WHO: Athessa, Madi, Lucien, Skull, and YOU!! WHAT: catch-all WHEN: mostly Satinalia and later WHERE: Kirkwall and The Gallows NOTES: post-murderhaus h/c is gonna go here
He surrenders the hand happily enough, washing temporarily on pause as his hand is captured. "But the chores did get done. One must admit it was effective. Worth the social stigma of terrorizing your daughter, even."
Carefully, Athessa manipulates his hand in both of hers, splaying his fingers and tracing the lines of his palm. Then she lifts it, and puts his palm over the center of her face. Face-hugger style.
She laughs into his hand. Yeah, she's just being idly silly, no purpose behind it, just...the odd things a tired mind thinks to do. Like holding a lock of hair between the nose and upper lip.
"None whatsoever," she says, and sighs. Washing her hair will mean having to sit by the fire until it dries. There are worse things, of course, but she really would just like to curl up beside Vanadi and sleep.
He reclaims his hand, but not before a fond brush through her hair.
"I would never dream of urging you through a restorative bath," he says, smile lingering, "But very much more time in here and I will begin to wrinkle. It won't be a pretty sight, and you would probably never want to kiss me again."
"Sure I will. I'll be just as wrinkly." She lifts her own hands and wiggles her pruny fingers. "After this week of not being able to use my right arm, we should take another bath together."
For obvious reasons. The implication is there, even without much effort made to sell it.
Once they're both clean and out of the bath, Athessa produces a couple phials of oil for moisturizing skin and hair. The latter does elicit a groan, however, because:
The implication is well received and very much agreed upon, what a wonderful idea. Maybe the promise is what makes it easier to get through the rest of the bath with relatively pure thoughts.
He's seated on the edge of the tub, trying not to think about what emptying it involves, because that sounds exhausting and he's tired already, but glances up to catch the whine.
"Hm." He consults his inner nasty magic for a moment, considering spells and their applications, then shifts to take a seat in front of the fire. "I might be able to help. Don't get your hopes up." He gestures her over.
Emptying the tub can wait, as far as Athessa cares. (As an afterthought, she realizes it might have been simpler to use the enchanted lyrium rope she found at the end of that treasure map, but hindsight etc.)
"I know that you're the one who would know," she starts as she comes to sit by him, toweling her hair the whole way. "But are you sure you aren't wearing yourself out with all this magic? I was just whining, I don't want you to get a magic hangover or anything."
He smiles faintly, maybe a little grimly, because in fact he's recently begun to do something like revel in using magic without some voiceless entity gloating about giving it to him.
"Some of my magic is a torch, and some of it is a bonfire, in terms of energy and effort." He lifts both hands to begin combing through her hair with his fingers — and for a moment that's all it is. Hmm. Will this work? "This is a candle. Though I do appreciate the concern, that's good of you."
She closes her eyes, letting herself just feel his fingers as they work through her hair. How much more lovely this all would be if it weren't for the pall of trauma hanging over them.
"It's good of you to help me so much," she counters softly.
"Oh, it's all perfectly self-interested, I assure you. Anything to steal a little more of your time and attention."
This isn't quite working, and he tweaks the mental formula. A dash of cleaning, a bit of heating, and ... that might do the trick. But he suspects it will take a while. He readjusts himself to offer a thigh for a pillow, and gestures an invitation.
"Lay your head down, I think. And — where's your comb?"
"Oh, well if it's all in the name of self-interest—" She does as he says with a soft groan, resting her head on his leg and handing him her comb (because we're pretending she already had it shh) and the phial of hair oil in case his attempt is successful.
He begins to run fingers and comb through her hair with practiced motions and a small smile. It occurs to him it's just fine if it takes a while; this is nice.
"By any chance, does 'warlock' mean anything to you?"
He should probably figure out what darkspawn is at some point, that sounds important. (Someone didn't listen very closely at orientation.) But in the meantime, "It's a word for someone who receives magic through a pact with a demon."
Oh. She shifts slightly so she can turn her head up to look at him, putting the pieces together. Or trying to, anyway. She doesn't look scared, or disgusted, just concerned and confused.
"A different one than the one who took your eye? Or the same one?"
That's not the most relevant question, she knows, but it's the first that comes out. She should be asking more basic questions, like what, when, where, why, and so on. But she's never asked the questions anyone expects her to. Bastien and Byerly already know this first-hand.
His gaze shifts from her hair to her face, but — he'd already known what he would find there, really: no reason not to keep talking, no need to hide.
"The same one," he says, with a faint nod. He's given her starts and gasps of this story, and tonight seems like a good night for a full breath. His hands keep up their work.
"What have I said ... there was a ritual, a demon, I was intended as sacrifice." His tone is clinical, the broad strokes are easy enough to contemplate. "They meant to strike a deal with the thing for power, but they were idiots to trust it in any way. I think it thought it was funny to make a pact with the sacrifice, instead. I was ... ah, dying. Dissolving, I think. It gave me a choice between power and death, so, no choice at all, and then gloated that I'd accepted."
"Dissolving..." She echoes, barely able to imagine what that must've felt like. Every time she's been close to dying, she's felt an overwhelming buzz in her body, the tug of blood magic on veins, the dagger-points of frigid rain diluting her blood on the Crimson Cat's doorstep.
"Did you have magic before the demon? Or was that the start of it all?"
"No, that was all the demon." He pauses briefly to examine his hand, wiggles his fingers, and a small black spark flares to life and then fades.
"The demon left me, — sold me, actually, so it was quite official — and I shouldn't still have this." He cocks his head, thoughtful. "Which I think means it's my magic now. That's an improvement."
The thought occurs that the way Vanadi got his magic is similar, in a way, to Colin's spirit healing. She might have to ask him about spirit magic again.
"Another ... another demon." His voice wavers slightly, but he clears his throat and presses on. "That sort of thing happened sometimes. Demon politics."
He's worked his way from roots to the base of her hair, and notes with a bit of grim pleasure that his slapdash spellcasting has indeed done it. He can successfully dry hair. He gives her shoulder a little nudge.
With a few more grunts of effort and one little pathetic noise when she accidentally leans on her right elbow, she rolls herself over and settles back down against his leg. It means being face to face with his hip, but there are worse things. Athessa traces a nearly-faded scar on his skin and looks up at his face.
"But neither of them are here, right? You're free of them, and the magic is part of you because that's how it works for mages here."
Perhaps they can confirm that he isn't being hagridden by some fell spirit by going into the Fade, but that seems like more risk than reward.
He winces in sympathy for that noise, and one hand ghosts lightly at her shoulder, but there's really not much help he can be here. He brushes a thumb over her cheek in reassurance, maybe apology, and returns to her hair.
"Right." He smiles thinly. "Theoretically, it wouldn't matter if either were here, as well. When a demon sells its warlock, it's the life of that warlock it sells. I was used to collect a few of those payments. So, when it was my turn to be sold..."
He touches the scar at his neck, trusting that to speak for him. The smile remains, but lifelessly.
"That's why you said... that you might've died back in Rune."
Their chat on the beach feels so far away now, with how the way they exist together has developed, but she remembers what he said about wanting to build something new and permanent here.
Athessa places a gentle hand on his thigh, brushing her thumb over his skin. She'd rather take and kiss his hand, or caress his cheek, but oh well. Thigh is fine.
The hand on his thigh, little as it may be, is soothing. The heart behind that hand has enough grace to care, and that's beyond priceless to him. It's enough.
"Right," he says, bolstered, "Though I do doubt myself sometimes. I remember losing a fight, and a slash to the neck, and then..." He frowns faintly. "A dream, as if I'd fallen asleep en route to death. And, waking here, I was whole. More whole than I'd been in some time, even, or you'd have met me with just one arm."
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"Very effective."
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"And I'm glad to see it had no lasting negative effects on you whatsoever," he says, and gives her face a squeeze.
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"None whatsoever," she says, and sighs. Washing her hair will mean having to sit by the fire until it dries. There are worse things, of course, but she really would just like to curl up beside Vanadi and sleep.
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"I would never dream of urging you through a restorative bath," he says, smile lingering, "But very much more time in here and I will begin to wrinkle. It won't be a pretty sight, and you would probably never want to kiss me again."
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For obvious reasons. The implication is there, even without much effort made to sell it.
Once they're both clean and out of the bath, Athessa produces a couple phials of oil for moisturizing skin and hair. The latter does elicit a groan, however, because:
"Fuck. My hair's gonna take forever to dry."
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He's seated on the edge of the tub, trying not to think about what emptying it involves, because that sounds exhausting and he's tired already, but glances up to catch the whine.
"Hm." He consults his inner nasty magic for a moment, considering spells and their applications, then shifts to take a seat in front of the fire. "I might be able to help. Don't get your hopes up." He gestures her over.
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"I know that you're the one who would know," she starts as she comes to sit by him, toweling her hair the whole way. "But are you sure you aren't wearing yourself out with all this magic? I was just whining, I don't want you to get a magic hangover or anything."
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"Some of my magic is a torch, and some of it is a bonfire, in terms of energy and effort." He lifts both hands to begin combing through her hair with his fingers — and for a moment that's all it is. Hmm. Will this work? "This is a candle. Though I do appreciate the concern, that's good of you."
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"It's good of you to help me so much," she counters softly.
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This isn't quite working, and he tweaks the mental formula. A dash of cleaning, a bit of heating, and ... that might do the trick. But he suspects it will take a while. He readjusts himself to offer a thigh for a pillow, and gestures an invitation.
"Lay your head down, I think. And — where's your comb?"
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"What kind of magic is this, by the way?"
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"By any chance, does 'warlock' mean anything to you?"
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"Sounds like a type of darkspawn. Genlock, hurlock..." A brief shudder for that close-call in Ghislain. "What does it mean?"
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So, you know, it's that kind of magic.
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"A different one than the one who took your eye? Or the same one?"
That's not the most relevant question, she knows, but it's the first that comes out. She should be asking more basic questions, like what, when, where, why, and so on. But she's never asked the questions anyone expects her to. Bastien and Byerly already know this first-hand.
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"The same one," he says, with a faint nod. He's given her starts and gasps of this story, and tonight seems like a good night for a full breath. His hands keep up their work.
"What have I said ... there was a ritual, a demon, I was intended as sacrifice." His tone is clinical, the broad strokes are easy enough to contemplate. "They meant to strike a deal with the thing for power, but they were idiots to trust it in any way. I think it thought it was funny to make a pact with the sacrifice, instead. I was ... ah, dying. Dissolving, I think. It gave me a choice between power and death, so, no choice at all, and then gloated that I'd accepted."
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"Did you have magic before the demon? Or was that the start of it all?"
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"The demon left me, — sold me, actually, so it was quite official — and I shouldn't still have this." He cocks his head, thoughtful. "Which I think means it's my magic now. That's an improvement."
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The thought occurs that the way Vanadi got his magic is similar, in a way, to Colin's spirit healing. She might have to ask him about spirit magic again.
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He's worked his way from roots to the base of her hair, and notes with a bit of grim pleasure that his slapdash spellcasting has indeed done it. He can successfully dry hair. He gives her shoulder a little nudge.
"Here, give me your other side."
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"But neither of them are here, right? You're free of them, and the magic is part of you because that's how it works for mages here."
Perhaps they can confirm that he isn't being hagridden by some fell spirit by going into the Fade, but that seems like more risk than reward.
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"Right." He smiles thinly. "Theoretically, it wouldn't matter if either were here, as well. When a demon sells its warlock, it's the life of that warlock it sells. I was used to collect a few of those payments. So, when it was my turn to be sold..."
He touches the scar at his neck, trusting that to speak for him. The smile remains, but lifelessly.
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Their chat on the beach feels so far away now, with how the way they exist together has developed, but she remembers what he said about wanting to build something new and permanent here.
Athessa places a gentle hand on his thigh, brushing her thumb over his skin. She'd rather take and kiss his hand, or caress his cheek, but oh well. Thigh is fine.
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"Right," he says, bolstered, "Though I do doubt myself sometimes. I remember losing a fight, and a slash to the neck, and then..." He frowns faintly. "A dream, as if I'd fallen asleep en route to death. And, waking here, I was whole. More whole than I'd been in some time, even, or you'd have met me with just one arm."
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