gone wrong, and may yet go more wrong still. Dark times, and things to cling to in them—that sort of thing. “You certainly are that.” He pulls his hand free, taking Theotar’s in turn. “Oh, all right. But you’ll have to come down here, if you wish to have me. It would take a most unromantic effort for me to rise.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Theotar is appalled. “My goodness. Stay right where you are.” As if he’d make someone with sucking chest wounds sit up to meet him, really.
He bends down, and kisses the prince where he lies.
Renathal doesn’t just lie there, of course; he sets his goblet aside on the floor, and reaches up to curl his hands around Theotar’s neck, the better to pull him in. Theotar laughs, not quite falling over him. He plants a hand next to the prince, and permits himself to be drawn in, careful to avoid jostling Renathal. The last thing he wants now is for that charming smile to turn into some sign of pain, much less from his own carelessness.
The kiss is easy, and perfect, in the way of things at which one has had so much practice. It’s been a long time, but his body remembers, and so, it appears, does Renathal’s. The first kiss turns into another, and another, and the next thing Theotar knows—some time later—is Renathal drawing back to growl (and it is a growl, when Theotar has him like this) “Oh, I have missed this.”
“So you’ll agree it’s a worthwhile change.” Theotar smiles, and shifts until he can lie carefully along Renathal’s side on the couch, his back to the room.
“Oh, yes.” A pleased sigh. “If we are to face down the undefiable darkness—if we are to succumb to the end of reality, tomorrow or some other day soon …”
“Now, now.” An indulgent brush of his knuckles against Renathal’s cheekbone. “It’s not so hopeless as all that yet.”
“Oh, but it is. There can be no possibility of survival, striving against the forces the Jailer has marshaled.” Renathal catches Theotar’s hand in his own, and presses it to his lips for a lingering kiss, his eyes closed. As a gesture it manages to be wholly unlike Theotar’s earlier touch, save for in the most superficial of ways. “Is that not exciting?”
“You are a romantic, my prince. Vulca would not approve.”
“But you do.” Renathal’s reply is a drowsy, pleased rumble, and Theotar realizes that he must be very tired indeed. “You permit me a great deal of foolishness.”
“So long as you include me in it.”
“A fine price for your companionship.” Renathal takes Theotar’s hand away, resting it instead against his chest. Quietly, he asks, “You will stay, tonight?”
“As I would have anyway,” points out Theotar. “Perhaps next time I might simply accompany you to bed, rather than spending the night on the couch?”
“The better to have your wicked way with me, no doubt.” Renathal smiles.
“Merely seeing to it that you get your rest, my dear. Not to mention looking out for my back.” Theotar makes a show of pressing a hand to his back and arching stiffly backwards. “This is hardly a suitable place to spend so many nights.” But he nestles in closer to Renathal, all the same, and adds thoughtfully, “Some wickedness later, of course. Once you’ve fully recovered.”
“I shall look forward to it ardently,” Renathal assures him.
[...]
#a bat romance 🦇 from january 2021#prince renathal#theotar the mad duke#world of warcraft#venthyr#shadowlands#renathal/theotar
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Characters out of Context
I was tagged by the lovely and wonderful @mysdrym, who enables me in my venthyr addiction. :D I have three WIP's right now now, so I'll let you figure out what goes with what. (I'll post one of these days. I'm busy making warm things for winter, because my doctors frown upon putting on more weight and hibernating.)
Rules (in image form, since I'm lazy):
These are all from the Dowsabel universe, aka The OC Who Ran Off With My Brain. Take a guess who says what.
---
“Apparently, it involves putting armour on the soles of one’s shoes."
“There was something flavourful in that kiss.”
“I’m not tonguing your arse in the bath.”
“It’s not fit for polite company.”
“I am sure she will turn up under the sofa. Perhaps in a vase somewhere. She is very small, you know.”
“You want it, too. Look at your breeches.”
“Please take it. Tomorrow is going to be long and difficult, and you can’t face it without rest.”
"Erm, I don’t suppose either of you would know what ‘yee-haw’ means?”
“So I am mad! Does that mean I must sleep forever under the watch of my beloved gaolers?”
"Whu?"
“Bah! You have a tongue of stone, my love.”
“I won’t ask why you called him your princess.”
"Oh, I know that look. Did you get any sleep at all?"
“Has the meeting finally started? I have manuscripts to read, you know, including three from your husband.”
"Theotar’s harmless as a babe to all but reputations!”
“I’m going to enjoy it all over your hand, if you don’t ease off.”
“No fangs this time? It hurts to walk if you get too bitey.”
"She beheaded the General."
“Are you thinking of the time I put Vrednic in a red gown, sent him running through Yelseveta’s party, and asked in a blind panic if anyone had seen my bride?”
“But you love his liqueur cherries! You got drunk on them during the Festival of Souls!”
“It’s your wedding day, Duke Where’s-A-Bucket.”
“I didn’t realise your cock down my throat was a form of affection.”
"You’re looking unusually dressed, Theotar. At this rate, next wedding, we’ll have you in a shirt!”
“Lovely service in this brothel. Is there something I can do to you, my lady?”
“Get out of my bedroom, you beastly thing! I shall be there when I’m ready!”
“Aren’t you just nauseatingly sweet?”
"Happy lady!"
“Jennie! Are you holding Deano or what? He’s heavy.”
“Dad says they’re a match made in the Void.”
“I love you. Can I have a cookie?”
“I told you, no fucking swearing around the damn kids! If mine start that shit, I’m mounting your fucking head on the Light-damned wall!”
“So much for oligarchy.”
“It always makes me nervous when the two of you start having fun.”
“It is very polite, much like the rest of me. It stands for beautiful ladies.”
“Perhaps I should make you hard again and have you while my consort takes your arse. Have you ever been taken by two at once?”
"I like your chain."
"Am I wearing my shoes?"
“I am sure the fleshy tiny toes are even more delicious!”
"I'd rather no-one put a razor to my cock."
"It's only a story."
"I hope dinner is not sausages."
(Not all of these are easy, but they're all characters that have appeared or been mentioned in the Dowsabel stories at one point or another.)
#world of warcraft#worldofwarcraft#theotar#prince renathal#fanfic#gwennit#dowsabel#venthyr#Ask#Dialogue
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Hearthstone: What I’m Playing [Skeleton Mage]
I’ve played Hearthstone on and off for years, occasionally making the grind to Legend when I find a deck that I really enjoy. This season, I’ve been casually playing one of the most fun decks I’ve piloted: Skeleton Mage. I’ve tried a few different versions, but I’m at a 68% win rate over 25 games with the current list (you can find the code at the bottom of this post).
As you can see it’s very strong into most decks, but has its issues with Ramp/Celestial Druid. Ramp/Celestial Druid is tough because it’s able to control mana supply by generating mana crystals faster than you and resetting the game with Celestial Alignment, while constantly presenting or eliminating threats. Once they get to 13 mana crystals they will usually have enough infusions on Sire Denathrius to steal the game following a Brann Bronzebeard. The main way to stop this is playing Theotar, the Mad Duke and stealing their Denathrius, but they have their own Theotar to steal it back.
The other matches feel pretty good, and are usually a nice back-and-forth, feeling like you’re a dueling mage. The last time I remember a Hearthstone deck feeling like that was the recent Combo Mage renditions, but it’s been a while prior to it.
Skeleton Mage has various paths toward winning, but gets its name from being able to generate Volatile Skeletons through value plays like Nightcloak Sanctum, Cold Case, and Deathborne. If you find yourself in the late game after having gone down this path of skeleton generation, Kel’Thuzad, The Inevitable becomes a favorable win condition. I will say, however, this tends to be a less reliable strategy unless it comes naturally, usually because for Kel’Thuzad to be a strong win condition, they had to removed a significant amount of skeletons since Kel’Thuzad ressurects them. If this happened, it usually means your opponent has either controlled the board or is another mage trading skeletons with you with their own Deathbornes.
Another way to utilize your skeletons is as infusions for Sire Denathrius. A fun combo you can use late game is to play Kael’Thas Sinstrider, which allows every third minion to cost 0, followed by Brann Bronzebeard, ending with Sire Denathrius. Brann will cause Denathrius to trigger, which typically solidifies the game at that point. He’s also not the only one who can close the game for you with this line of play; ending with a Kel’Thuzard or Mordresh Fire Eye will also mean closing the game, usually.
Here is the code to upload into your collection if you’d like to try it. Each card feels like it has a specific purpose and fits into the deck, but I’d prioritize keeping Wildfire, Arcane Intellect, Nightcloak Sanctum, Magister Dawngrasp, and Sire Denathrius in your opening hand. Just be mindful that a well-timed Theotar can disrupt your entire game if you commit to a particular path too early.
### Skeleton Mage
# Class: Mage
# Format: Standard
# Year of the Hydra
#
# 2x (0) Flurry (Rank 1)
# 2x (1) Shivering Sorceress
# 1x (1) Sir Finley, Sea Guide
# 2x (1) Wildfire
# 2x (2) Amplified Snowflurry
# 2x (2) Solid Alibi
# 2x (3) Arcane Intellect
# 1x (3) Brann Bronzebeard
# 2x (3) Frostweave Dungeoneer
# 2x (3) Nightcloak Sanctum
# 1x (3) Prince Renathal
# 2x (3) Treasure Guard
# 1x (4) Blademaster Okani
# 2x (4) Cold Case
# 1x (4) Commander Sivara
# 2x (4) Multicaster
# 2x (4) Reckless Apprentice
# 1x (4) Theotar, the Mad Duke
# 1x (4) Varden Dawngrasp
# 2x (6) Blizzard
# 2x (6) Deathborne
# 1x (6) Kael'thas Sinstrider
# 1x (7) Magister Dawngrasp
# 1x (8) Kel'Thuzad, the Inevitable
# 1x (8) Mordresh Fire Eye
# 1x (10) Sire Denathrius
#
AAECAY0WDNjsA53uA6CKBOWwBMeyBOnQBJjUBLjZBKneBLrkBJfvBL7wBA7U6gPS7APT7APW7AOogQSfkgShkgT8ngSHtwTx0wTK3gTb3gT67ASEkwUA
#
# To use this deck, copy it to your clipboard and create a new deck in Hearthstone
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Best seat in the house tbh
#wow#world of warcraft theotar#world of Warcraft#world of warcraft shadowlands#world of warcraft venthyr#wow theotar#duke theotar#theotar the mad duke
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“Thank you Kevin!”
#Theotar#Kevin#Revendreth#Maldraxxus#Venthyr#Mad duke theotar#World of Warcraft#wow shadowlands#shadowlands#tea buddies <3#anyone hurt them I'll stabbu
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I haven't posted it here for some reason.
My humble redesign of Duke Crazy Tits as @wikdsushi-v2 calls him 😂
Meet Theotar, the Edgy Duke.
In my head cannon it's his look from younger days.
Imagine this ginger babe approaching Prince Charming for the first time 🧐
#theotar#fan art#world of warcraft#theotar the mad duke#venthyr#pls sir drink my blood#those revendreth himbos
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Renathal was determined not to let anyone or anything - even the Sire - ruin the happiness he had only begun to savour. Read on Ao3 here.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, what is all that?” Elisewin asked, pointing down at the Ember Ward’s ruins above which the guest room’s balcony hung, the gesture requiring her to unwind her hand from Renathal’s hair. He growled his displeasure at this before dipping his face into the hollow of her throat and answering against her skin: “Nothing.”
Elisewin managed a simultaneous sigh of breathy pleasure and an exasperated tongue click.
“It can’t be nothing. There are ruins and buildings and a tower. You can see them from here.”
Renathal’s own noise was more pettish than aroused; he did hate to be interrupted at his work. He lifted his head one reluctant inch.
“That is the Ember Ward,” he explained. “And the tower you see is called Sinfall. It was where the Sire once conducted the business of creation. Where I myself was born as a matter of fact,” he added on a whim, and instantly regretted it as a dozen new and distracting questions lit up behind Elisewin’s eyes.
“What? Really?” She shifted in his lap, craning her neck to get a better view of the distant tower. “Do you remember it? Your birth, I mean?”
“Very little,” said Renathal briskly. “Which, coincidentally, is precisely how much interest I have in the subject at present.”
Stroking her hip through her silks with one hand, guiding her face back to his with the other, Renathal succeeded in recalling Elisewin’s focus to himself for several satisfactory minutes before she broke for air, and used the brief respite to ask, “So what is the Ember Ward used for now?”
“Nothing,” Renathal repeated, and, when Elisewin only looked at him, sighed like a martyr. If answers were the swiftest path to her undivided attention, he would give them, but he set himself to undoing the front of her loosely tied purple dressing gown as he did so - a reward for his long-suffering. “Venthyr are sentenced there, on occasion, but only as a punishment of the most extreme sort. They go mad, or are destroyed. It is all Light-cursed ruins. Unfit for habitation.”
“Wh-why?” The word wavered as Renathal’s long nails traced a teasing pattern across Elisewin’s exposed chest, but she managed to continue undaunted. “What happened to it?”
“Not all the Master’s creations were appropriate. The Light retaliated.”
“What did he create?”
Renathal shivered, his pleasant arousal flagging despite the warm curve cupped in his hand.
“Really, my dear, this is hardly breakfast conversation.”
“Well, this is hardly breakfast decorum,” Elisewin retorted, a sweeping hand and a raised eyebrow indicating her half-dressed state.
Renathal’s expression was unrepentant.
“This is exactly what I crave for my morning repast,” he replied, and dipped his head a second time, wet lips and eager fangs closing around-
“Your H’ighness.”
The muddy clearing of a throat made Elisewin gasp and Renathal groan. Neither with pleasure. Breakfist was waiting in the balcony doorway, weighed down with an oversized tray. His well-trained eyes were fixed on the distant horizon as he announced, “Breakfast for the Prince and… his Lady,” with only the briefest hesitation; no one in Darkwall Tower was certain what their master’s mortal was now to be called.
Including Renathal himself. He had skirted the issue thus far by simply allowing whatever title his servants chose to go unchallenged. He nodded at Breakfist to approach, keeping his arms wrapped decorously around Elisewin, who twisted in his lap to do up the laces of her robe as the dredger shuffled forward. Once the butler’s burden of various fruits, breads, spreads, anima-infused tea, and Elisewin’s request of dark, bitter coffee was deposited on the iron table, he beat a tactful retreat, closing the balcony door behind him, and Elisewin, disappointingly decent once more, slid off Renathal’s legs to prepare his cup.
Renathal watched her pour his tea, add his customary number of sugars, pluck up a crescent of warm, flaky bread she knew him to be fond of and set it on his saucer, and wondered if any being on any realm, mortal or immortal, had ever been as flawlessly happy as he.
They had breakfasted here on the guest room’s inexplicable balcony every day of the last month - without question the most blissful of his whole existence. Elisewin had a penchant for open air and unobstructed views and Renathal for winning her smile, so long nights spent in his rooms that ended in mornings adjourning to hers had become an essential part of their newly instituted and highly agreeable domestic routine.
Setting his tea down in front of him, Elisewin began sifting through the post Breakfist had left on the tray while Renathal drank. Another morning staple. With her new, as-yet-undefined status had come a renegotiation of her atonement-related tasks. Her work was now closer to that of a private secretary than a housemaid.
Moving up in the world, mused Renathal as Elisewin pried open a wax-sealed envelope and slid out a thick fold of yellowing parchment, and his lips twitched around his teacup at the thought.
“The Harvester of Envy is reporting certain Venthyr in Darkhaven he believes are instigating unrest,” Elisewin summarised, then shuffled through the remaining sheaf of pages. “Rather a lot, apparently. He’s included their names and purported crimes.”
“Leave it,” said Renathal. He was far too content to concern himself with work just now. “I will look over it when I am more... refreshed.”
He threw a meaningful gaze at his lover, which, engrossed as she was in her task, she did not notice.
“And… this one is an appeal from Mistress Mihaela in Darkhaven. Apparently, the Harvester of Envy has again increased his required tithes.”
The anima-infused tea soured slightly in Renathal’s stomach. He replaced his cup in its saucer.
“Let me see that.”
He scanned the letter Elisewin passed him, insides twitching in a resurgence of familiar worry. None of the districts could afford to increase their tithes of anima. How could the Tithelord believe such amounts still existed anywhere in Revendreth? And where was it all going? Certainly not to the Tithelord’s own estate. Only yesterday, Tenaval’s second request for aid in as many weeks had attested to that fact. Was the Master not supposed to be -
Renathal stopped this treasonous train of thought forcibly in its tracks. Refolding the letter back along its sharp creases, he slid it across the tabletop and reoccupied his hands with his tea.
“Seal it back and have it sent to Nathria,” he instructed Elisewin. “That is the Master’s purview, not mine. All anima related inquiries should be re-directed to him.”
Elisewin obeyed without comment, tucking the folded letter back into its envelope and pressing a thumb to the seal, but Renathal thought her lips had tightened, as if holding in words she wanted to say. And the quiet that lingered was stiffer, broken only by the wuthering of the wind and the rustling of paper as she continued to slit envelopes and scan their contents. Renathal was just contemplating whether to offer some tactful reminder - that Denathrius was sorting out the anima situation, that he was unquestionably fair, and that they, especially, owed him an unswerving loyalty - when a sudden, “Oh!” of surprise from Elisewin made him jump. Tepid tea sloshed across his hands.
“The Countess has invited you to a party!” she announced with a little humourless laugh.
“Oh, is that all?” Renathal replied, his ruffled nerves slowly relaxing. “Yes, it is her turn to host the Harvester’s Court next.”
With a pointed glance at Elisewin, he reached across the tray to retrieve a linen napkin. Elisewin, eyes still fixed to the curling, red-inked script, again failed to register his movement or his mood.
“It says Harvester and Guest. Does she expect you to bring someone?”
“You, of course. Whom else?”
“Me?”
Elisewin looked up, blinked at Renathal, glanced at his hands, and blinked again in what for her was an almost comic surprise. Abandoning her work at last, she leaned over and plucked the napkin from his unprotesting fingers.
"You're not serious," she said weakly, dabbing at the damp velvet sleeves of his dressing gown. “I can't possibly attend a Harvester's court. Not as a guest.”
Renathal, amused at her protest and warmed by her resumed attentions, asked playfully, "Why ever not?"
“Because I am not a Harvester? Or a noble. Or even a proper Venthyr, for that matter. I’m -” Elisewin paused, folding the wet napkin into absent squares, then finished quietly, “I don’t really know what I am.”
A twilit breeze caught the loose strands of her blue-black hair and whipped them across her face, suddenly lifeless and lost-looking, as she replaced the folded napkin on the tray. Before she could return to her work, Renathal reached up and caught her chin, tugging her lips to his.
“You are mine,” he declared with such unbroachable authority even Elisewin could not argue, only shiver into his kiss, hot and possessive as a brand.
“So,” she asked, noticeably less forlorn when Renathal, at last, released her, “you think the Countess has invited me out of courtesy? Her way of putting things right for what happened at your court?”
"Oh, certainly not." Renathal chuckled darkly at the thought. “I managed to defy her wishes and circumvent her approval. I expect she is beside herself with fury. No, she means trouble with that invitation. And I mean to give it to her.”
It was Elisewin's turn to laugh. Anima tingled through Renathal’s veins at the sound. Snaking his arms around her waist, he dragged her back into his lap, inspiring more laughter that faded into low muffled moans as he refastened his lips to hers and slid a hand up her silks to part her soft, bare thighs. Elisewin shifted at once, allowing him easier access. The spindly-legged chair underneath them, far too decorous and staid for such antics, wobbled alarmingly. Renathal ignored it. He fully intended to be doing this for the rest of eternity. The furniture, like everything else in the realm, would simply have to get used to the idea.
Once a bit of careful manoeuvring and the joint lascivious efforts of both their hands, and the services of the now-ruined napkin, saw them temporarily spent of physical desire, Renathal murmured thoughtfully into Elisewin’s hair: “It is time we made a public debut.”
Taking her breathless hmm? as confusion, he elaborated, “At the Countess’ court. It would be the perfect place to declare our new status, and introduce you to Revendreth society. The Countess’ soirées are by far the most talked-of in Revendreth. The news will begin to circulate before the court is over and have made it through the whole realm by the following day.”
The idea was so thoroughly delightful to Renathal it took him a moment to notice Elisewin stiffen against him, and not in the same delicious way she had a minute before.
“What is it, dearest?" He coaxed her face towards his, but it was blank, as it always was when she was thinking, beads of sweat still glistening across her smooth lavender brow. “If you are worried about the Countess,” he said at a guess, “do not be. You will be by my side at all times. Neither she nor anyone else will be permitted to lay the lightest finger on you." He stroked the back of one of his own along the path of her jaw.
“I honestly hadn’t even considered that," said Elisewin with a smile, albeit a weaker, more wobbly example of the one she usually wore when recently sated. “I was just worried - I mean, not worried, of course, but… wondering what I - or whether we might…”
She bit her lip over her babble, glancing away towards Sinfall’s shadowy spire, and Renathal endured half a minute of increasingly anxious tension before Elisewin finally voiced her hidden dread: “What am I going to wear?”
“Oh, I have a world of ideas for you to choose from!” gushed Theotar from across the long, low table in his parlour a mere three days after the Dark Prince had assigned him this most essential task. “When I had Bogdan put out word that the realm’s first and only mortal required a sartorial commission, clothiers from every district in Revendreth were at my door with proposals within the hour. Go on, have a look, have a look!”
The Duke gestured excitedly at the table, swept clean of its typical high tea tableau and decorated instead with a flurry of fashion croquis, each depicting a highly stylised and anatomically nebulous mortal female modelling a different example of Venthyr court dress. Renathal leaned forward on the settee to peruse the offerings: a bombardment of flounces and bustles and sweeping trains that made Elisewin, seated beside him, wince. He hid his smirk behind a faux-thoughtful hand and laid the other on his lover’s tensed thigh.
“Quite an illustrious sampling,” he assured Theotar whose eyes flicked between his two guests, positively vibrating with excitement as he awaited their verdict. “Have you a recommendation? Or a particular favourite?” Renathal asked, more to buy Elisewin time to find her tongue than because he expected any overlap in her taste and the Duke’s.
Sure enough-
"I am rather partial to this one," said Theotar, sifting through the sketches and producing one with a flourish. “Lady Rovinette's contribution. A marvellous piece of construction! Collarets are all the rage at present, and a royal bustle is always so dignified.”
“Oh, quite,” agreed Renathal, casting a subtle glance at Elisewin and biting back a spasm of laughter at her sudden sickly pink pallor.
“And… quite a bit more dignified than I,” was her tactful dissent. “I really prefer less restrictive and… um… voluminous attire.”
Searching through the tidy stacks, she retrieved from near the bottom a slightly smudged and rough-edged piece of parchment.
“This one looks promising.”
She glanced up hopefully at the Duke, who looked as if he had swallowed some scalding and flavourless tea, then Renathal, who gave the unadorned skirt and sleeveless bodice a dubious sniff.
“It is far too plain,” he pronounced decisively.
“Most excessively so,” the Duke chimed in with a ferocious nod. “Not at all worthy of a Prince's consort.”
Elisewin blinked, then raised an eyebrow, expression flat as the paper she laid absently back on the table.
“Is that what I am?”
“I believe that is the appropriate title, yes,” the Duke said loftily, “according to the Venthyr treatise on etiquette which I myself had the pleasure of penning.” He began to sort through the drawings once more, and Renathal had only a few seconds to watch and wonder whether Elisewin’s inscrutability disguised pleasure or displeasure before he exclaimed, “Ah ha! What of this one?”
He brandished the heavy drawing paper across the table, and his guests leaned in, heads together, to inspect the sketched ensemble.
“A bit old-fashioned,” the Duke conceded, “incorporating armour into formal wear, but the effect is undeniably impressive. And the palette is quite a match for your own armour, my Prince. Not to mention, the amethyst accents would certainly bring out our dear mortal’s skin.”
“It is... beautiful,” Elisewin admitted, fingers brushing the intricately inked pauldrons hesitantly, as if she feared to smudge them. “Although… I’ve never worn so much gold. And the circlet might be a bit presumptuous… what do you think?”
She tilted her head towards Renathal, and blinked again at the sudden bright fire glowing anima-red behind his eyes.
“It is perfect,” he crowed, his enthusiasm earning an exultant exclamation from Theotar and a reflexive giggle from his lover, as well as her ultimate assent to the proposed gown.
Which was how Elisewin came to sit opposite Renathal in his carriage, six weeks later, arrayed in skirts of just visible crimson under armoured bustier and overdress of onyx and gold. More gold glinted at her forehead, neck, and wrists; the purple of the regal jewel at her waist a match for the skin of her long, bared arms. The smooth surface of the various shining metals caught the twilight peeking through the slits in the carriage doors and lit the dark interior in sparkling shadows that flickered as the carriage bounced along the Chalice District's twisting, turning roads.
A bit like being inside a candle flame, Renathal mused whimsically; an impression heightened by the warm glow of merry anticipation simmering within him. He had not looked forward to a court like this in a very, very long time.
His companion, on the other hand, appeared uncharacteristically agitated. The smooth plane of Elisewin’s forehead crinkled into nervous lavender lines as the carriage jolted into the Redelav District, and her face twisted in an open grimace when she caught Renathal’s rhapsodic gaze for the third time.
“Do you plan to stare at me like that throughout the court?” she asked, her tone unduly waspish, but Renathal, ensconced as he was in such supreme good spirits, was incapable of being goaded.
“Quite possibly,” he replied.
“And what will the other Harvesters and nobles think of you?”
“That could not matter less.”
He had hoped for one of those involuntary little laughs he could often draw from her fits of moroseness, or at the very least a blush and an appreciative smile. But none appeared. Elisewin's lips twitched once in what might have been amusement or distress, and her fingers, denied a convenient outlet by the structured material of her gown, worried themselves together in her lap with such violence Renathal was obliged to lean across the carriage aisle and trap them in his.
“Elisewin,” and he pronounced her name with enough reminder of dominion to make her hands fall abruptly limp. “You are an invited guest at a prestigious event, the established consort of the Prince of the realm, and you look absolutely divine. What could possibly make you so anxious?”
“I’m not anxious,” she protested; but at Renathal’s quirked eyebrow, she sighed - a ragged, messy exhalation of air. “I just… don't think I’m prepared.”
“You are perfectly prepared,” Renathal reassured her, but Elisewin shook her head at him, long, blue-black hair obscuring the amethyst in her circlet as words suddenly poured from her in a breathless rush:
“I’m not. Not only am I not nobility, I’m not a Venthyr. Or even a usual penitent soul. I don’t even know where I am in my atonement! I don’t belong at a Harvester's Court, and everyone knows it. Including you.” Her hands spasmed as if they would have illustrated her passion if not imprisoned in Renathal’s. “You said it yourself, the Countess isn’t doing this for benevolent reasons. I was only invited to be a - a -a curiosity or a source of outrage!”
“An astute and not incorrect observation,” Renathal agreed calmly.
“And you think that’s not worthy of anxiety?”
“Hardly.” At Elisewin’s open-mouthed gape, Renathal chuckled lightly. “Dearest, this is Revendreth. All of us come and go from fashion. From the crudest of dredgers to the Dark Prince himself." He unclasped a hand from hers and laid it deprecatingly across his chest. "You think I have never spent time as a - how did you put it? - a curiosity or a source of outrage? I have enjoyed both. Sometimes for centuries. But one cannot worry over such things. They are temporal. You will come into your own in time. And,” - he tilted her chin to meet his smouldering eyes - “you are forgetting. You have one distinct advantage.”
“What is that?” Elisewin breathed up at him.
“You are mine,” he reminded her, pleasure in every proud syllable. “It does not matter what anyone else considers you. You belong to me, and they cannot touch you lest they incur my wrath.”
The final word was a snarl. It rang low and menacing through the carriage. Elisewin shuddered, the rise and fall of her chest captured artfully by the fitted metal, and for the first time since seeing her in it Renathal experienced a pang of regret at the elaborate and decorous ensemble which meant he could not gather her onto his lap as he would have preferred. As if to knock the impractical idea from his head, the carriage swung dangerously around a sharp bend, slinging them both against the black upholstered side, then juddered to a stop. They had reached the lift to the Eternal Terrace.
“Relax, dearest,” Renathal instructed, sitting straighter on the bench, shaking back his hair and adjusting his coat, and was pleased to watch Elisewin re-settle in her own seat, cheekbones flushed, but shoulders less rigid. “The Countess’ court is, of course, a stronghold of intrigue and scheming, but once one becomes accustomed to the constant plots, they are easily navigated. Even enjoyable.”
“Yes, I suppose, if one has been doing it for eternity,” she retorted, though her tone was less caustic than before, and Renathal leaned forward again, trapping her wandering eyes in his abruptly serious gaze.
“I have never done this with anyone I loved at my side,” he confessed, the raw sentiment stopping Elisewin’s breath with an audible hitch. “So, in some respects, this will be a new experience for us both.”
The carriage door swung open, the sounds of tittering laughter and tinkling glasses and the sickly sweet smell of the Countess’ terrace garden wafting in from nearby. Renathal rose, or attempted to rise. He was halfway off the bench when Elisewin flung herself at him, clapped her hands to either side of his face, and dragged him into a kiss soaked in need and adoration. The clash of metal on metal as their armor collided rose over the noises of the waiting court and the phlegmy coughing of the dredger shuffling awkwardly by the open carriage door, and Renathal was perfectly content to ignore them all. He let his lover harvest whatever it was she needed from his willing lips and tongue until, at last, she pulled away, breathing harsh, but pale eyes glittering.
“Of course,” he murmured through lips still glistening wetly, “we could skip court altogether and simply return home?”
Elisewin smiled - the first time she had done so throughout their entire journey.
“And let this gown go to waste? The Duke would never let us hear the end of it.”
And, glowing at Renathal’s low rumble of laughter, she threaded one black and gold glove through his elbow and let him escort her from the carriage.
For all his personal animosity towards the Harvester of Desire, Renathal could not deny she was unparalleled in her expertise at choreographing an event. The groups of guests, whether posing together or perambulating across the immaculately manicured garden of the Eternal Terrace, looked placed, and likely were; as much a part of the decor as the polished sinstones or the topiaries. There were precious few stoneborn or dredgers to be found, except in the roles of guards or servants. The Countess extended invitations only to Venthyr aristocracy, each one a study in the finest luxury goods Revendreth had to offer. Deep crimson velvets, vibrant vermillion silks, stark and stately black leathers all dripping with silver and jingling gems dotted the garden like ornate, expensive flowers.
And the Dark Prince and his consort, cutting through the courtyard in their bright outborn gold, outshone them all.
Heads turned as they passed. A ripple of whispers - these underpinned with a much more tangible respect than the ones at Renathal’s own court - followed his and Elisewin’s steps as they made their dutiful rounds. Renathal revelled in them. The freedom to wrap an entitled arm around his lover’s waist in plain view of his peers was a luxury the likes of which he had scarcely ever allowed himself to dream. He caught the beady eyes of the Countess watching them from her segregated platform, and her expression, thorny and twisted as a widowbloom, only enhanced his joy. If Elisewin was the prize jewel in the crown of his happiness, then upstaging the Countess at her own event was the bit of delicate filigree woven into the band.
And if Elisewin’s elation was not quite as lofty and unassailable as Renathal’s, she had regained enough of her signature impassivity to mask it - to the curious crowd, at least. Her blank expression, the quiet nods with which she accepted introductions, praises, and impertinent questions alike, gave an appearance of general boredom Renathal was sure only he could see through. No one else would note the significance of her sudden blink when he left her briefly to purloin them drinks, or the abnormally tight grip she kept on his elbow once he returned, or her preoccupied sips of the fragrant tea with barely a visible grimace.
A different creature entirely from the easy, confident penitent who had served these same Venthyr at his own court, Renathal mused; but, it seemed, without the safety of a concrete task, Elisewin found the center of attention an uncomfortable mantle to wear.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, she was not required to wear it long.
“Sire Denathrius!”
The whispers and gasps swelled to a susurrating sea that echoed the name to every corner of the terrace, heads whipping in the same direction like one opulent and awe-struck wave. Elisewin was among them. She craned her neck to peer over her shoulder, and Renathal knew by the sudden clench of her gloved fingers against his arm who she was staring at and where he must be headed. The echo of heavy bootfalls behind him confirmed his suspicions, and he turned in time to see his Master, bedecked in full glittering regalia, pace purposeful and smile pristine as he marched towards them. He paused briefly to collect a proffered glass of anima wine - more like a beaker in his enormous hand - down the contents in one elegant gulp, and replace it on the tray, before approaching the Prince and his guest.
“Renathal!” Denathrius’ voice and visage proclaimed a pleasure as precisely manicured as the garden around them. “How wonderful to see you out and about! You have been so cloistered of late. But I suppose,” he turned the blinding beam of his smile towards Elisewin, “you have been busy preparing your mortal for her Revendreth debut. And I see she has turned out quite charming." An eloquent wave indicated the commissioned gown. Renathal thought he could feel Elisewin stiffen beside him. If the Sire sensed it, however, he ignored it and swept on. "Well done. To you both! It is no mean feat dressing up for a Harvester's court."
A subtle note of needling sarcasm undermined the Sire's ostensible praise. And something in his exorbitant cheer, not to mention his unexpected presence - he had been too busy for Renathal's own court, yet could make time to attend the Countess'? - put Renathal on edge, and dimmed the glow of his own effervescent spirits. For the first time in months, he recalled a flicker of that same unease with which he had been afflicted upon Elisewin’s arrival in the realm.
But, aware of the avid eyes of the watching nobles and courtiers, he had no choice but to disentangle his arm from his consort's and hinge at the waist in the appropriate bow.
“Thank you, Sire,” he said stiffly as he straightened. "It is a privilege to see you here, as well. I was under the impression your work was consuming all your time."
Whether reading Renathal's thoughts or interpreting his stilted formality, Denathrius stepped closer, close enough for his pale, shining hair to brush Elisewin’s decorative pauldrons as he bent his head to murmur in a conspiratorial undertone, “I hope you don’t think I am playing favourites, Renathal, or avoiding your court on purpose. I am here on business, rather than pleasure. To ensure the forward trajectory of my plans - plans for anima conversation, that is,” he added hastily, and punctuated the admission with a musical sigh. “Certain... important elements are taking longer than expected. I am here to... nudge them along. Not you, of course, Renathal. Your participation has been flawless. Others…” his red eyes flicked to the side then back before Renathal could tell where he had glanced, “less so.”
“I quite understand, Sire” said Renathal, which was not remotely true. But the gist of the explanation was obvious, sensible, and benefited him to believe. "I imagine all the various demands on your attention must have even your limitless patience stretched thin."
“You have no idea."
It was almost a growl. And it came with a shadow of some odd, sinister expression; something Renathal was sure the Master had not intended anyone to see. It was gone in an instant, replaced by his charming, slightly condescending smile.
"But, look at me!" he said, putting on a higher pitched voice of mock distress. "Taking up all your leisure time with work! I will disturb your night no longer. After all, you have waited a long time for this, and you so sorely deserve it."
This time, the sarcasm was too heavy-handed. It dripped from Denathrius' saccharine praise, impossible to ignore. Renathal's mouth opened to respond, but Denathrius was already striding past him, cape billowing in the cloying breeze, heavy with the scent of flowers and wine. He half-turned, staring after the Master's retreating back. He considered calling after him, but had not the first idea what he would say. The sparse sips of anima tea were curdling in his stomach as he tried to grasp at the unpleasant threads the Sire's words had left behind, but he could not plait them into anything cohesive. He did not understand what his Master's strange mood meant.
It unsettled the Dark Prince on a base, instinctual level not to know where he stood with his Creator. But the warm lips that brushed his jaw on their way to his ear where they whispered, "Do you want to follow him?", worked like a balm on his nettled nerves. And the Master's parting comment, however intentioned, was certainly true.
He had waited for this for a very long time. Whole eons, in fact. And Renathal was determined not to let anyone or anything - even the Sire - ruin the triumph he had only begun to savour.
"No," he replied; and, turning his face and mind from Denathrius, hailed a passing dredger toting a tray of drinks, deposited his and Elisewin's teacups - hers plucked abruptly from her hand - and replaced them with two fluted ebony glasses trailing tendrils of red vapourous anima. "We are here to enjoy ourselves," he said with forceful cheer, and tilted his glass towards Elisewin's.
Elisewin regarded the red liquid blandly, then lifted her eyes to Renathal's expectant expression. She gave the garden path the Sire had taken one last inscrutable glance, before turning back to Renathal and obediently clinking her glass to his.
"He is right about one thing," she muttered, bringing the glass to her lips. "You do deserve this."
She took one experimental sip, blinked, then tilted her head back and downed the rest in three almost greedy gulps. Renathal doubled over in genuine, jubilant laughter; then, not to be outdone, drained his own glass in one steady draught.
"Another?" he asked brightly, the strong fermented anima burning down his throat and through his veins, and Elisewin nodded vigorously, brushing drops of wine from the upturned corners of her lips.
It was the closest thing to a smile she had managed at court so far, and the sight of it sealed Renathal's determination to think of his Master's mysteries no more.
A resolution which lasted three glasses.
Not an inordinate amount, compared to what many Venthyr nobles regularly imbibed, but Renathal did not often indulge in anima wine. Usually, he preferred a firm control of his will and wits, both of which he could feel slipping by the beginning of his third drink. By its completion, a fog had settled comfortably over all of his senses and he found himself propped against an overlarge sinstone listening to Theotar ramble, and allowing his old friend's voice and the alcohol bubbling through his veins to lull him into a pleasant, thoughtless stupour.
The Duke's babble ran an endless, aimless path. It began with effusive praise over the final outcome of Elisewin's gown - "Will you give a little spin for me, my friend, I must see the full effect!" - then wandered into warnings about the grumbling of the clothiers whose proposals had been declined - "So many enemies so early in our mortal's societal career!" From there, it meandered into general gossip about notably absent nobles, a topic Renathal found only marginally engaging. And it was not until he leaned down to ask an equally silent Elisewin how she felt about the prospects of a fourth glass of wine that he realised with a sickening drop in his stomach his lover was no longer beside him.
He straightened instantly, pushing off the hard sinstone and almost snapping his neck in his haste to look every direction at once. His dark coat caught on his armored tassets as he whipped in a circle, inspecting the courtyard. It was a bit blurrier at the edges than it had been when he first arrived, but, even in a wine-drunk haze, Renathal knew for certain his distinctive mortal was nowhere to be seen.
"... and this is the second Harvester's court in a row she has missed! I know she has never seen eye to eye with the Countess, but-"
"Where is Elisewin?" interjected Renathal loudly.
Sensing the Prince's alarm, the Duke broke off mid-word to answer, "Why... over there, somewhere, I believe," and point towards the distant ramparts, half hidden by decorative shrubs. "Didn't she say something a few minutes ago about needing a breath of fresh air?"
Renathal had absolutely no memory of this, though it was a very Elisewin thing to say. And to desire, despite the fact the whole court was already out of doors. But it was not at all in keeping with his lover's current cautious demeanor to wander away from him in the middle of what was fast devolving into a suitably salacious example of the Harvester of Desire’s preferred court. As he sped in the direction the Duke had indicated - after mumbling some half-intelligible excuse to his friend for his sudden leave - Renathal caught snatches of the other guests' interactions, many of which included shedding some or all of their fine garments the better to indulge in various debaucheries. Ignoring the prurient giggles, the scattered moans of pleasure or pain, he scanned the groups for a flash of lavender or brazen gold, but none of the activities, lascivious or otherwise, appeared to include his lost consort.
An ominous presentiment crawled across Renathal's skin. Somehow he knew, even before he rounded the last of the garden's privacy bushes, what he was going to find when he reached the far side. So, while his heart convulsed at the sight of his lover in her onyx and gold dress standing in the shadow of his Master's equally resplendent gold and red, notably absent from the myriad emotions that assailed Renathal was surprise.
Their backs were to the courtyard, and to Renathal; both apparently staring out across Revendreth's mist-shrouded eastern expanse. A hint of whispers carried across the breeze to the edge of the garden, too quiet for individual words to be discerned, but Renathal was suddenly ablaze with a reckless, alcohol-fuelled daring. He picked up his feet, wrapping anima magic about him, and glided noiselessly forward to the nearest dark brick stall. Most likely used as an outpost for guards, the small shelter was currently empty, and Renathal tucked himself behind it, cheek scraping the rough brick as he craned his neck to hear around the side. He could no longer see the secretive pair at the ramparts edge, but if he strained his ears he could just pick out their hushed words from the backdrop of court chatter.
“… fail to see the problem,” Denathrius was saying. “You no longer need to worry over atonements. Just continue to do what you do best.”
“And what is that?”
Even in a shrunken murmur, Elisewin's tone was bland as ever.
“Distract.” Denathrius’ by contrast, thrummed with malicious humour. “You are a distraction, my dear. And I must say I could not have asked for a better one.”
There was silence on the ramparts. For a tense moment, Renathal worried Elisewin's reply was so soft he did not catch it, but then her voice emerged, louder and audibly shaking, as though tossed by the wind.
"I - I don't ... understand what you mean."
A small commotion of delightedly scandalised laughter issued from the garden behind, obscuring the voices Renathal was fighting to hear. Throwing caution to the chill breeze, he wrapped his coat around himself and sank to the ground, edging around the building and willing himself not to be seen. But the two beings on the ramparts were far too busy staring at each other, and the playful party at the edge of the terrace was traipsing away, their voices blending back into the rest of the chaotic throng. Just in time for Renathal to hear Elisewin say in a voice uncharacteristically moved by indignation.
“And why would you want the Prince distracted?”
“That,” said Denathrius, also louder and more brisk, “is neither your concern nor his. Consider it your purpose, since that is what you're after. And if you were to fail at it..." He shifted casually, booted hooves shuffling against the stone as he allowed his pause to prolong the tension. "Then your presence in my realm would no longer be... necessary.”
Another silence. This one seemed to stretch on without hope of end. The two figures, mortal and Master, stood still as stoneborn, watching each other, Renathal too far away to glean anything from their shadowed silhouettes. Finally, Elisewin asked, quiet and wary once more:
“Why are you telling me this? You can’t really expect me not to tell the Prince everything you’ve just said?”
“Oh, I expect you will,” said Denathrius in a voice wholly unconcerned, even bored. “But I do not expect him to believe you. He is quite enjoying his role and his newfound privileges in my superior reality. I do not think he will be quick to throw those away. But...” He shrugged; an exaggerated gesture even Renathal could see from his half-hidden crouch. “You are more than welcome to try.”
Then, without farewell or a backward glance, Denathrius was sauntering away across the ramparts; not towards the terrace garden, but the direction of the distant lift. And the only coherent thought Renathal’s reeling brain could muster was a mild wondering at whether the Master planned to walk all the way back to Castle Nathria.
He did not feel fear, nor take any trouble to hide himself more securely - he almost wished to be caught, but the Master did not glance his way. Nor did he feel any trace of outrage or humiliation, though he imagined these would come later. Later. When the effects of the anima and alcohol had worn off and he was forced to admit his own failings to his friends, his allies, his lover, the Accuser - everyone who had always suspected what he had steadfastly refused to see.
For now, however, all Renathal was aware of was a profound, overwhelming sense of loss. And all he could bring himself to do was slump against the unforgiving brick of the rampart's shelter and, like Elisewin still standing frozen only a dozen paces away, stare into the unfathomable distance, mourning the loss of the perfect, glorious happiness they had so briefly enjoyed.
Read Chapter 11: An Invitation to Treachery | Visit the Masterpost
If you enjoyed this story, I would love to hear it 💜
#renathal x maw walker#renathal fan fiction#prince renathal#fanfiction#wow fanfiction#world of warcraft#shadowlands#elisewin#the maw walker#nightborne#wend in the shadows#slow burn romance#amnesia#revendreth#venthyr#Sire Denathrius#Castle Nathria#the countess#court of harvesters#duke theotar
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Count von Cunt 😅 Someone should’ve drew Theotar as Count von Count from the Sesame Street! They have something in common, don’t you think?
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I really like the way they handled Theotar. Like, yes, you can tell he’s been affected by his time in the Ember Ward, but everyone still treats him with respect. He’s still valued as a powerful caster and put in charge of important affairs, and people speak well of him.
Like, most of the time, ‘mad’ characters are the butts of jokes and the like and little else, but he’s still important and that means a lot to me.
I love him and all the interactions other characters have with him <3
Pelagos talks about uniting the shadowlands one tea cup at a time. Lady Moonberry is in a prank war with him. The Countess considers antics to impress him. The dredgers respect him.
I just love it <3
#mysdrym mumbles#world of warcraft#the mad duke#theotar#this is part of why i sort of think he was the mad duke before the ember ward#idk#apparently Theotar writes a book on venthyr etiquitte that you can get for your butler#i haven't gotten that yet
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I love Theotar so much 💕
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love is stored in the Theotar!!
#my art#theotar#theotar the mad duke#I got a bit lazy do not @ me#I still want to do the version I had with tubbins and gubbins and bristleboy#but i am super low energy rn
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Hey guys. Today i see one funny think:
The addon Narcissus identify Renathal as a paladin...
I try to see Denathrius in this addon and HE IS A ROGUE.
Our lovely Theotar is a mad mage. A lot of ventyr are mage, i think it is logical, but Renathal, Denathrius and some important figures have another class.
I found it very interesting. I'm thinking of using this as an idea for a drawing :D
#denathrius#prince renathal#renathal#theotar#mad duke#ventyr#world of warcraft#shadowlands#art#maw walker#warcraft#warcraft shadowlands
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