faderift | away, I'd rather sail away || OTA

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away, I'd rather sail away || OTA

WHO: SCIPIO + VARIOUS
WHAT: Paule di Simone is the best bard in all of Thedas and you can fight me on that. and this is ANOTHER CATCH-ALL, this one with a lute. Scipio has 1) stuff to get for people, 2) stuff to bring to people, 3) something that he's stolen, 4) a lute to play, 5) a song in his heart, 6) four loose gold teeth. I had some vague preplanned stuff with people but please feel free to be here. especially as an accomplice to petty theft.
WHEN: midway through the Fallow Mire plot + onward!
WHERE: SKYHOLD (battlements + tavern + on the run + wherever!!)
NOTES: prepare to be charmed. be an accomplice. you know you want to.

The people of Skyhold--the Inquisition, the pseudo-refugees, the fellow wardens, the mages, the Templars, the elves, the volunteers and the barmaids and the kitchen drudges and the stableboys and everything in between--have, to a man, never heard of the great bard and balladeer, Paule di Simone.

Unthinkable. Scipio has learned this unthinkable only after arriving in Skyhold. His frozen feet thawing out by a tavern fire, he had called for one of Simone's fine tunes, and had received... nothing. And while it would be too much to say that he would have avoided Skyhold, had only he known of this great gap of knowledge (which he might carelessly pronounce gap-e, in quick conversation), he still finds himself disappointed.

But disappointment, in Scipio the Marvel, is not a thing that lasts. Paule di Simone cannot bring his ballads from beyond the cold grave, and so Scipio will do the work for him, in his memory. In humming, in singing, in whistling, in playing. His quest, it is tireless, and of far greater worth than any task the Inquisition might set. All will know the ballads before the season's end.

[ diamante soles - Skyhold and its battlements, in the morning]

The morning is for humming.

Gone are the days when Scipio might sleep past the sunrise. Now he is awake long before that, plagued by nightmares whose theme he now well knows. Restlessly, he wanders, with his lute slung over his back and his six pairs of socks on his feet. In kitchens and beside bread ovens, he has made friends. No surprise there. He makes friends very easily, and his friends like to give him things: and so each morning, Scipio leaves with a little loaf of bread all his own. Sometimes there's raisins baked into it. Sometimes, there's cheese. Sometimes there's wine--it is never too early for wine--but each morning finds him on the walltop.

Above it all, he sits on the stone of the battlement and rests his back against the stone. The wall protects him from the worst of the wind, lets him peacefully eat whatever he's won by his charm. And as the sun rises, he takes up his lute and coaxes the tune back into her strings, so he might play a few snatches of some tune and hum to himself. The breaks in the music are so he can blow on his fingertips, trying to warm them.

"Gloves," he remarks, aloud, to no one in particular, "gloves without fingers. That would help."

[ la moglie del figlio di Robin - around Skyhold, in the afternoon]

The afternoon is for whistling.

Most of the company he keeps is the company of Rafael. Inseparable, they wander the keep together, fulfilling the tasks that have been requested of them. Unlocking chests, retrieving books, collecting valuables, bartering for socks--delivering the goods, waiting for their payment. Some of their work is innocent, and some of it is a little more treacherous, prying open shuttered windows so they can crawl over the sill--but all of it, Scipio does cheerfully, whistling as he works. The needs of the people are few and simple so far, like the games of children to two experienced thieves and brigands such as Scipio and Rafael.

Although...

Late afternoon sees him running, full tilt, head bent and some object wrapped in rough sackcloth under his arm. He is alone, he is desperate, he is being pursued, and he is still smiling, and as he careens around a corner, he finds some hapless soul and presses upon them the sackclothed object, with a gasped, "Here! Hold this--" And that hapless soul's only choice is to take the object, heavy, square, under the wrappings, take it and follow, as Scipio slaps them on the arm. "And hurry! Follow me, quickly!"

A shout from around the corner should do the rest, to spur his new partner in crime to action. Pursuit.

[ il suno del silenzio - a tavern, at night ]

A tavern is for playing.

Scipio's skill at the lute is legendary. Not here, in Skyhold. Not yet, anyways. In Antiva City, he knows only praise. Dita d'oro, and not just for his skill at the lute. The tavern at Skyhold is usually noisy, full of people, and warmth--and drink, most important of all, that which attracts people the most.

Scipio, installed at a corner table, plays. Not for anyone, and not for coin, but people stop to listen anyways. He can talk as he plays, and carries on a conversation without missing a note. He strums harder or softer by turns, when the topic requires punctuation or emphasis, plucks out light little melodies like lace at the edge of a shirtsleeve when the conversation turns sad.

When he sings, he sings under his breath. The words are all in Antivan, but the tune is wistful. A man who would rather be un gorrión, un basque--nonsense, even if you understand it, but pretty nonsense.

As the night goes on, as the crowd thins out and he is more assured of being alone, Scipio sets his lute aside and gets out some little treasure out of the pouch at his belt. The songs were to be shared. This is not, whatever it is. A secret. He should not look at it here, but he can't help himself, as he lays out four gold teeth on the scarred tabletop. One, two, three, and the fourth he keeps in his palm, to admire more closely.

Que bella. For teeth, anyways.

- OR - just write me something and I'll tag it.

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She is not here by choice. Taverns are loud and noisy and unpredictable and far from her usual places of refuge, but Sabriel has found herself here more often since returning to Skyhold. First had been by suggestion, then as a meeting place, and then, even if she sat and did nothing, as a place to drown out the song in her head when concentration and focus failed her, and she allowed herself time to do nothing.

Tonight is different; tonight, a different tune given by a different player has her undivided attention.

Skyhold may not know his skill with a lute but she does, able to pick it out from long nights under the stars when it was the only fireside company any of the fleeing Wardens had. Sabriel is a few tables over, in the centre of things, many tables and heads and tankards and chairs over, but she can still listen. And notably, Sabriel still watches, even in the moments she can't see, and can only imagine. But she pictures it perfectly, and clearly -- the lute, his fingers, the curved smile.

She is young, and foolish, and charmed, not that she knows these things. But she could watch, and listen, and forget what troubles her, for the rest of the night - or however long this next song lasts.

A song can last a very long time. And so can the suspense of romance. Not exactly a will-they, won't-they, more of a could-they-and-why-don't-they. It isn't that Scipio is unaware, exactly. He is accustomed to being admired, and accustomed to teasing, and playing out the long dance of romance. Like the tune of a song, it is a pattern that can play itself out many ways, in the hands of a man who knows how. Some men have only a small gift, enough to learn a melody and play it to some definite end. Others can unspool a song and let it run along, with a few touches of decorative excess. And others still have a true talent. Take a song and turn it over in their hands, let it run through their fingers and loop back again, turn it from happy to sad, and back to happy again, flourish the line and let it conclude, nearly, before turning it back again--

It would be an unfair contest to guess which man Scipio is. The answer would be: the latter, of course, in so much of life. He knows how to play at life. And perhaps the calling's finite mark on his fate should have dampened his enthusiasm for doing so, and perhaps sometimes it does. But he can always rebound, resolve, just as he can resolve the minor melody of a song. Finding happiness has always been his aim. Temporary happiness is no less desirable. Take solace where you can.

As the night goes on in the tavern, it is to distraction that Scipio is playing. A break in the crowd lets him catch sight of Sabriel, seated at her own table. If their eyes meet, that is the hand of fate. He should be careful with Sabriel, and he is. But it is easy to forget, to get taken away with the melody, to let his fingers strum out two happy chords as they do now, interrupting the drifting line of the song. Because he likes her. Because she should take some solace, in pleasures more simple. Life is to be lived, stories are to tell, and the fact that he smiles when he sees her is no game. He is happy that she is here.

And she owes him a tale anyways. Purposefully, he lifts his foot off the floor and pushes out the empty chair across from him. Two more chords, loud and bold, to be heard over the din of the tavern. An invitation.

Her eyes do meet his, but she does not hold the gaze, quickly paying attention to something else. It's not that she's embarrassed; only uncertain, confused as to why she wanted to keep looking back but did the opposite instead. In life, she has always been certain about who she was now, who she would be eventually, what she needed to do to get there. She looked at life in the way a Grey Warden should to politics and involvement, or, as she should be doing, and wasn't. There was no time or want for outward distraction; romance was a thing for books, for idle daydreams.

Scipio was not that idle daydream. Not at first. At first he annoyed and irritated her, and he still did, at times, but what had been a natural impulse to care for the Wardens that were with her - her brothers, her family - had altered. There was more to the sock thief and complainer than first met the eye; insightful, handsome, talented, charming. Those were a few adjectives for the man she barely knew, but wanted to know. Even now, as she hears those two happier chords that pick out above the rest of the song, she wants to think they are for her, selfish as that is.

Everything is so confusing, these days.

She would hear that invitation even if she hadn't been looking over at him again. This one she definitely doesn't think is for her, but he is looking right at her, still, so it must be. The nearest onlookers take the faintest of interests in whether she will move or no, but soon lose it, and Sabriel hesitates. Going over to him means something, but she's not certain what. Something bold.

Seconds pass, and she stands, walks over, sits down.

"You are..." no, wait. "Your lute is... rather lovely."

He greets her with a smile as she approaches. So she will heed the call of a tune. That is good to know, and Scipio marks it down in his head, smiling at her all the while. It is a welcoming smile, and it does not flag as she takes her seat--though it does tint with patient amusement and a little bit of mischief.

Aww. But not in a patronizing sense. He dips his head in acknowledgement, and strums a long warm chord just for her.

"My lute, she thanks you for the compliment." He strums again, that same chord. This is what thanks sounds like. "And I must confess to you, in turn, that I am glad to see you, and gladder still that you came over. I was afraid that I would be sitting her alone all the night long."

"You are?" She sounds surprised, with a hint of a soft smile. Sabriel hadn't thought it was a game to invite her over, or anything like that, but she hadn't expected him to say as much that he was glad to see her, wanted her to head over. Or maybe she's reading a little too much into it. The smile stays, though. "I had thought that someone would have joined you before now." She's used to seeing him with someone, usually Rafael, running schemes, or if he wished to charm someone to his side... well, he could it, she is certain.

Maybe that is a little harsh thinking, so she adds, "Yet, you have her," she nods to the lute, "so you are not entirely alone." She smiles a little wider. "You seemed happy to play for an audience that was to distraction. And to us, on the road. Have you always done this? Play, wherever you go?"

There is no lie in the way that he keeps up his smile. She is good company--not just for a Warden, but good company in truth. Not Rafa, certainly, but no one is. If he were forced to choose between Sabriel's company and the company of another--

Well. Said in that way, it does not sound very complimentary. A mistake: he means it quite complimentary. At her reference to his playing, Scipio strums out another long chord, as if the lute is pleased by her attention. Certainly he is. Why should the lute not be, too?

"A man who plays music is always a man who is welcome, isn't that so?" Another chord, a little more playful, before he begins to pick out a real tune once more. The song of a charming man. "There are so few pleasures in the world that last. Music is not one. It comes, and it goes. But a tune might stay forever. Heard once, a man will hum it forever. It is not only distraction, Sabriel. It is joy."

He punctuates this with another strum. It makes the line sound less false, somehow. "Do you like it, the music?"

She considers, almost biting her lip in the corner as she mulls it over, looking down at her hands as she picks at a finger. There's truth in what he says, that tunes last where music doesn't, but she isn't really thinking about that. She's thinking about the words he said, that it's a joy, that people remember particular things. About a lot of different things and people, really. His words now. The last words her father said. The song that plays in her head when it's quiet.

"And words, too," she says, eventually. "Ideas pulled from a story. Words pulled from speeches. Perhaps it's the same with your tune."

Sabriel lets that sit a second long before she nods. "I do. Very much so. I admit it wants to make stay, here, in the tavern." With him. And the lute. Yes, that.

"You could live in a tavern." Toward this idea, Scipio is agreeable. He nods out toward the room at large. The din of conversation is as a backdrop, just a little too loud but not so loud that it is unpleasant. "I have lived in a tavern. Some have beds that you might pay for, but you also might sleep in their kitchen, or behind the bar. Rafa and I spent nearly a year sleeping beneath a bar."

A gentle turn to the melody, for sleeping behind a bar. He makes a show of letting his head tip sideways and half-closes his eyes, with a little sigh.

"It is more peaceful a life than you might think. But it is not a life that men would write songs about, or tell stories of, and all of the speeches that you make are scarcely heard. It is maybe better if a man leaves a tavern. We will have to leave, eventually. It is such a sad thing, a pity. If you were to stay here, I think that I would, too."

Living in a tavern is not something she has considered for herself. But living in a specific place is warped, for a Circle mage, even one with more freedoms than most - your Circle is not a place you choose. You do not choose the building, you do not choose the room, you do not choose anything save what to study. It is a home, yes. It is the only home with walls she had ever lived in before that, and had not lived in since. Before and after, always on the move.

To her ears, it sounds like something out of a story. But then, much of Scipio's life he shares sounds like a story. Perhaps it is real. Perhaps it is made-up. But only in a story would you consider the possibility of sleeping beneath a bar, for a year.

"But it is a story you are telling me now," she bargains, subconsciously leaning in his direction as his head tips away. "I couldn't imagine it alone. The trials of merchants on the road, in the city? Patching up a caravan? Counting coin in the back of a wagon? Yes, murky as those memories are. Those stories I might forget, because I know them already. But never a tavern. The first stories you hear of something, of a place, are what stays."

He says a lot of things that she remembers. Same goes for his songs.

"When it's quieter. When it's only you and I here still," she agrees. She feels something - a stutter? - rush across her chest that he would stay, with her, here. The latter part is tacked on and afterthought. "But forever? I don't think I could choose- unless--"

He could debate on the topic of stories, if he so chose. He could tell her what a pleasure it was, to hear of the trials of these merchants. A good story is one that tells you of a place you have never seen before, and for Scipio, all the living that he has done (and there has been much living) has been in certain places. Antiva, Antiva City. Rivain, once or twice. Kirkwall, once, to escape trouble in Antiva City, but they did not stay long; there was little to love, in Kirkwall, though even there Scipio had found joy in stones and walls and dockside taverns, in a people he did not know.

A merchant would lead a life of interest, depending on the wares that he sold and the people that he met on his road. Sabriel goes on, before he can protest, before he can insist that she tell him more of herself, so that even if she forgets, he might remember. And yet she does not finish her thought. Scipio pulls an inquisitive strand of notes out from his lute, and prompts her:

"Unless--? You must name your condition, Sabriel. I would know what coin I must save, to meet this price of yours. Unless what?"

Even if they were to stay, and he possessed all the coin in Thedas, she could not stay. Not forever. Not ever for a little while. She was a Warden. That was her duty. Her life, that was given to her, but she had also chosen.

But it's nice to dream, even if only for a while.

"Unless you were with me."

No woulds, no maybes.

Ah.

Truly, there is no forever, for Grey Wardens especially--yet even before joining, Scipio's concept of 'forever' had been ill-defined, a place reserved for Rafael. As much as he likes people, as freely as Scipio befriends and loves, there is always a limit, a clock keeping time. There is nothing set about it, no magical hour that ticks a friend over into a former friend, a lover into a former lover. No hard feelings, very easy, usually because he's laying low after a con. These endings, they make him sad, but the sadness is never one that lingers very long. And soon the old friends become old memories, to be thought of fondly, a sheaf to be shifted through when he has drank too much wine.

So perhaps that ah should be an ah, no. If he were Rafael, maybe now is when Scipio would say, Sabriel, I like you a great deal, whatever happens will happen, but you should take care and so should I, and also, you should know that this will end. And, then if she were amendable, and he were amendable, then they would carry on. No hard feelings.

Yet to think of an ending is unthinkable. Why speak of ends when there is only a beginning, a lovely warm beginning, where Sabriel is smiling at him and he, unwittingly, is smiling back? Surely it is better to live this moment, to let it go on. Forever can be a fantasy. After all, it isn't real. They cannot stay forever. So let it be a game, and let them both play it, sweet words and sweeter smiles.

"An easy price." He strums her a chord, one that is full and warm. "To trade out there, for in here, with you? Easy, too, and sweet. I would not refuse. And if this is your only condition, piccola mia, let me pay it in full, and happily. As long as we sit at this table, it will be like forever. So, then, if we leave the tavern, but come back tomorrow, to sit together? It is more forever. And the next night, and the next. This is our forever. Do you agree?"

In many ways, Sabriel was wise. Hardened through circumstance, grief, experience. She was wise enough to know that daydreams weren't real, that if any of it became true, it would not last; many things didn't. Forever wasn't a place nor a destination - you could want it, mean it, but everything ended. Her father's happiness with her mother had ended the day she was born. The years in the back of a caravan had ended, too, and her father had left - she could count the number of physical visits he'd made with her hands. A forever with Scipio would not last. Her time at Skyhold would end, and then what of it? There was so much before that could happen before, or after, and everything would change.

But there were some things she could know nothing of.

As aware as she was that everything was fleeting, she didn't want it to be. She wanted things, even if she didn't truly understand what it was that she felt, or wanted, or wished for, with Scipio. An understanding that forever was not something to expect didn't banish it away. She was, in the end, a romantic. She would give her all, even if she knew. For how could she know? You only understood once it was over and done, being someone who had never fallen for another.

An almost, intended forever was harder to break. She could not know that, either.

But forever is not now, and she does not think on it. When tonight's forever is over, maybe it will come to her then, because that's the way nights always were. Maybe not, because as he says, tomorrow will be another forever. As long as she returns, there will be more.

"Hmm," she ponders. But there is no mystery in her delay. She will agree. "I do. With stories, and your song? I would happily, if you would be, too."

His smile jumps quickly to his face, at her agreement. She could not possibly have disagreed, of course, but it is still a pleasure to hear. "I think there is nothing that would make me happier."

--Which is not strictly true, but nearly true. Now, in this moment, in their small forever? Very true. A moment is so contained, a brief escape--like a bolt-hole, but more comfortable.

To return to Antiva City, and the life that he has left behind? Yes, that would make him happy. To pick a lock one day and find behind its door a storeroom of gold and jewels and treasures, waiting to be taken? Yes, that would make him happy. To discover that the late Paul di Simone had written a ballad of Scipio and Rafael? Yes, that would make him very happy--but Sabriel's agreement is worth a great deal too, a different sort of happiness. Temporary? Perhaps. But that makes it no less sweet.

He plays her another chord, a long strum, a string of clear notes. "Then we are both in agreement. To return here each night, as we are able. For me, it will be the warmest spot in all the day." And that part he does mean, most fully. "But we must seal this deal of ours, bella, with the sweetest seal there is."

And just guess what that is. He lifts his eyebrows at her.

Her own smile is brighter still. A showering of words and a want to spend that time with her? There is no mistaking it. It might be what she wants to hear, but he is saying it. Of his own volition. Even if she can note that this one might be a little of flattery and a small, kind lie; a lie that isn't a lie when it comes to this tavern, and them at this moment. But then, you cannot have everything which makes you happy.

And right now, it is Scipio and his smile and their forever that seems the brightest thing, an island out at sea in a storm that would not lift.

"As it allows. Even if the night is far colder than the day," she agrees, though her words falter as she echoes her part of the bargain, because she is not beyond imagining.

The sweetest seal there is.

She can guess. She pictures it. She wonders, not for the first time, but never so tangible. She realises her mouth is still fractionally agape, and closes it.

Surely that was just another daydream. Wasn't it?

"Tell me, Scipio." Her voice is quiet, could be easily lost over the drifting noise around them - or would have been, had she not subconsciously leaned forward to compensate. She hears none of it, her words thunderous, loud. "What is that?"

He leans forward when she does, his fingers resting on his lute, but still and loose. There is a little mischief in his face--not amusement; this is no joke. But mischief, yes, in the light of his eyes and the curl of his mouth. And he looks to her mouth first, before he lets his gaze slip quickly up, to meet her her eyes instead. Not with guilt. Where else would he look?

"A kiss," he proposes, his tone dropped low. She will know what he is saying, but still, she will have to lean closer to hear him, to make sure that she heard correctly, over the din of the tavern. "In Antiva, when we pledge such forevers, we always kiss on them. And I will confess, Sabriel. I have wanted to kiss you, even before this agreement."

And will. He lets the moment linger, a build of suspense.

She doesn't assume, even with the visual indication, so much of her usual confidence replaced with a sudden nervousness, a sudden uncertainy. His intent was known, or as known as it could be; that wasn't it. It was the fact it could be real, and exactly what she thought it was.

He says it. She would have missed it if not for the fact she had been looking at his mouth. But she doesn't move forward, and nor does she move back, rooted to the spot. She imagines it again, repeats those two small, harmless words, over and over again on a loop, no idea what to think as a bubble of - panic? Anticipation? Intended suspense? - settles in her stomach. His words feel very far away but also close, words she never expected to hear but were being said all the same. She was from a Circle, where first kisses were not given away in the back of taverns far away from home.

"So have I." It slips out, and a second ticks by before she realises. Her cheeks flood scarlet, embarrassed, but she doesn't move away. She wants to. She won't flee. "But if that is the way of things in Nevarra, I have never known it. I have never- if I were to- I would not know how, if-"

Now she's overthinking it.

It is lucky, then, that Scipio does not overthink. Sabriel confesses her long-standing will; Scipio smiles again, quick and pleased and charmed. She keeps talking, and there is a table between them, but talk is no match, nor are tables. He lets his lute fall into his lap, the strap of it keeping it from falling to the floor entirely.

Her cheek is warm when he brushes his fingers against it, warm and colored pink by her pretty blush. With little other ceremony but for that touch, he leans across the table and puts his lips to hers, cutting off word and thought and anything else but the warmth of that kiss. He's a good kisser. He's had practice. Not too invasive and not too hard, not for this kiss, but yet it is not a passive kiss, and surely she will forgive him if he lingers at it, as the noise of the tavern melts away and the moment narrows down to them, just the two of them, and this kiss.

Sabriel is silenced immediately as his lips press against hers, and any other of her many thoughts leave her. Everything goes, save for her heart hammering in her chest, something she wonders how he cannot hear; and then that goes, too, and there is silence. There is no tavern. There is no beckoning to the Deep Roads. There is only silence, and this.

No time has really passed, but it feels as though it were an age when she reciprocates, a spectator no longer as she leans back against him.

If it is an age, it is not an age that anyone would complain of living in. An age of kissing!

Yet it grows sweeter all the same when finally--finally! as if he were impatient, as if kissing her were so terrible a thing, even with her mouth still under his; he is not impatient, he would take this kiss and savor it, but even so--when finally she kisses him back, it is a sweeter thing by far. The table is between them, but that does not matter. Nothing matters, for this moment, and the next. All these distractions, they melt away--and if they melt for Scipio, who has kissed and been kissed a thousand times, a thousand upon a thousand, then surely they must melt for Sabriel as well.

When this kiss ends, for a breath, at least: Scipio smiles against Sabriel's mouth. He does not lean away just yet but remains where he is, leaned in close, and opens his eyes so he might look at her from these close quarters.

"There," he says, low, so their world still stays very small, "an agreement. We must end every agreement between us just like this, I think."

How troublesome, to need to breathe. It ends, and the break away is small, but it seems, feels, much too far - a slight disappointment, as Sabriel was quite contended. She would continue to kiss him, or kiss him once more. But her lungs object, and even as she inhales air again, it pales in comparison to the moment that passed before. She feels lightheaded - probably the lack of air. Confused, slightly. Whatever she had to puzzle out over him was now only more complicated. Maybe this all is a dream after all.

But it's not, because he is still there, not vanishing to her subconscious. No one says her name, no one pulls her back to a lesson, to study, to reality. She opens her eyes and sees his own. This is reality, a reality she stumbled into, not as she expected. The smile against her mouth is contagious, as she smiles in return. She can't think of anything to say, not right away. What can she say? It says more for to meet his gaze, an intense thing. She will not shy away from that.

The hold over her breaks, though, as he speaks. "An agreement," she echoes, wonderingly, still short of breath. Her mouth quirks. "Does that apply to making agreements about making it so?"

He hasn't lost his smile, but at her comment, his smile renews, changes, touched at the corners with something a little more mischievous. It's one thing to be kissed back. It's another to have it hinted that there should be a second smile. This is a thing that he can appreciate, as he appreciates the crook of her mouth, that little smile.

"An agreement is an agreement, yes? And if we agree, to end our agreements with this seal, that is an agreement. You must say the words, so," and he pauses, for effect, leans in just that little bit closer but does not finish that movement yet, leaves a hairsbreadth of space between their mouths, "do you agree, Sabriel?"

That answer pleases her, as she gives a soft and brief hum in return. His breath and words are warm, tasting of summer, afternoon sunshine. Her eyes flicker down and up again in an instant, a mixture of shyness and anticipation and a feeble attempt at preventing the quirk from turning to a true smile, teeth and all.

But he already knows, doesn't he? Yet even so, she appreciates that second, or two, and then she does as is bid. "Now and always, with this seal, I agree."

And that gap between his mouth and hers is much too far, considering. She doesn't wait for him to act. The gap is crossed, a ghost of a kiss, gentle and chaste and agreeable, as she is. A lead-in, to something more. Where he takes it? His choice.

Here is where Scipio takes this second kiss: he lets it stay chaste for a moment, a press of his mouth to hers that indicates a gentle enthusiasm. This is good, yes?

But better is the way that he lifts his hand to touch fingertips to the side of her face, a gentle gesture to match, one that goes firmer when he skims his fingertips along so that he has her face cupped instead, and then, to open his mouth against hers, just a little, is the natural thing to do. A move that deepens this kiss, and isn't that better still? It is, she won't argue. Can't argue, not when they are locked in this kiss, too good to part for breath, too engaging to remember the noise of the tavern around them. This is a forever, a silent moment narrowed down to only them.

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away, I'd rather sail away || OTA

night.

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sorry i'm so late aaaaaah

CRASHES BACK IN HERE

ENTHUSIASTICALLY CATCHES

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