westwhere | blood & sand

Entry tags:

blood & sand

Hi folks! Welcome to Eastbound’s last test drive meme and the second event of the Ephes Arc, stretching until 25 October. Applications next open over 20-25 October, with invitations required for new players (but not returning ones). Individual cast and game caps are off.

Test driving characters can use this space for both network and log prompts, as well as play both the newcomer and shared prompts. Enjoy!

BLOOD & SAND

Image source.

NEWCOMERS-ONLY PROMPTS

You wake to the creaky swaying of a large wooden cage, in the back of a cart. Balmy sun pinches your cracked, dried skin. Haziness and nausea assail you, your legs weak. Your supernatural powers are muted, due to recover within 48 hours. Several other carts trot by. You share your cage with a dozen others — largely farmers — and sacks of freshly harvested wheat, their bottoms stained dark.

The farmers point you towards a heap of rusted pendants that allow you to speak and glean local tongues, and access a network. They say you were recovered following an earthquake at a Hive — one of the agricultural clusters feeding the extravagant Senate-led city of Ephes. The Ephes army, the elite Hand, was patrolling nearby and is taking you to the citadel for healing.

■ Gather your bearings and distribute the scant water that Hand soldiers dole out — the earthquake, you hear, has dried the Hive wells.

■ You quickly learn why the Hand encaged all of you, as one of the Hive farmers starts to jerk, growl and shake, weeping black water as he strikes at anyone around him. Fend for yourself, before the Hand soldiers come to remove him!

Image source.

You arrive at the main gate of Ephes, where crowds vie for passage. Your carts are inspected, and an irritable woman enters each cage, checking each passenger — before taking you and a handful of others for ‘further customs investigations.’

In the back of an alley, she introduces herself as the sorceress Karsa — and says you are otherworlders brought into the realm of Akhuras by undead lieges of the Brotherhood, who seek to weaponise you in their wars. Her patron, the Merchant, leads otherworlders to ancient transport beacons that can deliver you home.

One beacon sleeps in Ephes, where the rest of Karsa’s party is scattered. The citadel has mysteriously accrued an elite, nearly supernaturally strong army that the undead lady Messalina seeks to borrow from the Senate, in her quest to free her undead companions from the Brotherhood. The Senate is yet to vote on her request.

The black water that has touched you, Karsa says, has previously been found where the undead rally. For now, Karsa gives you a little coin, passport papers identifying you under various civilian roles (player’s choice, but keep it Ancient Rome-themed) and an iron pin of an eye with a sun for a pupil to identify other party members.

SHARED PROMPTS

Decadent Ephes is overrun by rumours, after several Senators who intended to support undead lady Messalina were mysteriously assassinated at the banquet of prominent Senator Maximus Faustus — who, Karsa informs, is one of Messalina’s shapeshifting creatures. Messalina offers her protegees demonic hound escorts.

Hand army recruits protect official buildings, while the rich hire gladiators to watch their homes. Both move freely.

The Senate fears further retaliation against those who champion the dead. Senate leader Caius Justus distantly mourns the Senatorial murders from seclusion at the temple of the Chained God.

Civilians face increased tensions and whispers of curfews in the market. Crowds frequently quarrel over undead allegiances

Following an exercise in divination, priests of the city’s patron, the Chained God, spread word that the deity holds strong despite his Chaining, and he still wishes to destroy and rebirth the world.

Karsa informs the existing party that more otherworlders joined Ephes and wear iron pins depicting an eye with a sun for a pupil. She gives the party similar pins for identification purposes. Newcomers and old timers can recognise each other by their pins or engage over the network!

Image source.

THE PROSCRIPTIONS
OBJECTIVE: procure proscription lists.

You hear from the city crowds that partial target lists are circulating with the names of politicians targeted for bounties. Karsa tasks the team to recover the lists, which can be used as political currency. Find them by either:

■ Infiltrating a tavern run by the ruthless city gang of Livius Decimus and packed with unscrupulous bounty hunters, thugs and professional assassins.
A local ‘delicacy’ drink of wine and pickle juice is often inflicted on strangers. Brawls erupt randomly. Coax shady patrons to share target lists.

■ Visit the empty marketplaces just before dawns and raid the chained wooden submission boxes of news shouters, who receive anonymous tip-offs about fresh bounty lists. The boxes are pinned to the ground and tightly locked, but rusty from the cold seasons — allowing you to break them or pick their locks, while someone keeps watch. Tampering with a news shouter’s box is a jailable offence.

■ Turn in a finished thread to receive a clue!

Image source.

AT SEA
OBJECTIVE: investigate abandoned ships and rescue sailors.

One early morning (OOCly: Oct. 13), as you entertain sailors for gossip on the docks or fish breakfast, you witness the port authorities screaming for help as several small merchant ships appear abandoned at nearby sea for reasons unknown.

Lookouts spot no activity on board, while sailors organise rescues.

■ Row a small boat some 15-20 minutes to one of the merchant vessels. All merchant ships have roughly three hours afloat, as they slowly sink from numerous small erosion holes in their sides.

■ You find no crew on deck, and doorways to the cabins below are locked from within. Below deck, you find numerous sacks of wheat from the Ephes agricultural clusters, the Hives. A black liquid, thick and tar-like, is seeping out of the sacks — corroding the ship’s wood and creating leaking holes.

■ You find a handful of dazed sailors who claim a dark, slithering creature knocked them out. They were selected by Narula, leader of the elite Ephes army of the Hand, to transfer grain onto the vessels of the ‘merchant’ Matthias, much farther at sea. If you mention Matthias to Karsa later, she reveals he is a man (?) who potentially created the undead Brotherhood.

■ Seven sailors who did not know each other were chosen to man the ship. Eight men are in the room, meaning one ‘man’ is the assailing creature. You must decide who to release upstairs for evacuation.

■ Tips: the creature, disguised as a human sailor, has no pain receptors and isn’t afraid of typical dangers (fire, drowning). It does not bleed if hurt. It sometimes forgets to blink and increasingly, unwillingly, slowly morphs its features into yours, the longer it speaks with you. Lastly, the creature has a tattoo on its forearm identifying it as a soldier of the Hand.

■ Once found, the creature turns violent, dissolving into wisps of shadow and materialising once more to strike from behind you. The shadow creature cannot be outright killed — but you can lock it inside the ship.

■ Leave by small boat before the vessel sinks & claim a question if you saved sailors. Merchant vessels can be patched up, if successfully returned to port.

Image source.

THE RATTLING
OBJECTIVE: survive & explore the arena.

To stoke her popularity in Ephes, undead mistress Messalina organises a sumptuous gladiator game at the Colosseum (OOCly around Oct. 20), inviting plebes, patricians, politicians, soldiers — and you.

Gladiators may be hired (or coerced) to perform, while servants supply copious amounts of wines, oysters and honey pastries. A tiny mechanical golden mouse, passing by each seat, drops folded pieces of parchment with fortunes and riddles, ranging from teasing to morbid to philosophical or sweet. Pick up yours and make sense of it with your neighbour!

Politicians often interrupt the games to announce donations or make elaborate speeches. Toss peanuts to signal your discontent — or join in with your own speech.

■ The games start with matches between humans, but are building up to face-offs with reptilian demons, mounted rhinoceros and flying gargolyes whose voices thrall you frozen put.

■ During the games, you feel slight vibrations, and — if supernaturally sensitive — an undefined magical tension. By 15:00, this ramps up into earth tremors that worsen over 12 minutes — as columns and seats topple over, and the ground breaks in deep rifts, releasing black, chilled, tar-like water.

■ Crazed mobs rush for the exit, stampeding carelessly, while columns and decorations tumble down.

■ Dozens of the monsters brought to gladiate free themselves and hunt down spectators. Soldiers of the army of the Hand — disturbingly fast, strong and disciplined — intervene but it’s best you look after yourselves. Some spectators shout these Hand recruits practise some of the techniques performed by a recently missing gladiator — the Beast of Brenne.

■ Passing by the earthquake rifts, you see wisps of the tar-like liquid that gushes from them is gradually assuming the shadowy shape of humans. Stalking after you, they do not speak or bring you harm, but slowly steal your likeness and drain you of vigour and stamina. You get the sense that all they want is a shape. Encountering shadow creatures leaves you with a sense of bitter loneliness that only living company can soothe.

■ If you study the arena, you see the same black liquid is gathering around freshly downed corpses, slowly reanimating them. These newly-crafted undead struggle to walk and speak naturally and remember their lives, often unaware they died. Anguished, they beg help to escape, before inevitably succumbing to the instinct to harm you. Remind or convince them they are dead, and they withdraw.

■ The largest earthquake rift in the arena is overrun by the black liquid and by nearby undead. Within it, you notice a bloodless hand that seems to never sink — Enter a RNG draw to collect it and its clue.

■ As you gather your wits outside, you see followers of the Chained God rallying in the streets, comforting the traumatised crowd that all will be well now — for the Chained God’s destruction will be mercifully swift.

Image source.

THE QUIET HOUSE
OBJECTIVE: Explore the abandoned gladiator barracks.

NOTE: a Halloween special, this area is entirely opt-in and features several frights. Mind the warnings!

As chaos consumes the Colosseum, you notice the earthquake has destroyed a previously locked arena gate, revealing a decayed tunnel. The corridor leads inside a closed-off barrack whose doors and windows have been barred from the outside with wood planks and chains. Touch these restraints, and your unhurt hand leaves behind a fading blood print.

The barracks building is withered and clearly abandoned, with scarce furniture and a few weapons in a training room.

Several discarded torches stay alight on wall fixtures. Pre-prepared braziers have been filled with spirit-fending incense of sandalwood and sage. Explore for clues.

■ THE HALLWAYS ( cw: guilt haunting ): corridors flow into each other, often leading back where you started. You run into shifting wall engravings, some listing the name and ranks of Hand soldiers, or precepts such as GODS OF THE ARENA and BECOME AS STRONG / AS FAST, AS NIMBLE / AS GLADIATORS. A large portrait of Hand leader Narula is increasingly more scratched, every time you encounter it, while the painted man looks healthier, younger and stronger. Inevitably, you hear heavy steps — a deep-shadowed spectre, the Drillmaster, who starts to stalk you with slow persistence. Visible to you and your companions, the Drillmaster fluctuates between assuming the appearance of Narula and the distorted, monstrous figure of someone from your past, who heavily criticised or intimidated you. The corridor lighting changes depending on your proximity to the Drillmaster: green for safe passage, white to tread lightly, red to stop. You can make the Drillmaster disappear out of your way by facing or acknowledging whatever weakness (true or self-perceived) you have that has caused extensive criticism or self-doubt.

■ THE BATHS ( cw: doppelgangers): a long marble hall featuring a large swimming pool, now drained and filled with mould and debris. Steam overwhelms the room, except for a wall-length black mirror at the end of the hall. The more you look into the mirror, the more the black substance that covers it slips down, flooding the floors and also dripping from walls and the ceiling. As the mirror clears, you see your black-eyed reflection that suddenly screams out verbal abuse or plunges at you. Once you subdue the doppelganger (claim a clue), it dissolves into more black water, while the mirror shows scratched inscriptions of A RIGHTEOUS HAND SHAPES EACH OF ITS FINGERS.

■ THE DORMITORIES ( cw: membranous cocoons): hollow, empty, quiet, the dormitories sport strange membranous cocoons in the walls, from which shadowy hands reach out. You hear young wo/men, whimpering and murmuring that they aren’t afraid and want to change to make Brother Narula proud, before erupting into screams or laughter. Break the cocoons without getting trapped into their webs — only to find nothing inside, except stone dog tags, engraved with the names of Hand soldiers. On the floor, you find primitive tattoo needles and ink.

Luck strikes at sunset, when a previously barred door opens to release you from the house — back into Ephes.

NOTES:

■ QUESTIONS

■ NPC inbox (for test drivers)

■ Event title shamelessly pilfered from a gory gladiator show!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The warning comes too late.

Anduin had sensed something was off, that there was a presence in that reflective surface, and light gathered in his hand as he attempted to search more closely. That was of course before his reflection's black hollow eyes jerked up to stare him straight in the face, and his twisted double lunged at him.

Both Anduin's toppled to the ground for a moment, slipping amidst the black ichor slick against the stones. He feels hands grasping for his throat, for his eyes, as his teeth grit.

"You will fail them. As you've failed everyone else. You wear a crown of ruin, on a throne of lies."

Wrathion leans away as the glass crashes across the floor, draws his blade and rushes closer as they roll.

"Anduin!"

The only problem is, the two figures are locked together as they roll. He thinks he noticed something dark in the eyes of one, but their movements are rapid and the last thing he needs is to cause harm to the real man. What a pathetic end to his miserable existence that would be, harming the people he loves. Fitting, in a way. He sheathes his blade in frustration, tries to grip the figure currently on top and wrench it off. Panic tightens a grip on his heart, visions of himself tearing into one of them only to feel blood run down his claws while the creature laughs at him.

(His body twisting, shrieking, metal plates clamping down --)

"Help me," he growls. Something, something Anduin would know. Some clue. His mind races, because there's no time for a long question or answer. "The Red Crane's name," he prompts. That's short, fast. Yet would the creature know that? How much of Anduin has it mimicked?

"What?" Anduin's wide eyes flicker towards the dragon, holding back, when the reason finally occurs to him. Of course it isn't as obvious to him, isn't it? Clever, to have thought of it that quickly.

"Ch--"

But a hand clamps over his mouth before he can answer, shoving his head back against the stone floor. As he tries to pry those dark-slick fingers away from his face, the other 'Anduin' lifts his gaze towards Wrathion. "You'd hurt me again, as you always have. As you always will."

The words seem to reinforce every dark thought Wrathion has had. He ruins everything he touches, he knows that. He's too quick to anger, too slow to trust, too volatile--

He remembers the figure in Yancai, wearing Anduin's appearance, taunting him. Making him crawl along the docks on his knees.

That's the difference. The real Anduin, the man he loves, would not say this to him. Would correct his behaviour, question him -- but not this.

He hopes. Titans, but he hopes he isn't wrong. Taking a steadying breath, he grabs the figure clamping hands over Anduin's mouth and hauls with all his draconic strength. Tries to throw it across the room, far enough to give him a second to hold a hand out and help him up. Better this than going straight for a lethal move and misjudging.

"Anduin?" he whispers, and the flicker of fear is there in his expression. If he's just thrown the real Anduin across the room, he's quite sure he'll never forgive himself.

Relief floods him as Wrathion chooses correctly, as that weight leaves his chest and those cold fingers loose their grip on his face. Sucking in a breath of air, he quickly grasps for Wrathion's arm, pulling himself up to his knees before scrambling up the rest of the way.

"Chi-ji," he finally pants out, with a half-smile flickering in place. It vanishes as the figure pretending to him starts to stand across from them, a little too smoothly. Head tilting a little too far to the left to be entirely natural.

"Never worthy. Never worthy.."

And who it is referring to is never expounded upon, before it starts to lunge towards both of them again. Quicker than thinking, the real Anduin shifts forward a step, arm extending as a helix of brilliant light spirals outward towards the creature, blue eyes narrowed intently.

The relief is palpable, briefly, as it floods through Wrathion. His fingers tighten on Anduin's arm, a silent reassurance for them both, before he releases him and turns to the creature. The priest steps forward, and Wrathion tenses but keeps pace with him as he cast. The doppelganger moves to try and dodge, and Wrathion's own hands lift.

"A little wet here for my taste," he admits, but fire flourishes from his fingers regardless. Keeping it at a distance seems best, so he doesn't have to untangle the two of them again. As pleasant as it might be to be trapped with two of Anduin, he doesn't relish the lethality of the situation.

Nor the taunting. It nags at him, like an itch under his armour he cannot quite reach.

That is likely the point. But it's hardly the first time either of them have faced such words, stared down those who so badly wished to cut to the quick of their insecurities.

But after a dreadlord, an orcish warchief, and the Banshee Queen? This shade is nowhere near intimidating enough to shake him.

"Stay close," he murmurs, as the light ripples through the figure, almost as if passing through water. It still appears to harm the other Anduin, face twisted in fury as it staggers briefly backwards, black water dripping from the wound and sizzling on its form where the light had struck.

Wrathion does, moving closer until their arms brush. It's an unspoken acknowledgement and reassurance both. Of course he'll stay close, of course he'll be here.

"This water is tainted," he murmurs, "but not as much as much as the water which broke through into the arena. It was strongest there."

Where is it coming from? If it's weak here, they're going the wrong direction perhaps. He tenses as the creature recovers from the stagger, and draws his blade as it begins to charge. The idea of running Anduin through, even a doppelganger, makes him uneasy... but, better that than the real one coming to harm.

"Something's trying to engulf this place in its foul magic. Something below. Is it...this Chained God they speak of?"

A rising god, trying to take them over in the process? Replace them? How many has it already managed to claim? Grim thoughts that still help him focus as his double swipes. Anduin presses his weight back to maneuver both him and Wrathion out of the way, before pivoting to allow the dragon to take a swipe with that blade of his.

Over his shoulder, another blaze of light crackles to life, searing the side of the double's face in the process.

The Chained God. It isn't impossible, but Wrathion does wonder. He's seen this dark water before... seen it where Matthias has been. He's had a hand in this, before, but to what degree? What part does the Chained God play? A pawn in the game? A key piece? A soldier, about to be unleashed, to support this cause? A goal? He frowns in agitation, trying to concentrate, twisting to slice out and catapult the double back again as light arcs over it.

"We should move quickly, before water fills these tunnels or more appear."

That's the last thing they need, more of them swarming. The double struggles back to its feet, weakened. Black water oozes from its injuries, but hate still simmers behind its eyes. It may be close to death, but it will still stop them leaving if it can.

"As soon as we deal with this...creature."

It can't be left here, either to terrorize more people in his form, or to do the same thing to someone else. He can't turn his back on this grotesque image, his own face twisted in hate, leaking black spilling down its snarling visage.

Too close to old nightmares, drums and a sickly violet sky.

One hand shifts to rest against Wrathion's back, between his shoulder blades, as if to steady the dragon. "I'm with you," he murmurs, in case he needs that reassurance, before ducking in with another flare of light, nearly blade-like in its arc, lashing open the thing's chest and spilling more dark liquid across the tiles.

The touch to his back is both steadying and unmooring both. Wrathion glances sideways at Anduin, heart racing, and is thus distracted when the creature dodges sideways around the source of the bright light and towards him.

His heart shudders, blade moving almost before he can think. The creature wearing Anduin's face snarls at him and Wrathion tenses as his blade drives into it fully. Black ichor runs down onto his hands, and the quiet unease builds to a crescendo in his mind.

It's a grisly sight, more of that black water slipping from the figures mouth like blood, staining the ends of fair-blond hair as it reaches, reaches out to try to take hold of Wrathion's face in its cold, clammy grip.

You'll...betray everyone...in the end...

But any further words are lost in a wet gurgle as Anduin places a hand to the figure's frame, closing his eyes. Light shimmers beneath the surface as the other Anduin begins to lose its shape, melting away into nothing but more dark water, spilling away from Wrathion's blade and sloshing across the tiles. And their feet in the process.

Anduin's immediate focus, however, is not the creature. Instead he looks to Wrathion, who looks...shaken. In a way he's never really seen before.

"Are you alright?" The question spills out before he can realize that of course he won't get a real answer.

Wrathion's gaze snaps up to the real Anduin, processing the frown of concern, then over at the remnants of the mirror. The scratched words send another wave of unease through him.

A RIGHTEOUS HAND SHAPES EACH OF ITS FINGERS.

He starts to reach out to the priest, then hesitates and drops his hand. Black ichor still drips down gloved fingers, runs in a smear down his face.

"We need to move," he says. Before any more of those things appear, he needs to be out of this claustrophobic place.

"Alright."

He'll accept that for now. This place is dangerous enough, and they do need to move. But the worry remains like a shard of ice tumbling around his stomach, as he nods in the direction that seems most likely to lead from this place.

"...you lead."

If something happened, if he fell behind or got lost or trapped in whatever else this strange water might conjure, well. Better to not dwell on the possibilities. There are enough horrors ahead without having to imagine any.

Wrathion nods, happy to take point. If he's injured, Anduin can always heal him so long as he keeps the priest alive. It simply makes sense.

If there are other reasons, he's simply ignoring them for now.

He begins to walk, puddles of dark water splashing as he makes his way back past the pool, when something pricks at his senses. Wrathion turns toward the shimmering black water, wary, and his eyes widen -- hand reaching out for Anduin to pull him firmly behind himself as he backs the both of them further away.

"Do you see this?"

It isn't just him, is it? Some product of his desperate mind causing his whirl of dark water to keep insistently taking Anduin's shape? Only he can hear it too, pleading with him. Begging him. Bargaining. We can be together, please.

Wrathion growls, a low, angry warning sound underscored with anxiety.

The water, alarming, is rising. The darkness laps at the edges of the pool, rippling and bursting upwards in vague simulacrums, as though the figure before were trying to reconstitute itself.

Over, and over, and over again. Half-formed, some not even that, their arms reaching towards the pair as Anduin feels Wrathion tug him back.

"I admit, I wish I wasn't," he utters softly, eyes darting from one face to the next. Hollow dark sockets where eyes should be, their liquid surface rippling with each movement.

Am I worthy of existence?

He's seen such things before only in his nightmares, and here too there are whispers. Promised destruction and reminders of failures past, swearing that all will be made well, all will be put right, if only they will help. Give them form. Give them shape. Let them be born. Their voices, mournful, longing, echoing like madness in his ears. As one, the dark figures that are trying their best to become him beckon to them, and Anduin finds himself frozen in place behind Wrathion, staring with wide-eyed horror.

We can make you worthy.

This certainly seems like a time to leave. Wrathion backs them both up a little further, struggling to look away. The whispers call to him, tempting, offering him things, and it's familiar in an unsettling way. One that sends cold shivers down his spine, have his senses pricking into high alert.

He rips his gaze away, reaches for Anduin and tries to pull him along. It's a little more physical than he'd usually be, but the occasion calls for it.

"Out," he says. "I don't want to be trapped down here with whatever this is. One of you is quite enough."

Wrathion is incredibly aware that they are underground, and he may be an earth dragon but that doesn't mean he wants to test these things. Especially not with Anduin here at risk.

At once, the magic animating the water seems to extinguish, and the figures fall away as one. The pools are still, eerily so, but the voices linger within his mind--

Everything would be as it once was. And more.

Their echoes fall away, however, as he feels Wrathion tug at his arm. The physicality of it knocks away any phantom imaginings with a start. Nodding tensely, he turns to quickly follow, his eyes flickering over the black dragon.

Light only knows what he heard.

Good, he's moving. Even if the pools are still, Wrathion has had enough of all --- whatever this is. He releases Anduin once he's safely following, begins to forge a path out of the abandoned barracks. His eyes keep flitting to Anduin, ensuring he's... still there, in one piece, still --

He's not sure, but it was...

Well. Something not to repeat.

They turn the corner, light finally leaking through from the entrance to the tunnel, and Wrathion feels a wave of relief.

"You are unharmed?"

He didn't really have a chance to check, before. Wrathion hadn't noticed the priest get hit by anything, but better to be sure.

Anduin doesn't answer at first. Perhaps the fight has him rattled, still. His mind still races with the desperate offers made by the entity in the water trying to take his form, to convince him to give it--

But it shifts swiftly to Wrathion, concern in those ember-bright eyes as he looks at him. He's protected him, stayed with him, helped him in every way he could. Even now, the weight of that focus settles on him as he meets the Black Prince's gaze.

What the thing in the water offered was not theirs to give. Not worthiness. Not his loved ones back. And certainly not Wrathion's regard.

Finally he nods, swallowing stiffly. "I'm fine. You?"

He hadn't looked fine, back there. Not by a long shot.

Ah, but this isn't about him. He turns his gaze away, pacing back out and pausing to take in the sunset.

"You should stay as far away from that water as possible. It wasn't even at full strength, it was weak. The cracks it flowed out of in the arena... that was a far more potent source."

His fingers flexing and curl by his side, uneasy. There's so much of it, too. Titans. What would happen if the full force of it tried to take Anduin's form, or his?

Quickly his eyes avert, back in the direction they'd come from. There's no sound now in those echoing halls, save their own movement. The sound of his own breath in his ears.

"I'll warn the others. They should know what's down here, now that it's no longer being contained," he murmurs, giving a faint nod. "And if anyone has encountered anything like it, best to know where."

For a moment Wrathion just... breathes, fingers twitching, then he turns back to Anduin -- lifts his chin and tries to... gather himself. There's a subtle tension to him, an unease he cannot quite bury.

"We've seen plenty of it before, and seen... creatures infused by it, but that little display was certainly... new."

The smile he twitches isn't quite genuine.

"I'm sure you'll you a thorough job of communicating our findings, but do let me know if you have any questions."

As unnerved as Anduin felt about that entire encounter, something seems off in Wrathion. The mask not quite on as firmly as it ought to be, which is telling enough by itself. At times trying to fathom what lay behind it seemed impossible, and at others he wondered how he could ever not see completely through it to the frightened young man underneath.

He recalls that hesitation, the flash of horror in his face as they'd stared down the monster wearing Anduin's face. The way he'd protectively tugged him back. The almost mournful way he looks at him, now and then, when he thinks Anduin can't see.

Then he shifts a step closer, one arm curling around Wrathion's side. The tension bleeds out of him at last as he lowers his head to rest against the dragon's shoulder, briefly. His frame feels stiff but warm to the touch, and the scent of leather and some peppery note underneath reminds the young king briefly of the warmth and solace of an attic loft long ago.

Just for a moment.

"...thank you, Wrathion."

blood & sand

baths | b

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)