Current
It low key still amazes me sometimes that I met my fiancé on this site lol. Dreams do come true xD.
9
likes
3 mos ago
The love she gives is unlike anything my heart ever believed this world could offer. The love she is owed is my purpose, and it is my honor to fulfill such an oath. My heart is yours forever.
3
likes
7 mos ago
It's time
10 mos ago
I'm halfway between "I'm overwhelmed with the 3 RP's I'm doing" and "Everyday I browse the site for more, because I HUNGER!!!!!"
Bastion was still watching the glass of water when Meiyu spoke again.
“You may be the most terrifyingly sweet thing I’ve seen all week.”
His head tilted slowly toward her, taking in her smile, her tone, the way her words curled around themselves like a ribbon. It wasn’t the first time he had been called terrifying. It might’ve been the first time he’d been called sweet. He considered this.
“I do not intend to be terrifying,” he said after a moment. “But... I am glad if the result was positive.”
He watched as Meiyu turned her attention to the tankard offered by Wendel. Bastion observed her drink...unbothered, graceful, confident. He liked that she seemed to say exactly what she meant. He appreciated that kind of directness.
He also appreciated Wendel’s warmth. The way he smiled. The way his eyes softened around the edges like old paper that had weathered over time but still held ink.
Bastion thought for a moment, pondering how some could be so humane to his kind while others were so obviously disgusted by his presence. But before he could even complete the thought, Meiyu spoke again…this time to Talis.
“You’ve got the look of a smuggler. Or a sorcerer. Or maybe just a scholar with questionable life choices… So, little sparrow… what’s in the bag?”
Talis stopped breathing.
Not literally, but close enough that even Bastion picked up on the severity of distress the question caused the dehydrated woman.
She tried to laugh; “Tried” being the imperative word.
“Oh! Haha. What, this?” she said, holding her satchel like it might bite if provoked. “Nothing! Just… books. A snack. Some other boring stuff. Haha.”
She was doing the fast-talking thing again. Bastion had noticed it earlier. Her words sped up when she was anxious. Her eyes darted. Her hands never stopped moving.
“Wendel, want to place a wager? I say it’s cursed. Or alive. Or cursed and alive.”
Talis's almost choked on air as she breathed in deep, her laugh cracking mid-chuckle in the most unnatural way.
“No need for wagers! Definitely not cursed or alive or... anything like that. Haha. Ha. Just a normal bag.”
Her stool scraped back with a sound that made several people glance over. She stood stiffly, the satchel now gripped with both arms like it might fly away.
“I...uh. I need to go. Gotta…uh… relieve myself. Biologically. In a place. That is not here.”
There was a brief pause as she looked around the bar with her best attempt at a normal smile.
“I’ll be back! Probably.”
And then she was off…Half-speedwalking, half-fleeing. Bastion’s gaze lingered on the hallway she vanished into, then he turned back to the group and very softly, to no one in particular, he spoke.
“She forgot her water.”
He reached out and slid her untouched glass closer, just in case. And then he stood beside the stool, unmoving, watching the door…Waiting.
He shouldn’t have looked at her. He knew better, from the moment he sat down. But of course, he just wasn’t able to stop himself. And when her eyes finally found him, soft and tentative, not unlike the way they were the night before, for a heartbeat of a second all was right in the world.
“Good evening, Cassius,” she had said—just for him. No one else heard it, but he felt it in his damn bones. The sound of it was quiet, almost apologetic. Like it knew something he didn’t.
And then he saw it—that flicker of recognition behind her eyes. The truth settling there like dust on silk. Her posture straightened, but her cheeks gave her away. The soft breath that slipped between her lips, the tension in her shoulders—that was the look of someone preparing to let something beautiful die.
It was the same look he’d seen in soldiers who knew the retreat had already begun.
The moment hit him like a gut punch. And for once, Cassius didn’t know what to do with himself.
He didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink. He just watched as she turned away, slow and composed, holding a ribbon-wrapped box like it could anchor her to the floor. And still, the moment felt like it was slipping through his fingers. A page turning in the middle of the story. No explanation. No warning.
And still—still—his mind tried to make excuses for her. For him. For all of it.
Everything in him went quiet.
Cassius stared down at his hands, flexing them once, slow. As if remembering they were capable of holding something. As if remembering what he wanted to hold.
Then...he stood.
Not out of decision, but out of instinct. His body moved without asking for permission. One foot in front of the other, carried by something heavier than pride, stronger than caution. There was no plan. No clever smirk. Just desperation, plain and unspoken, radiating from his eyes like a heat that refused to be cooled.
He had to say something. Anything. He had to talk to her. He had to—
“Forgive me,” came a voice. Smooth. Curious. Unwelcome.
Cassius blinked—and someone was standing in front of him.
Tall. Blonde. Perfectly dressed and smelling faintly of decadence. There was an artistry to the man that didn’t belong in this world. He looked out of place by design.
“You walk,” the stranger said, tilting his head, “like a man who’s about to chase something that can’t be caught.”
Cassius didn’t respond.
He shifted to move around him—but the man shifted with him. Effortless. Like he was part of the current, not just blocking it.
“Don’t let me stop you,” the stranger said with a warm smile. “I just had to say… you are fascinating.”
“Not the time.”
“I know.” The stranger’s eyes swept across his face. Studying him. “It’s just that I see… scars. Not just on your face, but deeper. Older. Scars of survival. Of guilt. The kind of weight that reshapes a man whether he likes it or not.”
Cassius froze for a beat. Then, with a tone full of tension, he said, “You always psychoanalyze strangers, or am I just a special boy for this fuckin’ sweet talk?”
“Oh, you’re special, alright,” the man said, almost dreamily. “The silver streaks. The stare. The way you wear your pain like it belongs on you. Not everybody can see it… But I can.”
Cassius’s jaw clenched silently for a moment. He wanted to walk past. Gods, he needed to. But this man wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t shut up. His eyes moved back to Charlotte with need.
And then—just as Cassius started to shift again—
“It turns out,” the man added casually, “being the Scourge of Eisenholm leaves its mark on a man. Does it not?”
Everything stopped.
Cassius’s heart stalled. His breath left him in a single, cold exhale.
The words hit like a blade to the ribs. Quiet. Clean. Deep.
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t think.
He stepped forward in one smooth motion, grabbed the man by the collar, and slammed his back against a nearby pillar—hard enough to make a point, soft enough not to start a scene.
“You don’t know what you just said,” Cassius snarled, eyes burning, “but you’ve got three seconds to fix it. One chance.”
The man met his gaze, utterly unfazed. He looked at Cassius like he was reading a familiar passage in a well-loved book.
“Oh, I'm Milo St. Claire. I always know exactly what I say. And I know exactly who you are, Cassius.”
Milo didn’t flinch.
Instead, he smiled.
Which to Cassius, in that state, in that moment…was just the wrong fucking move.
He spoke. A denial wrapped in measured tones. A reasoned refusal, not unkind, but absolute. She listened and said nothing for a moment. But eventually, it was time to speak.
“Ah,” she said simply.
There was a moment of pause in between her words as Liana’s bourbon eyes looked over him as though she were seeing him for the first time.
“I misjudged you.”
Her tone wasn’t disappointed in the emotional sense. It was diagnostic. A recalculation.
“You helped the boy. Without asking who he belonged to. Without worrying about whether the bitch who broke his arm would be punished. There were rules broken then too. But you didn’t stop to report it. You just… acted.”
She tilted her head ever so slightly, studying him anew.
“I assumed that meant you cared more about people than procedure.”
She stepped in, slowly, deliberately, and placed a gloved hand against his chest. Not pushing. Just resting there, like the weight of a single truth.
“But I see now. That wasn’t principle. That was convenience. The child was a victim, so you acted. Here? It’s harder. Riskier. So you choose safety, not kindness.” Her gaze was cool and direct.
“You call it wisdom. I call it cowardice dressed as righteous policy.” Then, she pulled her hand away.
“I’ll find someone else. Someone willing to help the dying without getting so lost in their own minutia.
She started to turn away, but paused...just long enough to glance back over her shoulder.
“I really didn’t think you were going to be the disappointment you’ve turned out to be. But for what its worth… They aren’t contagious. They were cursed. There isn’t a threat to the other passengers… Only to the lives of two people who deserved better. Neither of them even know that they are stowaways. That sin is entirely on me, but it was the only way. Yet, you condemn them anyways with your conveniently placed sense of virtue. I hope your god is proud.”
Talis wasn’t sure if it was the voice or the eyes. Maybe both.
Either way, she was definitely melting again...and not in a romantic way. More so in a "my spine has been replaced with warm oatmeal and my thoughts are escaping through my ears" kind of way.
She nodded stiffly at Meiyu’s remark about dehydration, feeling very much like the flight in fight or flight was calling her name.
“O-of course,” she said, her voice hitching halfway through the first syllable. “Hydration is crucial. Vital, even. I...uh...always say, better water than… than not water.”
Great. Incredible.Not suspicious at all.
She was actively dying inside when Meiyu’s gaze shifted to Bastion, and her breath caught again. He was still looming...not in a threatening way, just…present. Solid. Like a silent lighthouse trying to understand fog.
Talis blinked rapidly as Meiyu commented on his scarf.
“Your scarf, it seems cozy. It suits you.”
Bastion blinked, looking down at his scarf. Then up at Meiyu.
Then down at the scarf again, as if trying to determine what she meant. “Cozy” was a strange descriptor for something he technically couldn’t feel.
“It is... important,” he replied after a moment, the faintest hint of pride creeping into his voice. “It was a gift.”
Talis, meanwhile, was shrinking into herself like a melting marshmallow. Her satchel strap was now indented into her shoulder from how hard she was gripping it. Her foot twitched nervously. Her pupils might’ve been vibrating.
Bastion noticed.
He had been watching her since the conversation began, his internal systems tagging every change in her behavior: increased breathing rate. Tension in the jaw. Shifting posture. Minimal blinking. Defensive clutching of bag. A subject under distress.
But why? He looked at Meiyu again. She hadn’t raised her voice. She wasn’t threatening. Still, Talis was afraid. And Bastion, whether it be programming or compassion, didn’t like that. She needed to be protected.
From what, he wasn’t sure. But something in him stirred...a directive buried deep in his core programming. Protect the charge. Maintain safety.
He scanned the situation…Dehydration had been mentioned, and she had said she was thirsty. Perhaps it was time to escalate.
Talis was just about to speak again when suddenly…she was no longer seated.
“Wha...?!” she yelped as Bastion’s large arms gently but confidently lifted her from the barstool.
He held her like one might hold a particularly anxious cat...awkwardly, but with great care.
“Bastion?!” She asked, her words coming out more confused than afraid. Her hands immediately moved to secure her satchel against her protectively.
“You said you were thirsty,” he explained calmly. “You are exhibiting signs of increasing physiological distress. This suggests imminent collapse. I am resolving the issue.”
He turned to Gears with mechanical precision, grabbing the tall glass of water she had just slid their way.
Then, still holding Talis with all the delicacy of a man transporting a sacred relic, he tilted the glass toward her face.
“I highly recommend you drink this. For your safety.”
Talis squinted up at him, somewhere between scandalized and short-circuiting.
“You’re giving me waterboarding energy right now,” she whispered through clenched teeth.
“That does not sound hydrating.”
“It’s not.”
There was a pause. A very Bastion type of pause to be exact.
Then, slowly, resignedly, she took the glass with both hands, sipped it like a very offended raccoon, and muttered, “There. Crisis averted. Thank you, you big terrifying sentient teapot.” Despite her nerves, despite not particularly enjoying being picked up and force fed water like a baby…she couldn’t help but smile. Something about it all just felt…pure.
Bastion nodded solemnly.
“You are welcome.”
He gently lowered her back to the stool.
For a moment, there was silence...Talis awkwardly sipping water, and Bastion watching her like she was a mission objective.
Talis blinked into her glass and muttered, mostly to herself, “This is fine. Everything is fine. I love airships. I love bars. I love being held like a sack of emotional potatoes.”
She led him with graceful ease, her stride fluid, the kind of effortless confidence that made her movements feel more like a glide than a walk. Her presence was magnetic in that quiet, unspoken way—like candlelight in a still room. She didn't try to charm, yet there was something undeniably alluring about her: the softness of her voice with that ever so faint rasp that adds eccentricity, the way her gaze lingered a heartbeat too long, how her fingers trailed lightly along the rail as they descended the next flight of stairs.
They walked down a narrow, lesser-used corridor that curved toward a maintenance stairwell—one of the many veins in the ship’s vast body that most passengers never even glanced at. The buzz of life above faded, replaced by the ship’s pulsing heart: the hum of arcane engines, the faint hiss of pressure valves, the creak of wooden bones with metal joints.
Finally, she paused beside a closed hatch. She turned to face him fully, her voice lower now, almost intimate.
“There are two people in the cargo hold. A man and a woman.” Her eyes searched his face, and something like vulnerability passed through her expression. “They’re very sick. Fevers. Coughing blood. Too weak to move.”
She hesitated, just enough to seem unsure, then looked down briefly before continuing.
“They’re not on the manifest. Stowaways.” She glanced back up, voice soft, confessional. “That’s why I haven’t gone to the ship’s medics. I’m afraid if I report them, they’ll be thrown off at the next port or left to die in a locked room. But if someone like you… someone with healing hands and no need to judge… were to help them quietly…covertly”
She let the implication hang, unfinished.
Her eyes held his again. No flicker of deception. No twitch of guilt. Only that same unnerving stillness, cloaked in certainty.
The bar was getting louder by the minute, and Gears was fairly sure her napkin-to-chaos ratio was officially unsustainable.
Steam hissed softly from her arm vents as she tidied a corner of the bar that didn’t need tidying, just to give her hands something to do while Phia unleashed yet another round of wonderfully unique questions her way.
She was really starting to take a liking to the girl; naivety and all.
Phia’s next words hit with full force, though.
“You are… for war? You are a warrior? That’s why you have covered yourself in armor, Miss Gears!”
Gears blinked. Slowly.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Considered. Then gave a little shrug and leaned a hip against the counter.
“Well, darlin’, I suppose you’re not wrong. I was built for war, sure enough. But I prefer pourin’ liquid peace these days.”
She reached across the counter and gently set down a refill of water—mostly to make sure Phia was staying hydrated.
“And this armor?” Gears knocked on her own chestplate with a soft tink-tink. “Came with the frame. Can’t take it off, not unless someone’s lookin’ to do some real invasive tinkerin’, and sugar, I’m not exactly a tea kettle.”
Gears paused after the next words out of Phia’s mouth, just for a second.
The noise of the bar faded around her, the clinking glasses and shouting voices softening under the weight of Phia’s words.
“You are a blessing upon us all, Miss Gears. Continue to be kind, and the spirits will favor you.”
That one settled deep—right behind her reinforced plating, somewhere dusty and quiet she hadn’t touched in years.
She didn’t say anything at first. Just reached for a clean towel and polished a spot on the counter that didn’t need polishing.
Then, with a slow smile that reached her optics, she looked back at Phia.
“Well now... ain’t that the kindest thing anyone’s said to me in a long while,” she said, voice low and warm like a lullaby by lantern light.
She leaned in a little, her tone turning to that gentle hush you use when handing someone something precious.
“Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll tuck that right next to my spark core where it’ll stay warm.”
A smile bloomed, not performative or polished—just real.
“Kindness don’t cost much, but it sure carries far. If the spirits are watchin’, I hope they see you first.”
Before Gears or Phia could say more, a familiar tension crackled in the air. She didn’t have to look far to find the source.
Her optics narrowed.
The dragonborn bastard was still seated, but he’d made himself plenty known—and it hadn’t gone unnoticed. Several nearby patrons had already bristled. Some were stepping in.
Her optics flicked once—up, past the crowd—and landed on the little girl sitting beside the man, blue-scaled and clutching a marble like it was a lifeline.
Gears' jaw clenched just slightly, then relaxed.
“Count your blessings, you dumb bastard,” she muttered under her breath. “If that kid weren’t watchin’, I’d have given you a real teachin’—one you could feel in your tail.”
She made no move to step in. Not this time. Others were already making their opinions known of the man. And the star-skin girl—Ayra—well, she wasn’t alone.
Gears exhaled a little puff of steam, cleared a few empty glasses, and let the moment settle. Though she had to admit, seeing her new friend Phia go from sweet as sugar to a force to be reckoned with like that in an instant was not only impressive, but it drew an urge in her to join in. Even now, a few years away from her last battle…that feeling bubbled just beneath the surface. That silent cry for her original purpose.
Then came a new presence, and gear’s thoughts and feelings recalibrated back to normal.
Smooth. Steady. Not loud—but somehow impossible to ignore. She turned just in time to catch the woman’s gaze—poised, unreadable, and sharp as a winter wind.
Gears met it calmly. Respectfully.
“Something strong, when you have a moment,” the woman said.
Gears gave her a slow nod and a soft smile, already reaching for the unlabeled bottle from under the counter—the one she reserved for customers who didn’t need to brag.
“Mmm. Say no more, sweetheart. I got just the thing for a lady who doesn’t waste words.”
She poured with precision, slid the glass forward without a clink, and gave a subtle gesture of approval. The woman leaned against the bar like she belonged there, and Gears had no interest in challenging that.
And then—
“Hello, Miss Gears!”
That voice. She’d know that voice in a crowd of hundreds.
Gears turned to see Vallena clambering up onto a stool like a squirrel on a mission.
Her face immediately softened. There was something about Val that cracked through the morning’s weight like sunlight through shutters.
“Well hey there, sugar,” she said with a grin. “You’re lookin’ bright as ever.”
Then came the questions.
Squeakiness. Stiffness. General discomfort.
Gears held still, amused, letting Val finish her full checklist with all the seriousness of a field medic.
When it was over, she tapped her chin thoughtfully.
“No stiffness,” she said playfully, rolling her shoulder. “Joints feel smooth as churned butter.” “No squeakiness,” she added, giving a little knee bounce. “Though I think the popcorn machine behind me’s tryin’ to steal my thunder.” “And as for discomfort—” she winked, “not unless you count emotionally, sugar.”
She gave Vallena a warm nod. “You done good, hon. Looks like someone’s been payin’ attention to their lessons.”
Then came Scratch—quiet, calm, pleasant…at least to her. He spoke without fuss, kept an eye on the room like he always did. Gears liked that about him. She never had to guess his angle.
“You tell the Captain I’m dry as driftwood and twice as sturdy,” she said easily. “Rain didn’t do more than mess my shine.”
Her optics shifted toward the gnome he had referred to as a hired hand. She gave a small shrug.
“As for the this fella—don’t get jealous, hon. The Gnome’s not here for a long time, just a good time I’d wager. He’s just a passenger who got a little too enamored with my curvature.”
The bar bustled, the clouds rolled on outside, and in her little corner of the sky, Gears kept everyone steady—one drink, one dry quip, and one warm smile at a time.
Talis was still smoothing her robes when she realized Bastion hadn’t left. He was just… standing there. Like a particularly polite statue.
She peeked up at him.
“You don’t have to keep watching me, you know,” she mumbled politely, brushing a curl behind her ear. “I’m not going to fall again. Probably.”
“I am verifying,” Bastion replied, as if this were obvious. “You said it was part of your character development. I am unsure if your character is to be developed further in this way.”
That made her snort. Like, full-on shnort. She clapped a hand to her face immediately, as if she could cram the sound back in.
“No sequels, promise!” She assured him through her fingers. “I think the arc is complete. Unless there’s a spin-off where I fall off a different piece of furniture.”
Bastion looked at the bar stool.
Then at her.
“Perhaps you should refrain from spinning off of this seat,” he said with gentle sincerity, completely misunderstanding her reference. “I could hold it while you sit, if that would help.”
“That’s… very thoughtful. But I think I’ll take my chances.”
She eased back onto the seat with exaggerated care. Bastion watched the whole time, scanning her movements with not an ounce of subtlety.
When she was finally settled, she offered him a small, grateful smile.
“You’re very… thorough.”
“Yes,” he said simply. “I was made that way.”
She hesitated. Looked down at her lap. Her fingers tightened slightly around the strap of her satchel. That same look returned—something between worry and full on exhaustion.
“Sometimes I wish I’d been made differently,” she murmured, mostly to herself.
Before Bastion could ask what she meant, another voice cut gently into the moment.
“You seem uneasy,” the woman said, her voice calm and precise. “Is it the company, or do you always carry something that makes you nervous?”
Talis startled slightly—again—then twisted awkwardly toward the new speaker. Her eyes flicked up and caught a striking gaze: elegant, unreadable…she was beautiful in the same way as a lightning storm; equal parts gorgeous yet dangerous.
“Oh! Uh, I—I didn’t mean to look...nervous,” she lied, terribly. “I’m not nervous. Just—thirsty! That’s all. I haven’t hydrated. Very unhydrated over here.”
She pointed to her throat like it might explain something.
“Also the bar stools are taller than they look. Sneaky things.”
The airship's dining hall was quiet, save for the faint hum of the engines below. The man sat at the polished mahogany table, a solitary figure amidst the fine dinnerware and utensils. He was an island of stillness in the otherwise bustling atmosphere, his posture impeccably straight, every movement precise. His cold, calculating eyes scanned the plate before him, a dish laid out with the sort of care one might reserve for a work of art: Karrnathi Ironplate. That is what the chef had called this masterpiece.
The seared meat strips glistened with a sheen of perfectly rendered fat, the edges caramelized to a rich brown. He inspected them first with the sharpness of a master, considering each piece's texture, the precise crispness that marked the perfect execution of a dish. His fork moved delicately, picking up a piece as though handling a precious artifact. Slowly, deliberately, he brought it to his lips, his pale mouth savoring the tender meat in measured bites, not a shred of it wasted.
The dark rye beneath the meat was thick and hearty, crusted with grains that cracked faintly under the weight of his knife. He sliced through it with an elegance that seemed almost ceremonial, as if he were performing a ritual. The crumbs fell in perfect, uniform patterns on the plate. No errant bits. No mess. As he dipped a piece into the butter, he studied the golden sheen of the herbs, his gaze lingering just a moment too long before bringing the morsel to his mouth with a slow, deliberate motion. It was as though he were testing the limits of his own restraint, every bite an exercise in control.
The pickled roots came next, their sharp, tangy aroma mixing with the richness of the meat. His fork pierced a root, lifting it to his lips with the same meticulous care. The bright, almost unnatural color of the vegetables stood in stark contrast to the dark tones of the plate, yet he examined them as if contemplating a philosophical question. The sharp vinegar bite hit his tongue, and for a moment, his eyes flickered in discomfort, but only for a heartbeat, before he suppressed it with a smooth, calculated breath.
The buttered herbed potatoes were the last to be touched, the soft, creamy interior broken open with a slight pressure from his fork. A perfect golden halo of crisp skin encased the potato like a delicate shell. He pressed the soft insides against the plate, then swirled them with the butter, watching as the herbs clung to the surface. With measured calm, he took a bite. There was no rush, no indulgence—only the barest hint of satisfaction that passed over his lips in the smallest of smiles.
His gaze never wavered from the plate as he ate, his movements so graceful and precise that it seemed he might have been orchestrating a lifesaving surgery. Not a single bite was messy. Not a single motion wasted. The entire meal unfolded like a performance—one that he was masterfully in control of.
Once the plate was empty, he set his utensils down with a soft clink, the quiet sound hanging in the air like a closing note. His napkin came to his lips, dabbing them with a clean, slow motion, and his eyes cast upward, almost as if savoring the silence that followed.
After a few moments, the man, satisfied with his meal, pushed the chair back with caution as he stood, returned the chair to its rightful and respectful place, left a handsome tip on his table for his waiter…and departed.
His footsteps echoed softly along the polished corridors of the ship. The faint scent of death—always present, no matter how much he tried to mask it—clung to him like a shadow, noticeable to those who might have been attuned to such things. As he reached his quarters, the door opened with a faint creak. Inside, the room was meticulously arranged, the furniture sparse but elegant, bathed in the faint glow of the sun through the windows.
He moved to a corner of the room, where an intricately carved wooden trunk sat—unassuming at first glance. He knelt before it with the same careful precision he had demonstrated throughout his meal, his hands moving with purpose as he unlatched the brass clasps.
Inside, the bag lay waiting—its contents hidden beneath layers of fabric. As he slowly unzipped it, the innards were revealed with an almost reverential touch.
A severed head, its face frozen in a grimace of despair, and several severed hands, their fingers still curling slightly as though trying to grasp at something just out of reach. The sight was unsettling, yet his gaze softened with something approaching joy. He ran a finger lightly across one of the hands, his expression filled with hints of subtle pleasure.
Without hesitation, his hand reached over and delicately picked up the severed head, bringing it slowly to meet his eyes. He studied its lifeless features, his fingers tracing the edge of the jawline as though he were reacquainting himself with an old friend.
"You’ve been quiet," he murmured, his voice soft, almost affectionate. "I missed our conversations. Do you remember the last time we spoke? Of course, you do." He tilted his head, as if waiting for a response, then sighed. "Always so stubborn."
His eyes narrowed slightly, and with a sudden, unsettling tenderness, he leaned in and kissed the head on the lips. The gesture was slow, deliberate, and disturbingly intimate—lips meeting cold, lifeless skin in a moment that seemed to stretch on unnervingly long.
The silence that followed was thick and palpable, and as he placed the head back into the bag with the same reverence as before, the air in the room seemed to grow heavier, more suffocating. But not for the man…not for that dreaded Necromancer. He was right at home.
By the time the soldier disappeared into the corridor leading toward Sick Bay, she was already descending the stairs behind him, footsteps quiet, deliberate. No one noticed her leave the upper deck. No one ever did...until she wanted them to.
The air in Sick Bay was cold, sterile, efficient. She did not enter fully, only lingered at the threshold of a side hallway, mostly obscured behind a half-parted curtain meant for privacy. From here, she could see clearly.
The boy lay on the cot, pale but peaceful in sleep. The damage had been set properly by the medics—splinted, stabilized, and managed with practiced hands. But this was the real work.
The man stood at the child’s side, glove removed, palm resting lightly against the boy’s arm. An amulet pulsed faintly on his wrist. Not just a symbol. A conduit.
The glow that spilled from beneath the cloth over his missing eye shimmered like a wound in reality—quiet and unflinching. His voice, low and steady, broke the silence in quiet prayer. Words in reverence to the Silver Flame, spoken with conviction but not spectacle. A soldier’s prayer, plain and stripped of ornament, yet filled with weight.
She watched intently.
The way his shoulders rose and fell, the stillness of his fingers, the utter concentration carved into every line of his body. This was no charlatan healer, no hedge-priest mimicking power. This was faith, channeled like a scalpel. He believed—and worse, his belief worked.
The boy’s breath steadied. Color returned to his cheeks.
Interesting.
The Silver Flame. How quaint... and yet, how terribly effective. Even those heretical, zealot cunts could be useful from time to time.
She waited until it was done.
Waited until the boy was tucked in again, the healing complete, and the soldier’s hand had withdrawn. The soft hum of clerics and medics returned to the air like birdsong after thunder.
Only then did she step forward.
No footsteps. No fanfare. One moment the hallway was empty, and the next, she was there—standing near the edge of the curtain, still cloaked in the faint scent of old paper and strange perfume. Her voice came like wind behind his shoulder.
“And here they say the age of good men has come and gone...” she announced, followed by the slightest of pauses before continuing.
"Yet you care for the wounded with real conviction,” she said softly. “And skill. That is… rare.”
Her tone wasn’t reverent. Just matter-of-fact. Like a scholar noting the properties of a rare mineral.
“I watched you. Not just now.” She stepped into view fully, hands folded at her waist, expression unreadable. Her dark coat clung to her like a second skin, and her eyes—sharp and unsettlingly calm—did not blink as they found his.
“You carry yourself like a man with purpose. That, too, is rare.”
A long pause. She studied him for just a breath longer than was comfortable.
“I have a task. A sensitive one. And I find myself in need of someone… like you.”
She glanced toward the boy, then back at Ezekiel. “Someone with a steady hand. And a discerning eye.”
Her lips curled into the faintest, most elegant approximation of a smile. Not warm. Not unkind. Just... precise.
“If you have a moment, I’d like to speak with you in private.”
There was no command in her voice. Just a quiet certainty that this was an invitation one did not ignore.
Member
RPM
SilverSpring
princess
CabbageAngel
Ducksworth
Hope Lover
Damo021
