Like most things, it begins in the middle of chaos. The brawl that breaks out at midnight is full of claws and fangs, steel and warcries of all types; an arc of lightning that splits through the evening and illuminates the bulk of the combatants in the glade also highlights the lean figure that makes its way to the reason for such bloodshed. Pulling a dagger from its place on his belt, he works it through the tangle of rough, rope knots binding the elf's wrists to the stake behind him; after a moment, he tugs the makeshift gag down as well, to let him speak.
Not after he gets his own comment in: "What is it about you that makes a routine job go tits up, huh?"
( The job should have been a typical one. Not an easy one, but one that was routine enough: capture and transport from location "A" to location "B". He'd taken it from a more tenderhearted member of the group, citing that because she was too empathetic towards others, she'd likely turn the target loose the moment they started singing a sad tale. So, he'd do it. He was much more difficult to sway, after all.
He'd run aground of the elf a few miles from his last location, and that had been that. A few lengths of rope to bind the wrists, a gag to bind the mouth -- and he determined that to be enough to hold anything that might have even a smidge of magic to burn through. ) The bindings had, in the end, become one more thing to concern himself with when the second team of bounty hunters crashed into camp in the dead of night. At least, he hopes that they're bounty hunters. There are too many memories of man-like wolves swimming in his head for him to mistake the dark shapes for anything else, and it has been months since he'd walked away from that fog-ridden land.
"Up," Vaati encourages, fitting a hand under Adra's elbow, "While they trip over the thorns, we're running."
Adra spits into the dirt the moment the gag's lifted, scowling. He has vague recollections of this man, some brief encounter at a tavern somewhere. He'd overheard the rough voice amidst other rough talk, his ear catching on a reference to Barovia's choking mists. Another soul freed by its liberation, he supposed, and he almost introduced himself--but he had been there for a purpose, as he ever was, and in the end decided against distractions.
But now.
Here they were.
"You could just let me go," Adra says, stumbling as he's pulled up. It's been a while since he's had free use of his hands and legs. His wrists ache; his knees, too. He's confused, agitated, but not exactly frightened. He is not a man who frightens easily. As it stands, he's already trying to figure out how he might squirm away from Vaati and slip into the night, lurking monsters be damned. He'd take their company over this one any day.
The hand at Adra's elbow seeks to control the route that they take, as Vaati lets his eye lead their way through the undergrowth. He has a nimbleness to him that speaks to his experience with the terrain, ducking and weaving through the trees and their gnarled roots with his hand firmly set upon Adra's person. "Not likely," he laughs, a dark sound among darker shadows. "I'm the one who caught you, that makes you mine."
He speaks of Adra as though he is a fresh kill, laid out for the undressing and curing, rather than a living, breathing thing. Having caught sight of him once, he'd overheard they might have something in common - that fog-ridden realm. Promptly, he'd put it out of his mind and carried out the job he'd agreed to. Capture the elf, escort him (unharmed) to a particular location. Be paid, leave. Not normally his type of work, but one he'd... preferred to undertake, lest someone else get hold of it.
"If you try to run, I'll put an arrow through your knee," he warns, as if reading into Adra's mind. It's nothing like that. Just the sensibilities of someone who knows that he'd try to give his captor the slip, too.
Adra recoils at Vaati's declaration (though some secret, suppressed part of him thrills, too; very quietly, very softly). He scowls, trying to jerk out of Vaati's hold, but it's a futile effort--he's never been one much for muscles. Vaati drags him along easily, kicking up dead leaves and dry twigs as they move to escape whatever chaos claws after them in this dark forest.
"I'm more worried about what you'll do otherwise," Adra mutters, still squirming. "Do you even know where you're going?"
Behind them, the sounds of the fray begin to scatter. Smaller fights breaking off, death coming for those who do not stand ready - and Vaati can hear a pair of boots or two attempting to follow his tracks. As if he'd so easily allow them to. As if he'd so readily let them attempt to take Adra out of his hands.
"You can see as well as I can in the night," he admonishes, voice wry with unshed humor. "Can't you tell that I do?"
Though their surroundings appear to be unchanging - merely copse after copse of tree, their boughs laced high overhead with only the hint of starlight poking through from time to time. With his experience, he picks the path of least resistance and eventually, even the sound of their pursuers fades. No doubt they'll attempt to rally, if there's anything left of them. But, for the moment, he finds them a place to tuck into that's a little more defensible for him, among jagged rock and fallen tree. It's a place to breathe, for the moment.
That's where he'll put Adra, swinging him around - pressing him up against the nearest surface. He's not much stronger, but he knows how to use his body quite well. "So," he begins conversationally, "you've been fantasizing about what I'll do to you, then?" ( more worried about what you'll do otherwise, he'd said, heh )
It's true that he can see well enough through the gloom, and he knows too that they're moving decisively through the forest, turning here and there, slipping quick as foxes through the underbrush. Rather, Vaati's quick as a fox--Adra's just the rabbit caught in his teeth, unwillingly along for the ride.
"I mean, do you have some kind of destination in mind--" he begins, but he's cut off when Vaati shoves him up against the rough bark of the nearest tree. An oak, he thinks, wildly, as he inhales a sharp, pained breath. Gritting his teeth, he spits out an angry answer to the question just posed: "Fantasizing? Dreading, you mean! I've no idea what you want with me, or where you're taking me!"
He tries again to break free, pushing, uselessly, against Vaati's arm. His cheeks redden from the effort (solely that, surely).
"Of course I do," have a destination, he means. "It was given as part of the job. Collect you, transport you to a particular place. We're slightly off-track, but I'd accounted for rivals attempting to steal you away from me." His bounty, his ownership of the elf he's pressed back against the width of the tree that shelters them in deeper shadow now, began the moment he'd gotten to him before anyone else had. Like a hawk that had swept down among fighting beasts, only to pluck away the reason for their warring and made it his own.
He points two fingers to the side, his left and Adra's right. "That way is north, and it's the direction we'll be going until we arrive," and by the edge to his smile, Vaati knows what giving that information to the elf will do. Perhaps it will put in mind what the destination is, and who it is who's called for him to be captured and brought there. For now, Vaati basks in the pretty red flush to his face, the anger in his voice. "Dreading? With that look on your face?"
Curling his fingers around Adra's jaw, he positions his feet so that he won't be caught off guard by the man's shoving and holds his face steady. "All pretty and flushed, like a youth that's been caught with his hands down his trousers. Righteously angry." Vaati pauses. Contemplates, before adding with a particularly cloying lilt to his voice: "We've a ways to go, and you needn't remember this as the most unpleasant manhandling you've experienced. Don't go running off, and I'll treat you tenderly, in all the ways you could dream of."
His eyes briefly dart in the direction of Vaati's fingers, and he frowns. What lies north? Many things--more cities, more valleys, more forests. For a moment, he can't imagine who in all those vast possibilities of land would want anything particular with him--unless Vaati means to return to the temple in the high elf capital, which is very definitely somewhere north. But it's far. Very far.
He grits his teeth, but he's not going to keep the game going by voicing his suspicions. Instead, he tries to jerk away from Vaati's hold on his jaw. The hold is a vice grip, though. Like Vaati's done this before. Like he's used to it.
"Keep your filth to yourself," he hisses. "I'm not dreaming of anything except you fucking off."
Well, well. The elf is a sharp one, then. Enough so to not give word to his thoughts about where Vaati might be transporting him, which means Vaati doesn't have to begin to juggle Adra's ideas and the reality. He enjoys toying with others, enjoys making them twitch and tense when he speaks up or draws near -- prey reactions, he thinks of them as. Maybe, just maybe, he can get those elf ears to twitch and tremble as nakedly as the expressions on Adra's face?
" -- you've got such a lovely face, too." He laments, turning the man's face to the side so that he can see the stretch of his neck, the tender line of it where his pulse will shiver just under the skin. "A sharp mouth like that, and a face like that. You're very much my type, if only you'd dream a little bigger. A little darker." Softly, he turns his hip into the dip of Adra's own and leans into him, against him, thigh dragging into the space between the priest's own.
That mouth. "I love a sharp mouth, the fouler the better. Makes me want to pry you open and see what you have to offer." It's not that he likes hearing the sound of his own voice, it's just that - he says things without filter.
Adra flushes a deeper, more obvious scarlet as Vaati keeps talking, keeps pressing into, against him. He shifts uncomfortably, even as a thrilled frisson runs up from the base of his spine. His lips part, then close, and he furrows his eyebrows. Still, his voice is a little rough, his words halting, when he responds.
"I'm not sure your contractors would appreciate whatever you're thinking right now."
He squirms against the oak, feeling the wood scrape and pull at the fabric of his robes. It's mild pinching, not painful, but he's wincing all the same.
"Oh. Nobody I've met ever appreciates any of it," he declares, because if anyone took a look at what Vaati was thinking, they'd either wilt from second-hand shame or cringe from the sheer debasedness of it. What his contractors want is for Adra to be delivered in one piece, and Vaati can manage that; the rest of it, really, is his to decided upon. "Maybe you might, though."
While he doesn't relinquish his hold on Adra's jaw completely, he does lessen the force he's been using on him, instead using the rest of his own body to keep the elf pinned in place. That way, when he pushes his mouth close to one of those pretty, tapered ears, he can feel the way Adra might react when he shares his thoughts ( whether Adra wants to hear them or not! ): "I," he says, "want you to open your mouth and stick your tongue out, nice and wide. No need to say 'ah', not just yet."
A little alarm hisses in the back of his mind, telling him to resist this; to shove Vaati bodily away. But could he, even if he wanted to? He stares at the man for a few seconds, breathing shallowly. His cheeks are burning, but his stomach feels hot, too, like something's uncoiling there.
He shuts his eyes as he feels Vaati's breath ghost against the sensitive shell of his ear, and he can't repress the small, mewling gasp that follows. Sucking in air through his teeth, he presses his body back against the bark--but he obeys.
It's a pretty sight, the way that Adra obeys and opens up; the sight of him struggling against himself is one that Vaati enjoys, intensely. He thumbs Adra's tongue, pressing the flat of his finger against it to feel the slickness there, the gathering pool of saliva along Adra's lip. "It's a good look for you," he murmurs softly, replacing his thumb with two fingers -- and the brush of his words along Adra ears becomes the curl of his own mouth.
His teeth find the lobe of Adra's ear, sinking into it sharply as he draws up - hard and fast - against his body. Knee pressing up, high and tight, between his thighs. He bears into him, without shame or mercy, now that he has him pinned where he wants him.
[Adrasteius peers out the window of the caravan, squinting into the gloom that's suddenly enveloped the road. Evening is coming on fast, and they're approaching a dense, dark forest, one known to harbor all manner of dangers--from bandits to beasts, and more besides. Travelers without an experienced guide often did not emerge from the Labyrinth Woods, so named because many swore that its paths shifted and twisted like a cruel maze.
But the only way out is through. Adra has a holy mission, and he must reach the villages on the other side of the woods. Reports of a strange new curse--possibly originating from within the woods themselves--reached the ears of the church, and he's been dispatched to investigate. He'd caught a ride with a group of local merchants, lead by an energetic and gregarious man. A man sitting across from him right then, in fact, smiling broadly at Adra's growing concern.
Adra clears his throat.]
Perhaps we should stop outside the wood and make camp for the night?
[ That smile, perhaps not as toothy as it could be, shields a curious hum. Burst Roar is a caravan with quite the reputation behind it. Large, successful, well traveled. Its connections sprawled far and wide, from earth to sea and even to the shining stars above, winking white-hot in the evening sky. Fang isn't always in the business of transporting people, but he has always had a soft spot for a holy mission or two. Adra barely had to breathe out his intention before Fang wholeheartedly seized them. ]
A fine suggestion! [ Fang leans back in appraisal, one heel rolling against the floor of the carriage. His smile mellows and his brow quirks, interested. ] Never made the trip at night?
[ Or perhaps he had, and caution was the reward. ]
[Part of him wants to press on. The longer the trip takes, the longer people have to wait for his help. The thought needles him. But he can't help anyone if he's dead, or beguiled away into the night, or worse.
Fang seems a confident and competent man. If necessary, Adra trusts that he'd be protected. He'd rather not put that trust to the test, though.]
The woods are haunted, or so they say. Witches and wights and all manner of hungry things.
[He gestures towards the tree line.]
I've heard tell that if you get close enough, you can hear singing and wailing in the dark, piping through the branches.
Well, if it's a matter of hunger, I'm a tough match to best.
[ Quite conversational, all things considered. And much warmer than the threat it might sound like, even in relation to ghosts. Lucky that his humor melts into his tone, a defense that the night won't so easily breach. ]
But it wouldn't do any good to go on delivering a shaken priest to the people who need him!
[ With curled fore and middle fingers, he gives a series of knocks on the carriage panel at his back, denoting a slowdown. ]
[The tips of Adra's ears turn pink, though he's sure Fang's just referring to his dinner.]
Well, I could help with that, if you like ...
[He mutters (also referring to dinner), even as Fang's knocking on the panel. The pace of the horses slows considerably, and for that, he's grateful--he expects that means they'll soon make camp, and avoid the woods. As guilty as he feels about delaying his arrival by even a day, he knows it would not do to get both himself and the caravan lost in that tangle of devouring darkness.
They're quite close to the tree line as it stands.]
[ That reply tickles him, if the aware and sterling tilt of his smile is anything to go by. ]
A man of many talents, I see. I would like that.
[ With the slowing of the whole caravan, noise begins to permeate through the carriage walls: footsteps, idling horses, supplies being offloaded and divvied to prepare an encampment for the night. Conversation warms the night air, not all of which is polite, but it is high-spirited. It's a curious mix of technology and rustic ingenuity (and perhaps a little magic) that keeps this merry lot afloat even under the most dire circumstances. And luckily, nothing is so dire as of yet.
Pushing to his feet in a cascade of rich textiles — leather and fur, bone and turquoise, Fang offers his hand to Adra in kind. ]
Now then. Until we have a proper resting spot, how about a walk? My legs could use a stretch.
[He'd say that he can't believe Wrathion's recklessness, but--having been acquainted with him for some time now--that would be a feeble claim. They're meant to rush back to the Chamber of Heart, but Adra vetoes that plan; instead, he asks that Wrathion use his power to take them to Dalaran. Both of them are injured, but Wrathion far more so, and Adra insists on examining him.
He considered the inn, but it's too public, and Wrathion too likely to draw attention from curious passersby. Instead, he directs Wrathion to his apartment, a small but cozy space that was not designed for triage but would do in a pinch like this. Shelves full of books and flowers surround them, and the desk near the arched window is covered with papers, qulls, and pots of shimmering ink. Adra pulls Wrathion into the adjoining bedroom; here there are even more flowers, a small nightstand stacked with more books, and a neatly made bed with a rich purple duvet.]
[ Wrathion sits, looking suitably sorry for himself. He's been chastised into compliance, at least, but that doesn't mean he's happy about it. Xanesh had done something to him, he knows, and it crawls anxiety over his skin. Weakness is uncomfortable. Being forced to accept help is uncomfortable.
Being vulnerable is uncomfortable.
At least, he supposes, he trusts Adra. The apartment is a distraction, something to latch onto. Wrathion's eyes dart over the contents, cataloguing it and filing away the information. ]
We could have made it back to Silithus safely. I will recover.
[ He's intent on maintaining the protest, but Wrathion does at least sit. ]
[There's a hearth near the foot of the bed; Adra flicks his wrist and the logs ignite, filling the room with a warm, steady crackle (he's not much of a mage these days, but he's still got a few basic tricks).]
All right, now ...
[He leans forward, frowning, as he places a gentle hand on Wrathion's chest. He suspects that the better part of the damage is mental rather than physical, but he's not taking chances.
Still, there's a little thread of tension here, a growing awareness in the back of his mind. Wrathion was wise beyond his years from birth, even more so than the average dragon. He was never really a child, though he had the look of one, and often the temperament, too. Wrathion hasn't lost his charming impetuousness, but he's coming into his own. He's more resilient, more sure of himself, and he wears the ancient knowledge bequeathed on him at birth less like an oversized cloak and more like true armor.
Wrathion works very hard, however, to keep a veneer of calm. It's important to his image, to stay cool and in control. His slips had been more unguarded in his youth. Nobody likes to see a black dragon who displays too many emotional highs and lows. Nobody likes to see a black dragon unstable.
It has, however, been a long day.
It's been a long day, and he's not... used to physical contact still. He'd never known the comforting touch of a parental figure, after all, had grown up aloof and with... staff rather than family. Touch is something rare, touch in this manner even more so. Touch meant to help, that holds concern. Affection, perhaps. ]
Ah.
[ A question was asked. He needs to focus. ]
Perhaps my pride.
[ A joke, but also not really a joke. Wrathion swallows, flicks his eyes away. ]
[Adra's been through a lot in his time on Azeroth. War after war after war, and horrors beyond that, too. His faith had been strained, broken, reforged. But few priests have ever walked solely in the Light, and he's no exception. The whispers of the dark have beckoned him since long before the rise of this brutal empire, and will likely continue for long after its defeat.
Still, to see the madness spread so wanton and with such abandon, to see it burst from the deep and reach for its coveted prize after so many years of scheming and waiting and plotting--it unsettles him, too. And so had that chamber they'd just escaped, the remnants of the cruel experiments, the dragons murdered and gone mad.
Not that it was unique, though.
Adra continues his careful examination as he speaks, his fingers brushing slow and delicate over Wrathion's chest, his eyes fixed to the skin, searching not just for lacerations but also for any bruising, any sign of trauma at all.]
I grieve for the suffering your flight has endured.
[A beat; a little sigh.]
You're resilient, Wrathion, perhaps more so than any of your brothers and sisters. But, you know ... you can grieve, too.
[ Tension creeps into Wrathion's limbs at that, wariness.
Wrathion does grieve for his flight. He grieves for his brothers and sisters slaughtered by the Red Dragonflight in their experiements. Grieves for the ones he cut down himself. Grieves for the twilight drakes dragged to Blacking Descent to continue foul machinations that should have long been put to rest. ]
I grieve for them every day, in my heart, but grief will not put an end to this. We must be practical.
[ He must be practical. He hasn't the luxury of time, to lose himself to emotions. Especially when, now, emotions are a dangerous thing. When N'Zoth so easily whispers, luxuriates in doubt and pain. ]
[Doesn't take a sharp eye to notice the sudden stiffness, and though Adra feels badly for the misunderstanding, he'll press on--as he tends to do.
Light limns his palms. Though he can find little evidence of direct physical energy--owing to Wrathion's legendary constitution, he supposes--the Light soothes more than just obvious wounds. His magic, in particular, has a warm, calming quality, like a cup of hot cocoa offered to someone coming in out of the snow.]
I have no doubt of that. Nor can I deny your pragmatism. I mean to say that taking a moment to let go--to let yourself feel--is a useful thing. Especially when you are in a safe place.
[ Wrathion hesitates, eyes flitting down to the hand leading warmth and healing over him. ]
I cannot allow myself to become... vulnerable. N'Zoth's forces have stayed one step ahead of us, and they have already gotten too close.
[ Letting go sounds... dangerous. Wrathion has always been tightly wound, his emotional outbursts in the past have been explosive. He's almost afraid of what will happen if he allows the well of emotion he feels to rise up to the surface again. That... energy feels like honey to N'Zoth, the fear and anxiety. The despair. ]
[ Surprise paints itself into Wrathion's features, quickly followed by another wave of uncertainty. ]
I...
[ The touch is... disarming in some ways, yet breeds tension through him in others. Healing light feels warm against his skin, soothing, but Wrathion's mind is a constant riot of new anxieties. Resistance. This feeling, this... touch is something he wants more of. The comfort it offers. It makes his skin prickle. He wants to turn his face into it, to chase the sensation. ]
I wasn't certain that... you'd forgiven me.
[ Honesty. Wrathion knows he doesn't deserve it, in some ways, that he has a lot of ground to make up here. That he cannot change the past, only keep moving forward -- forge a better future if he can. One without nightmares.
Yet, so far, he hasn't done that. Until they do, he is all talk. Adra would be wise to have caution here, to guard himself. Xanesh has proven Wrathion is dangerous to be around, and not nearly as able to resist the darkness as he'd like. ]
[He could say that he's forgiven transgressions that were, if not devastating on a global scale, nevertheless devastating to himself as a person. He could say that he prefers not to dwell on the past; that he doesn't hold grudges.
After a few long, quiet moments, he brushes his thumb under Wrathion's glowing ruby eye.]
You've proven where your conviction lies. I no longer have any doubts.
[He shrugs, smiles.]
My faith calls me to forgive, but so does my reason. If I considered people only by what they've done and who they were, I cut off any potential for growth.
He'd expected, if anything, a mild platitude about how it's all in the past. The kind of thing people say when they don't want to upset you by admitting they haven't forgiven you, but want to let you know they'll carry on anyway. He'd been afraid Adra wouldn't be able to say this and mean it.
Yet it feels as if he does.
He gives into the urge to turn his face further into the touch, silent a moment as the words settle into him. As he tries, desperately, to rein in the tumble of emotions flooding through him. Restraint is important. He swallows, then hesitantly lifts one hand to cover the one touching his face. Holding it there, keeping it there. It does something to him, stirs something he can't quite name. ]
Thank you.
[ Soft, but genuine. He doesn't offer such niceties often, but when he does he means them. ]
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bullies him
Not after he gets his own comment in: "What is it about you that makes a routine job go tits up, huh?"
( The job should have been a typical one. Not an easy one, but one that was routine enough: capture and transport from location "A" to location "B". He'd taken it from a more tenderhearted member of the group, citing that because she was too empathetic towards others, she'd likely turn the target loose the moment they started singing a sad tale. So, he'd do it. He was much more difficult to sway, after all.
He'd run aground of the elf a few miles from his last location, and that had been that. A few lengths of rope to bind the wrists, a gag to bind the mouth -- and he determined that to be enough to hold anything that might have even a smidge of magic to burn through. ) The bindings had, in the end, become one more thing to concern himself with when the second team of bounty hunters crashed into camp in the dead of night. At least, he hopes that they're bounty hunters. There are too many memories of man-like wolves swimming in his head for him to mistake the dark shapes for anything else, and it has been months since he'd walked away from that fog-ridden land.
"Up," Vaati encourages, fitting a hand under Adra's elbow, "While they trip over the thorns, we're running."
>(
But now.
Here they were.
"You could just let me go," Adra says, stumbling as he's pulled up. It's been a while since he's had free use of his hands and legs. His wrists ache; his knees, too. He's confused, agitated, but not exactly frightened. He is not a man who frightens easily. As it stands, he's already trying to figure out how he might squirm away from Vaati and slip into the night, lurking monsters be damned. He'd take their company over this one any day.
>:9
He speaks of Adra as though he is a fresh kill, laid out for the undressing and curing, rather than a living, breathing thing. Having caught sight of him once, he'd overheard they might have something in common - that fog-ridden realm. Promptly, he'd put it out of his mind and carried out the job he'd agreed to. Capture the elf, escort him (unharmed) to a particular location. Be paid, leave. Not normally his type of work, but one he'd... preferred to undertake, lest someone else get hold of it.
"If you try to run, I'll put an arrow through your knee," he warns, as if reading into Adra's mind. It's nothing like that. Just the sensibilities of someone who knows that he'd try to give his captor the slip, too.
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"I'm more worried about what you'll do otherwise," Adra mutters, still squirming. "Do you even know where you're going?"
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"You can see as well as I can in the night," he admonishes, voice wry with unshed humor. "Can't you tell that I do?"
Though their surroundings appear to be unchanging - merely copse after copse of tree, their boughs laced high overhead with only the hint of starlight poking through from time to time. With his experience, he picks the path of least resistance and eventually, even the sound of their pursuers fades. No doubt they'll attempt to rally, if there's anything left of them. But, for the moment, he finds them a place to tuck into that's a little more defensible for him, among jagged rock and fallen tree. It's a place to breathe, for the moment.
That's where he'll put Adra, swinging him around - pressing him up against the nearest surface. He's not much stronger, but he knows how to use his body quite well. "So," he begins conversationally, "you've been fantasizing about what I'll do to you, then?" ( more worried about what you'll do otherwise, he'd said, heh )
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"I mean, do you have some kind of destination in mind--" he begins, but he's cut off when Vaati shoves him up against the rough bark of the nearest tree. An oak, he thinks, wildly, as he inhales a sharp, pained breath. Gritting his teeth, he spits out an angry answer to the question just posed: "Fantasizing? Dreading, you mean! I've no idea what you want with me, or where you're taking me!"
He tries again to break free, pushing, uselessly, against Vaati's arm. His cheeks redden from the effort (solely that, surely).
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He points two fingers to the side, his left and Adra's right. "That way is north, and it's the direction we'll be going until we arrive," and by the edge to his smile, Vaati knows what giving that information to the elf will do. Perhaps it will put in mind what the destination is, and who it is who's called for him to be captured and brought there. For now, Vaati basks in the pretty red flush to his face, the anger in his voice. "Dreading? With that look on your face?"
Curling his fingers around Adra's jaw, he positions his feet so that he won't be caught off guard by the man's shoving and holds his face steady. "All pretty and flushed, like a youth that's been caught with his hands down his trousers. Righteously angry." Vaati pauses. Contemplates, before adding with a particularly cloying lilt to his voice: "We've a ways to go, and you needn't remember this as the most unpleasant manhandling you've experienced. Don't go running off, and I'll treat you tenderly, in all the ways you could dream of."
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He grits his teeth, but he's not going to keep the game going by voicing his suspicions. Instead, he tries to jerk away from Vaati's hold on his jaw. The hold is a vice grip, though. Like Vaati's done this before. Like he's used to it.
"Keep your filth to yourself," he hisses. "I'm not dreaming of anything except you fucking off."
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" -- you've got such a lovely face, too." He laments, turning the man's face to the side so that he can see the stretch of his neck, the tender line of it where his pulse will shiver just under the skin. "A sharp mouth like that, and a face like that. You're very much my type, if only you'd dream a little bigger. A little darker." Softly, he turns his hip into the dip of Adra's own and leans into him, against him, thigh dragging into the space between the priest's own.
That mouth. "I love a sharp mouth, the fouler the better. Makes me want to pry you open and see what you have to offer." It's not that he likes hearing the sound of his own voice, it's just that - he says things without filter.
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"I'm not sure your contractors would appreciate whatever you're thinking right now."
He squirms against the oak, feeling the wood scrape and pull at the fabric of his robes. It's mild pinching, not painful, but he's wincing all the same.
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"Oh. Nobody I've met ever appreciates any of it," he declares, because if anyone took a look at what Vaati was thinking, they'd either wilt from second-hand shame or cringe from the sheer debasedness of it. What his contractors want is for Adra to be delivered in one piece, and Vaati can manage that; the rest of it, really, is his to decided upon. "Maybe you might, though."
While he doesn't relinquish his hold on Adra's jaw completely, he does lessen the force he's been using on him, instead using the rest of his own body to keep the elf pinned in place. That way, when he pushes his mouth close to one of those pretty, tapered ears, he can feel the way Adra might react when he shares his thoughts ( whether Adra wants to hear them or not! ): "I," he says, "want you to open your mouth and stick your tongue out, nice and wide. No need to say 'ah', not just yet."
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He shuts his eyes as he feels Vaati's breath ghost against the sensitive shell of his ear, and he can't repress the small, mewling gasp that follows. Sucking in air through his teeth, he presses his body back against the bark--but he obeys.
Mouth open, tongue out. Eyes still shut.
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His teeth find the lobe of Adra's ear, sinking into it sharply as he draws up - hard and fast - against his body. Knee pressing up, high and tight, between his thighs. He bears into him, without shame or mercy, now that he has him pinned where he wants him.
for kou;
But the only way out is through. Adra has a holy mission, and he must reach the villages on the other side of the woods. Reports of a strange new curse--possibly originating from within the woods themselves--reached the ears of the church, and he's been dispatched to investigate. He'd caught a ride with a group of local merchants, lead by an energetic and gregarious man. A man sitting across from him right then, in fact, smiling broadly at Adra's growing concern.
Adra clears his throat.]
Perhaps we should stop outside the wood and make camp for the night?
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A fine suggestion! [ Fang leans back in appraisal, one heel rolling against the floor of the carriage. His smile mellows and his brow quirks, interested. ] Never made the trip at night?
[ Or perhaps he had, and caution was the reward. ]
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I haven't. Not with the stories I've heard.
[Part of him wants to press on. The longer the trip takes, the longer people have to wait for his help. The thought needles him. But he can't help anyone if he's dead, or beguiled away into the night, or worse.
Fang seems a confident and competent man. If necessary, Adra trusts that he'd be protected. He'd rather not put that trust to the test, though.]
The woods are haunted, or so they say. Witches and wights and all manner of hungry things.
[He gestures towards the tree line.]
I've heard tell that if you get close enough, you can hear singing and wailing in the dark, piping through the branches.
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[ Quite conversational, all things considered. And much warmer than the threat it might sound like, even in relation to ghosts. Lucky that his humor melts into his tone, a defense that the night won't so easily breach. ]
But it wouldn't do any good to go on delivering a shaken priest to the people who need him!
[ With curled fore and middle fingers, he gives a series of knocks on the carriage panel at his back, denoting a slowdown. ]
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[The tips of Adra's ears turn pink, though he's sure Fang's just referring to his dinner.]
Well, I could help with that, if you like ...
[He mutters (also referring to dinner), even as Fang's knocking on the panel. The pace of the horses slows considerably, and for that, he's grateful--he expects that means they'll soon make camp, and avoid the woods. As guilty as he feels about delaying his arrival by even a day, he knows it would not do to get both himself and the caravan lost in that tangle of devouring darkness.
They're quite close to the tree line as it stands.]
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A man of many talents, I see. I would like that.
[ With the slowing of the whole caravan, noise begins to permeate through the carriage walls: footsteps, idling horses, supplies being offloaded and divvied to prepare an encampment for the night. Conversation warms the night air, not all of which is polite, but it is high-spirited. It's a curious mix of technology and rustic ingenuity (and perhaps a little magic) that keeps this merry lot afloat even under the most dire circumstances. And luckily, nothing is so dire as of yet.
Pushing to his feet in a cascade of rich textiles — leather and fur, bone and turquoise, Fang offers his hand to Adra in kind. ]
Now then. Until we have a proper resting spot, how about a walk? My legs could use a stretch.
for jack;
He considered the inn, but it's too public, and Wrathion too likely to draw attention from curious passersby. Instead, he directs Wrathion to his apartment, a small but cozy space that was not designed for triage but would do in a pinch like this. Shelves full of books and flowers surround them, and the desk near the arched window is covered with papers, qulls, and pots of shimmering ink. Adra pulls Wrathion into the adjoining bedroom; here there are even more flowers, a small nightstand stacked with more books, and a neatly made bed with a rich purple duvet.]
Sit there.
[He gestures to the duvet impatiently.]
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Being vulnerable is uncomfortable.
At least, he supposes, he trusts Adra. The apartment is a distraction, something to latch onto. Wrathion's eyes dart over the contents, cataloguing it and filing away the information. ]
We could have made it back to Silithus safely. I will recover.
[ He's intent on maintaining the protest, but Wrathion does at least sit. ]
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All right, now ...
[He leans forward, frowning, as he places a gentle hand on Wrathion's chest. He suspects that the better part of the damage is mental rather than physical, but he's not taking chances.
Still, there's a little thread of tension here, a growing awareness in the back of his mind. Wrathion was wise beyond his years from birth, even more so than the average dragon. He was never really a child, though he had the look of one, and often the temperament, too. Wrathion hasn't lost his charming impetuousness, but he's coming into his own. He's more resilient, more sure of himself, and he wears the ancient knowledge bequeathed on him at birth less like an oversized cloak and more like true armor.
Adra curls his fingers; clears his throat.]
Tell me if anything hurts.
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Well, perhaps not everything.
Wrathion works very hard, however, to keep a veneer of calm. It's important to his image, to stay cool and in control. His slips had been more unguarded in his youth. Nobody likes to see a black dragon who displays too many emotional highs and lows. Nobody likes to see a black dragon unstable.
It has, however, been a long day.
It's been a long day, and he's not... used to physical contact still. He'd never known the comforting touch of a parental figure, after all, had grown up aloof and with... staff rather than family. Touch is something rare, touch in this manner even more so. Touch meant to help, that holds concern. Affection, perhaps. ]
Ah.
[ A question was asked. He needs to focus. ]
Perhaps my pride.
[ A joke, but also not really a joke. Wrathion swallows, flicks his eyes away. ]
I have fared better than those... experiments.
hello i'm actually caught up on lore now
Still, to see the madness spread so wanton and with such abandon, to see it burst from the deep and reach for its coveted prize after so many years of scheming and waiting and plotting--it unsettles him, too. And so had that chamber they'd just escaped, the remnants of the cruel experiments, the dragons murdered and gone mad.
Not that it was unique, though.
Adra continues his careful examination as he speaks, his fingers brushing slow and delicate over Wrathion's chest, his eyes fixed to the skin, searching not just for lacerations but also for any bruising, any sign of trauma at all.]
I grieve for the suffering your flight has endured.
[A beat; a little sigh.]
You're resilient, Wrathion, perhaps more so than any of your brothers and sisters. But, you know ... you can grieve, too.
Welcome to hell
Wrathion does grieve for his flight. He grieves for his brothers and sisters slaughtered by the Red Dragonflight in their experiements. Grieves for the ones he cut down himself. Grieves for the twilight drakes dragged to Blacking Descent to continue foul machinations that should have long been put to rest. ]
I grieve for them every day, in my heart, but grief will not put an end to this. We must be practical.
[ He must be practical. He hasn't the luxury of time, to lose himself to emotions. Especially when, now, emotions are a dangerous thing. When N'Zoth so easily whispers, luxuriates in doubt and pain. ]
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Light limns his palms. Though he can find little evidence of direct physical energy--owing to Wrathion's legendary constitution, he supposes--the Light soothes more than just obvious wounds. His magic, in particular, has a warm, calming quality, like a cup of hot cocoa offered to someone coming in out of the snow.]
I have no doubt of that. Nor can I deny your pragmatism. I mean to say that taking a moment to let go--to let yourself feel--is a useful thing. Especially when you are in a safe place.
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[ Wrathion hesitates, eyes flitting down to the hand leading warmth and healing over him. ]
I cannot allow myself to become... vulnerable. N'Zoth's forces have stayed one step ahead of us, and they have already gotten too close.
[ Letting go sounds... dangerous. Wrathion has always been tightly wound, his emotional outbursts in the past have been explosive. He's almost afraid of what will happen if he allows the well of emotion he feels to rise up to the surface again. That... energy feels like honey to N'Zoth, the fear and anxiety. The despair. ]
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He lifts his hand, still emanating golden light, and presses it to Wrathion's cheek instead.]
Here, you can.
[With me.]
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I...
[ The touch is... disarming in some ways, yet breeds tension through him in others. Healing light feels warm against his skin, soothing, but Wrathion's mind is a constant riot of new anxieties. Resistance. This feeling, this... touch is something he wants more of. The comfort it offers. It makes his skin prickle. He wants to turn his face into it, to chase the sensation. ]
I wasn't certain that... you'd forgiven me.
[ Honesty. Wrathion knows he doesn't deserve it, in some ways, that he has a lot of ground to make up here. That he cannot change the past, only keep moving forward -- forge a better future if he can. One without nightmares.
Yet, so far, he hasn't done that. Until they do, he is all talk. Adra would be wise to have caution here, to guard himself. Xanesh has proven Wrathion is dangerous to be around, and not nearly as able to resist the darkness as he'd like. ]
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[He could say that he's forgiven transgressions that were, if not devastating on a global scale, nevertheless devastating to himself as a person. He could say that he prefers not to dwell on the past; that he doesn't hold grudges.
After a few long, quiet moments, he brushes his thumb under Wrathion's glowing ruby eye.]
You've proven where your conviction lies. I no longer have any doubts.
[He shrugs, smiles.]
My faith calls me to forgive, but so does my reason. If I considered people only by what they've done and who they were, I cut off any potential for growth.
You are who you're trying to be, right now.
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He'd expected, if anything, a mild platitude about how it's all in the past. The kind of thing people say when they don't want to upset you by admitting they haven't forgiven you, but want to let you know they'll carry on anyway. He'd been afraid Adra wouldn't be able to say this and mean it.
Yet it feels as if he does.
He gives into the urge to turn his face further into the touch, silent a moment as the words settle into him. As he tries, desperately, to rein in the tumble of emotions flooding through him. Restraint is important. He swallows, then hesitantly lifts one hand to cover the one touching his face. Holding it there, keeping it there. It does something to him, stirs something he can't quite name. ]
Thank you.
[ Soft, but genuine. He doesn't offer such niceties often, but when he does he means them. ]