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
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."
That'd explain the scarring encircling his shoulder, where it looks as if his arm was torn off and a fresh one grew back in its place — only to then be scarred again.
"It seems that whenever the Fade decides to bring someone here, it wants them to be completely of this world. I'm guessing, unless there's only one way elves can look, that some other parts of you were changed, too?"
Again, her thoughts turn to Loxley, and the changes he went through to arrive as Qunari rather than Tiefling.
"How did you lose your arm, before it was...replaced?"
Her question has him nodding; it's the only explanation for those little changes. Elves of this world simply look this way, is all.
"Dissolved," he says simply, and adds a wry smile. It's a weird answer, but it was a weird moment. "The demon replaced it, as part of our pact. It ..."
He trails off, realizing he probably doesn't have to stick to just words for this. It's worth a bit of magic, he thinks. He frees both hands to make a quick gesture in the air, and with a wave of his hand, his arm seems to change. Flesh starting at his inner shoulder becomes faceted black crystal with deep purple undertones, living rock that somehow moves as easily as flesh and bone, which interlocks neatly with the existing scars. And as an afterthought, his face changes as well — a deeper bridge of his nose, less severe cheekbones, longer ears.
"I'll not bother check it with a mirror, but I think this is about right."
Athessa props herself up, eyes widening as the illusion takes shape. She's so transfixed at the sight of his arm that for a moment she doesn't notice the shift in facial features. She reaches out to touch the crystal, but it just feels like his flesh beneath her fingers.
Then her attention moves to his face, and she leans closer to examine the differences with awe. His facial features almost look more human, even if his ears are a bit longer.
And she realizes that looking at him and the face he was born with like he's some kind of magical wonder might make him feel a bit de-personized. Her expression softens and she looks into his eyes. Those are the same color, and they read as definitively Vanadi.
"Well," she says, leaning forward until she's leaned against him. "Hi there, handsome."
He doesn't mind the staring or the marveling — it's the point of the display, really. But his small smile grows as she leans, and he slips an arm around her waist.
It doesn't feel any different on his end, but for her sake, "Hello, good to meet you."
Which gives him another idea, actually. His free hand makes another gesture, and in a blink his face has changed again. Now there's no scars, features that aren't so much younger as less worn, and long, straight black hair to about his mid-back. He gestures a flourish.
"Beautiful," she murmurs, and reaches up to touch his face. It isn't something she thinks about often, but seeing this makes her wonder if she would try to hide her own scar all the time if she had the same ability. If she were generous enough to think of herself the way she thinks of Vanadi, she wouldn't hide anything.
After a moment of quiet consideration, she tips his face towards hers and kisses where she knows his scar to be. Silent confirmation, in case the thought crosses his mind, that she doesn't prefer the pristine vision he's given her a glimpse of. She brushes her thumb over his lips, and kisses him there next, slow and sweet. Then his throat, that scar, and his shoulder.
Her meaning is clear, and gods, but he melts. He's done nothing to deserve the incredible luck of having met Athessa, and he lifts a hand to curl fingers into her nearly-dry hair. He buries his face in it, happy just to breathe in the scent of her, the warmth of her. The illusion is long gone, dissolved the moment his mind turned to thoughts of Athessa, and loving her. The scars at his shoulder are as clear under her kiss as they've ever been.
Careful of her injury, his arm tightens around her waist, pulling her fully into his lap. His limbs fold around her there, and with his mouth so near a pointed ear he thinks he could sing entire songs of gratitude and appreciation.
What he says instead is, "I think I've done it. With your hair. How is that?"
She goes practically boneless against him, with a soft sigh of contentment as he wraps around her.
"Much better than going to bed with a wet head," she says, unable to suppress a little shiver at his voice in her ear, the soft warmth of his breath. (It's simply not possible to ignore everything that being naked in his lap entails.)
"Thank you. For...for everything. For listening, and telling me about yourself, for helping me and...for caring."
The shiver doesn't escape him, and — well, he'd known this might be a challenge, bathing and drying off together, without the intention to turn things to sex. He's definitely not exempt from the effects either. It's the only thing that keeps his face buried instead of peppering the kisses over her face and shoulders that he might otherwise prefer.
"You've taken the words from my mouth," he murmurs. "Thank you for ... for being here, for not feeling as if you're on the verge of running. It's a rare quality, I think."
Is that what it comes down to? He thinks so. He trusts Athessa, and he trusts her now not to be spooked by any of the less polished and rawer sides that he keeps tucked away. His arms tighten firmly around her.
"I'm sick of running," she sighs, closing her eyes briefly to feel the weight of those words leave her. It might not seem like a groundbreaking thing to admit, but despite the precedent of Athessa running headlong into danger, she's been trying to escape things her whole life.
When she opens her eyes, she turns slightly to look at him, eyes half-lidded, lips slightly parted. It's not her intention to be demure or seductive, but part of the problem with saying you're not going to have sex is that in doing so you inevitably make yourself think about having sex. Really, all she wants is to let him know that it isn't just fatigue that has halted her urge to run.
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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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"It seems that whenever the Fade decides to bring someone here, it wants them to be completely of this world. I'm guessing, unless there's only one way elves can look, that some other parts of you were changed, too?"
Again, her thoughts turn to Loxley, and the changes he went through to arrive as Qunari rather than Tiefling.
"How did you lose your arm, before it was...replaced?"
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"Dissolved," he says simply, and adds a wry smile. It's a weird answer, but it was a weird moment. "The demon replaced it, as part of our pact. It ..."
He trails off, realizing he probably doesn't have to stick to just words for this. It's worth a bit of magic, he thinks. He frees both hands to make a quick gesture in the air, and with a wave of his hand, his arm seems to change. Flesh starting at his inner shoulder becomes faceted black crystal with deep purple undertones, living rock that somehow moves as easily as flesh and bone, which interlocks neatly with the existing scars. And as an afterthought, his face changes as well — a deeper bridge of his nose, less severe cheekbones, longer ears.
"I'll not bother check it with a mirror, but I think this is about right."
no subject
Then her attention moves to his face, and she leans closer to examine the differences with awe. His facial features almost look more human, even if his ears are a bit longer.
And she realizes that looking at him and the face he was born with like he's some kind of magical wonder might make him feel a bit de-personized. Her expression softens and she looks into his eyes. Those are the same color, and they read as definitively Vanadi.
"Well," she says, leaning forward until she's leaned against him. "Hi there, handsome."
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It doesn't feel any different on his end, but for her sake, "Hello, good to meet you."
Which gives him another idea, actually. His free hand makes another gesture, and in a blink his face has changed again. Now there's no scars, features that aren't so much younger as less worn, and long, straight black hair to about his mid-back. He gestures a flourish.
"And here, before I met a demon."
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After a moment of quiet consideration, she tips his face towards hers and kisses where she knows his scar to be. Silent confirmation, in case the thought crosses his mind, that she doesn't prefer the pristine vision he's given her a glimpse of. She brushes her thumb over his lips, and kisses him there next, slow and sweet. Then his throat, that scar, and his shoulder.
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Careful of her injury, his arm tightens around her waist, pulling her fully into his lap. His limbs fold around her there, and with his mouth so near a pointed ear he thinks he could sing entire songs of gratitude and appreciation.
What he says instead is, "I think I've done it. With your hair. How is that?"
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"Much better than going to bed with a wet head," she says, unable to suppress a little shiver at his voice in her ear, the soft warmth of his breath. (It's simply not possible to ignore everything that being naked in his lap entails.)
"Thank you. For...for everything. For listening, and telling me about yourself, for helping me and...for caring."
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"You've taken the words from my mouth," he murmurs. "Thank you for ... for being here, for not feeling as if you're on the verge of running. It's a rare quality, I think."
Is that what it comes down to? He thinks so. He trusts Athessa, and he trusts her now not to be spooked by any of the less polished and rawer sides that he keeps tucked away. His arms tighten firmly around her.
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When she opens her eyes, she turns slightly to look at him, eyes half-lidded, lips slightly parted. It's not her intention to be demure or seductive, but part of the problem with saying you're not going to have sex is that in doing so you inevitably make yourself think about having sex. Really, all she wants is to let him know that it isn't just fatigue that has halted her urge to run.
"And I don't feel like I need to run from you."
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