dark-desires-and-daggerwork

[dark-desires-and-daggerwork]

The first three volumes will be available at the Tournament of Ages!

[dark-desires-and-daggerwork]

Some Mourvalis rp bits this week:

A moment passed.

His attention idled, cold yet not entirely unkind.

They were correct. Mourvalis had not walked away—though it meant nothing more than a choice to pass the time as he saw fit. As was his right. And the man would not deter him, however persistent.

The man’s darkness offered some familiarity. Though the conversation had been tedious, it held his interest more than those woefully devoid of it.

"You're an anomaly in a different way than this warlock. You're more of the standard warlock I'd expect. Brooding, somewhat dark... Not that I dislike that, of course."

His voice came steady but withholding. “An anomaly. A standard warlock,” his own manner of testing patience. “Curious that I am both.”

"Do you think there's more to me than meets the eye? I'm not sure if I should be flattered or concerned."

He did not entertain any assertion of flattery or concern. There was no plan to poison or proposition the man. Not yet, anyway.

"Might I have a name for my unwitting dinnermate?”

Still, he allowed spare amusement to curl at his mouth, “in the formal manner, I am addressed as Professor Gravewither.”

“But since we are neither colleagues nor taken to academic setting, Mourvalis is sufficient.”

The tone held courtesy. He did not return the question. Not yet.

Then—

“And what is it you enjoy more?” voice low, weighting the question. “The sound of your own voice, or the way others wrestle to make sense of it?”

A challenge in reply to the stranger’s words.

But this was the part he loathed. Knowing enough of social…graces, it was evident that formality had come due. Boorish reciprocation.

And so he pressed for the Draenei’s name, “What demon shall I call to ritual?”

[dark-desires-and-daggerwork]

Mourvalis putting up with me rp'ing him the last few weeks

[dark-desires-and-daggerwork]

Some Mourvalis rp bits this week:

Mourvalis did not look away.

He had already noticed the man’s presence, and once he noticed something, he did not un-notice it.

The comment was expected. It was always some variation of the same thing. A stranger unnerved by his lingering attention, resorting to humor to dispel whatever tension they imagined existed.

It did not work.

“Take a picture, my friend. It'll last longer.”

Mourvalis merely blinked.

“A picture of what?” he asked, flatly.

There was no sarcasm—just the genuine question of a man who did not see the point of the statement.

By the time K tapped the counter, ordering him a drink, Mourvalis had already concluded three things about him:

1. He was accustomed to being watched, but not by someone like Mourvalis.

2. He was Arcane-aligned, but curious about darker forces.

3. He thought himself in control of this interaction.

Fascinating.

The bartender slid a glass toward him. Mourvalis did not touch it. Instead, he tilted his head, studying K, a patience more clinical than anything else.

“You assume I drink.”

Then, with deadpan precision—

“Do you intend to correct that?”

[dark-desires-and-daggerwork]

3. Unfortunately Bound 

Ambrose stood before the imposing double doors of Mourvalis’s office, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for battle. The Circle wing was a perfect mirror of the famous literary inferno—each level dedicated to a specific academic focus. The Fifth just happened to be anger and sullenness. It suited Gravewither all too well.

He pushed open the heavy doors and immediately regretted it.

The Collegium was already a study in dark academic absurdity, but the warlock had somehow managed to outdo every other professor in sheer, over-the-top gothic indulgence.

The room was a deliberate assault on aesthetic sensibilities. Shadows darted across the deep red velvet drapes, despite the distinct lack of an actual light source. A ridiculously oversized, rune-carved chair sat behind a massive desk, looking more like a throne than an actual workspace. A rack stood in the corner—an actual torture rack—though a few books had been precariously stacked on it, as if that might disguise the fact that it was, in fact, a rack.

And then, of course, there were the chains. Draped over walls, hanging from the ceiling in strategic placements, even wound around a few candlesticks in what could only be described as decorative bondage.

Ambrose took a deep breath, running a hand down his face.

“Professor Gravewither,” he announced, “I see you’ve redecorated. How festive. Very... Love Is in the Air appropriate.”

Mourvalis, standing behind his desk, barely looked up from the massive grimoire he was poring over. “Flameheart. To what do I owe the displeasure?”

Ambrose sauntered forward, passing the towering shelves he trailed a single fingertip over the ornate leather bindings of one of the many concerningly labeled books.

“The Master's Grip? How intriguing.”

Mourvalis did not rise to the bait. “I assume you’re here to discuss the event.”

Ambrose perched himself on the edge of the desk. “Indeed. We are to orchestrate the Cursed Cantrips for Couples booth. It is our solemn duty to provide an educational—and, dare I say, entertaining—demonstration.”

Mourvalis frowned. “You mean to say we are required to perform a farce of romantic enchantments for the sake of a frivolous festival.”

Ambrose smirked. “Precisely.”

Mourvalis exhaled as noisily as possible. “And what exactly do you propose? I assume you have some grand plan already concocted.”

“Oh, I was simply considering a more engaging performance,” Ambrose mused. “Perhaps something that requires a bit more commitment. A binding spell, perhaps. A brief, harmless magical tethering to showcase the effects of joint spellcasting.”

Mourvalis stiffened. “You are suggesting we bind ourselves in a public setting for the amusement of onlookers?”

“Only temporarily,” Ambrose softened the words. “Unless, of course, you object. Some might say such an act would be... revealing.”

The silence was glorious.

Mourvalis’s hands curled at his sides, as though resisting the urge to hex the mage on principle. “I assume you find this amusing.”

Ambrose tilted his head, entertaining the thought. “You could say that.”

The warlock exhaled again, slower this time. “Fine. But the demonstration will be strictly professional. No theatrics.”

Ambrose grinned. “Of course. No theatrics at all.”

He had never been less sincere in his life.

Mourvalis inclined his head in mock solemnity. “Academia demands it.”

Ambrose redirected with a smirk that was only half as sharp as usual. “Perhaps something just as... immersive?”

Mourvalis’s eyes narrowed, returning to his tome.

“I do not like the way you said that.”

Ambrose only smirked wider, idly nudging the objects on the desk to be ever so slightly askew.

Mourvalis, attention not taken from his study, responded by returning each item to their original, perpendicular positions.

If Mourvalis wanted to sit there, back straight, lips pressed in the neutral, mildly disapproving line of a man who had never been successfully flustered in his life, then fine.

Fine.

Ambrose would make him regret that.

He stretched—long, deliberate—head inclining just so, fingers adjusting the collar of his robes in a casual display of absurd dramatics.

Mourvalis did not react.

Ambrose smirked.

He would.

Leaning further into his usual disruptive presence, he settled back, draping himself elegantly across the desk, one leg crossing over the other in the kind of poised, indulgent posture that should only exist in paintings.

“You know,” he purred, smug, playful, impossible to ignore, “I think we work well together.”

Mourvalis drew a weary breath. “Do you.”

“I do.” Ambrose stretched—long, lazy, ridiculous—arms up, back arching just so, as if he were reclining in a silk-sheeted chaise.

Mourvalis did not look up.

He had learned.

Or so he thought.

Ambrose let out a deep, dramatic sigh, the kind designed to make people look at him.

Mourvalis refused.

“Is there a reason you’re making noises like a tragic widow?” he asked, turning a page with excessive calm.

Ambrose smirked, shifting again, his entire body angled toward Mourvalis in the way that only men who think they are devastating tend to sit.

And then—with no preamble, no hesitation, in the absolute worst example of casual confidence—

He swung one boot up onto the desk, leg cocked.

Mourvalis went completely still.

Ambrose grinned. “So I was thinking—”

Mourvalis’s eye twitched.

Because here was the problem.

Ambrose did not just put his boot on the desk.

He did it like a man in a terrible romance film.

Like a rogue smuggler about to proposition a senator’s daughter.

Like a damned noir detective, leaning back in his chair, all smirk and confidence, flipping a coin between his fingers before saying something like—‘Dame, you’ve got trouble written all over you.’

And Mourvalis looked.

Because of course he did.

The angle was terrible.

And Mourvalis, scholar of the dark arts, warlock of great discipline, master of all things restrained, had a deep, visceral urge to set something on fire.

Preferably Ambrose.

Ambrose, completely unaware that he had just committed an act of war, tapped his fingers against the book in front of Mourvalis’s hands.

“So, as I was saying—”

Mourvalis slammed the book shut.

Ambrose’s smirk widened. “Oh? Did I strike a nerve?”

Mourvalis inhaled very, very slowly.

Then, without a word, he reached up, gripped Ambrose’s boot and slid it off the desk, fluttering the mage’s robes. For a moment it only made things worse, the fabric shifting even more precariously. Ambrose paused, letting the view taunt Mourvalis before slowly performing vague propriety. 

Ambrose grinned.

“Oh,” his eyes sparkling. “Professor, if you wanted to touch me, you could have just said so.”

Mourvalis did not hex him.

It was a near thing.

Instead, he collected his book, and, with measured precision, walked toward a bookshelf.

As he passed, he muttered—just loud enough to be heard—

“Try not to let your ego stain the furniture.” He begrudgingly gestured toward two comfortable chairs beside the towers of books. 

Ambrose slowly slid off the desk, straightening his robe.

“Perhaps we could start with rules of engagement.” Taking a seat, Ambrose gave an impish smile. “I would love to know more about your��boundaries.”

Mourvalis was never going to know peace again.

[dark-desires-and-daggerwork]

Mourvalis is getting some rp this week.

Mourvalis regarded the stranger for a moment, expression unreadable.

“Curiosity is always a factor,” he admitted, though his tone made it clear it was never the only one.

Taking a quick sip, the glass returned to the bar. Nudging it along the wood, he measured the weight of the question against its contents.

“Warlocks do not bind themselves to places. We bind places to us. There is a distinction.”

He allowed a pause to note the ease, the unshaken posture. That was… interesting.

“But yes,” he continued, words measured. “Information is power. And power is the business of warlocks.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite amusement, but something in the vicinity.

“You seem fond of it as well. Information. Power. The ability to navigate unseen.” A flick of his attention. “That is not a quality all this city’s denizens possess.”

He leaned back, still studying as though dissecting a text—turning pages at his leisure, parsing the words for significance.

“So your business is temporary. Directionless, save for the whims of another,” it was not quite a judgment.

“And yet, you remain unbothered by that fact. Curious.” What's more, unbothered by a Sin'dorei walking shamelessly into port.

He tapped his fingers once against the glass.

“If you are fond of information, as you say—” the Draenei had proven worthy of the question—“what is it you seek?”

[dark-desires-and-daggerwork]

WIP for 3 Unfortunately Bound: Ambrose being left to wonder what Mourvalis considers “duress”—I am dying.

Mourvalis nodded, utterly expressionless. “Of course, material composition is vital. Leather provides a balance between flexibility and durability, while silver reinforces the structural integrity of a restraint intended to hold higher demonic entities.” He gestured vaguely to the chains near the bookshelf. “Those, for instance, are graded for spellcasters who tend to struggle when placed under duress.”

Ambrose had to physically force himself not to react. He folded his arms, fingers digging into his sleeves as though it might tether him to some—any—plane of sanity.

“Well,” he managed, voice only slightly strained, “I appreciate the...thoroughness of your research.”

Mourvalis inclined his head in feigned solemnity. “Academia demands it.”

[dark-desires-and-daggerwork]

Mourvalis can now be found in-game, likely skulking around Silvermoon 🩸

[dark-desires-and-daggerwork]

2. A Sexy Sacrifice

Canto VII's weekly staff meetings were held in what was optimistically called the Grand Strategy Chamber. Of Darkness. Though it was really just an oversized classroom with a table clearly cobbled together from several smaller ones.

Chancellor Ebonquill cleared his throat, shuffling papers, fully determined to make this meeting last exactly as long as scheduled, no matter how little there was to discuss. “First order of business: Professor Gravewither has requested to address the faculty regarding...proper workplace etiquette?”

Mourvalis stood, still gloriously shirtless, his hair somehow catching nonexistent moonlight despite it being mid-afternoon.

“Someone…” he announced, gaze drilling into Ambrose, “has been deliberately sabotaging certain faculty members' research materials through the careless use of flame magic.”

Professor Felbottom, Theoretical Hexes, didn't even look up from her crossword puzzle. “Darling, we all know you mean Ambrose. You've been ranting about it in the lounge for three days.”

“I have not—” Mourvalis spluttered.

“And set fire to the coffee maker,” She continued. “Twice.”

Ambrose stretched an arm, turning his hand as though admiring the flex of his fingers. “How dreadful. Someone should see to reigning in that...gremlin magic. And perhaps inquire about a shirt.”

At the mention of gremlin magic, Professor Blackwater, Miniature Demonic Summons, hooted from across the chamber. “Motion to add both flame and gremlin magic to the curriculum, Chancellor.”

Ebonquill massaged his temples. “Moving on to the Registry for Objects of Uncertain Ownership situation…”

“Oh yes,” Professor Felbottom perked up. “We found another homunculus. This one was wearing a tiny cloak and carrying what appears to be a very small case full of even smaller paperwork.”

“That's mine,” three different professors said simultaneously, then glared at each other.

“More pressingly,” the Chancellor continued, “someone left a phylactery in there. Again. Please remember that soul containers are not permitted in the general Registry for Objects of Uncertain Ownership. There's a separate box for resurrection artifacts, clearly labeled.”

The meeting dragged on, meandering from proper summoning circle etiquette (“Please sweep your runes after use”) to plans for the upcoming Love is in The Air festival.

The Collegium's annual booth, Cursed Cantrips For Couples—For Love, or At Least Mutual Torment—never failed to draw a crowd. Each year they offered an ever-expanding menu of (mostly) harmless spells, dark demonstrations, and cursed romantic curiosities. All in service of chaos and academia, naturally.

“And finally,” Chancellor Ebonquill concluded, “we need two faculty members to coordinate the student ritual demonstration. Professor Gravewither, Professor Flameheart, since you two have such...strong opinions about proper magical technique, perhaps you'd like to volunteer?”

Mourvalis opened his mouth to object, but Ambrose beat him to it. “What a splendid idea. I'm sure Professor Gravewither and I can put together something appropriately dramatic. Perhaps he can even find a shirt for the occasion.”

“Very well.” Chancellor Ebonquill nodded, “Should anyone have questions…well, the Void is always hiring.”

He banged an absurdly large femur against a tiny stone altar at the podium, “Dismissed.”

As the faculty filed out, Mourvalis lingered, watching Ambrose gather his things. The fire mage moved with a fluid grace that set Mourvalis's teeth on edge. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, catching those jagged crimson strands that stood in perpetual disarray.

Mourvalis still remembered his first glimpse of Ambrose. The hair had been his initial point of fascination—had the man simply set it aflame once and decided he preferred it that way? The mystery only deepened with those delicate gold chains that draped from his eyeglasses, drawing attention to sharp cheekbones. That finely tailored robe, a touch too snug below the waist.

It was all...aesthetically effective, Mourvalis admitted privately, like admiring the craftsmanship of a ritual dagger moments before using it for sacrifice.

“See something you like, Professor?” Ambrose smirked, letting his quill slip from his fingers. With deliberate slowness, he bent over to retrieve it, arching his back just enough to ensure the warlock had a prime view.

Heat rushed to Mourvalis's face that had nothing to do with blood magic. He needed to leave. Immediately.

“I was merely considering,” he managed, “how best to ensure you don't ruin the festival with your pedestrian pyrotechnics.”

But even as he spoke, his traitorous mind replayed the image of Ambrose bending over, and he knew he was in trouble.

“Mm, of course.” He glided the quill's feather along his neck, just enough to make a point. “Then I suppose an excursion to the 5th circle is in order.”

“This is my office, Flameheart,” Mourvalis cleared his throat, as if the act might disguise where his attention had been. “Not an excursion. It has a desk.”

A pause. A deeply judgmental pause.

“And chairs.”

Ambrose threw both hands up, wiggling his fingers dramatically. “Ooooooh, it has a deeeesk.”

Mourvalis frowned, leaning just out of reach. “Ambrose. That is not how the deceased communicate.”

“Your credentials continue to elude me!” Mourvalis called after him, the mage’s chatty puppet hand popping up over a shoulder. But Mourvalis was definitely not noticing how well his robes fit.

“Insufferable.”

He pounded a fist on a nearby credenza, sending a platter of pathetic-looking pastries airborne. No doubt another culinary disaster from faculty who should stick to their dark arts.

Without thinking, he snatched up a particularly sad sweet bun, dripping with green ooze meant to mimic summoning residue. The flavor hit his tongue and he retched, spattering half-chewed bits across the remaining pastries.

“Moonberry? AGAIN?!”

[dark-desires-and-daggerwork]

1. Burning Hexes Aren't Real

The chamber door slammed open with enough force to rattle the delicate trinkets and charms lining the walls. Enter Mourvalis Gravewither, Professor of Blood—a title of his own request, repeatedly denied by the Collegium until he began signing it on official documents anyway. 

The Sin'dorei was a vision of dramatic chaos—shirtless, as usual. Rumor had it his temper was so volatile, shirts rarely survived his fits of rage. His long raven hair flowing behind him despite the complete absence of any discernable source of wind. A comically large stack of papers under one arm and carrying a suspiciously ornate dagger dripping with blood. A lot of it. 

Ambrose Flameheart, Master of Elemental Conflagration, sat at a massive stone slab desk, his expression a portrait of focused precision. In front of him, an absurdly small cauldron bubbled furiously, belching thick, curling smoke that spilled over the smooth edges of the desk.

With a spoon that looked comically oversized for the task, Ambrose stirred the concoction with the care of someone crafting their magnum opus. His sharp crimson robes, immaculate despite the chaos of smoke and fumes.

Mourvalis stalked closer, circling the altar like a predator. His smirk widened as he dropped the stack of papers in a puff of char—stained and slightly singed—onto the stone surface.

“You’ve sabotaged me, Ambrose. I know it was you!” He jabbed a finger at the papers, the stack ashing itself over the edge of the desk.

“Professor Gravewither,” the fire mage replied dryly. “May I remind you this is a ritual chamber, not your personal runway.”

Mourvalis blinked, nearly disarmed from his crusade. “I—what? My attire is entirely appropriate for my craft!”

Ambrose smirked, already turning back to his cauldron. “Ah yes, blood magic.” Eyes widening with the words. “Where ‘business casual’ promises shirtless theater and…bleeding on things.”

He glanced to the floor, where blood from the dagger was pooling in a small, viscous circle. Then, dramatically, back at Mourvalis with an annoyed scoff. “Charming.”

“Perfectly respectable—unlike your supposed burning hex!” Mourvalis snapped.

“You defiled my notes—singed them beyond recognition! Such petty vandalism, Ambrose, even for you.”

Ambrose paused his stirring, arching a brow with exaggerated confusion. “Burning hex? That’s not even a real thing, Mourvalis. Did you make that up?”

Without waiting for a response, tapped a finger at his cheek, thoughtful. Almost impressed. “Although, now that you mention it, that sounds like an excellent idea. I’ll have to look into it.”

Mourvalis’s eyes narrowed. “You’re insufferable. And I'll have you know—”

Ambrose didn’t miss a beat. He leaned forward making an exaggerated gagging noise for a full five seconds before seamlessly resuming his usual air of arrogant composure.

Mourvalis froze, unable to look away, the display short-circuiting his outrage into stunned silence. Finally, he sputtered, “What… what even was that?!”

Ambrose sighed heavily. “Really, Mourvalis, if I wanted to ruin your notes, I’d have done it with style.”

He gestured apathetically at the singed edges. “Perhaps a controlled ember trail spelling out, ‘Better luck next time.’”

Mourvalis drew himself up to his full height, towering over Ambrose's workspace, eyes glowering.

“Mages. And their...magic.” His face twisted with the final word as if he had eaten something disgusting. Perhaps a three day old arcane pastry—though given how he conducted himself in the commissary, one might think he'd learned table manners by being shot from a cannonball.

But Ambrose was already mocking him with a high-pitched, meh meh meh meh magic, complete with puppet-hand gestures.

Mourvalis had had enough, spinning on his heel, blood whipping from the dagger—that he had been holding the whole time—across the floor in a crimson arc.

Ambrose recoiled with a squeaked eugh! jerking backward as though Mourvalis had flung a spider at him.

“Do clean up after yourself!” Ambrose called out, but Mourvalis was already gone, hair flouncing, door slamming with another theatrical bang.

Ambrose shook his head, turning back to his cauldron with a sigh. “Preposterous,” he murmured to no one.

Mourvalis had some nerve to bully him. And deliberately shirtless. As though the most powerful warlock in the Collegium couldn't afford a tailor, or even be bothered to fish something out of the Registry for Objects of Uncertain Ownership.

The smoke from his cauldron curled up in heart-shaped wisps, though he'd never admit to noticing.

[dark-desires-and-daggerwork]

Belf? Gargoyle? Likely. More Mourvalis, now with Ambrose kinda.

[dark-desires-and-daggerwork]

Dark Desires and Daggerwork

Canto VII Collegium isn’t just a hallowed institution for the dark magics—it’s also a place where passions flare as hot as Guldan’s nether... ambitions.

When Ambrose Flameheart, a dramatic fire mage with cheekbones sharp enough to slice through shadoweave, is forced to work alongside Mourvalis Gravewither, a brooding warlock with a penchant for shirtless ritual sacrifices, sparks fly.

Chapters

🌹 1. Burning Hexes Aren't Real

🌹 2. A Sexy Sacrifice

🌹 3. Unfortunately Bound

Next: Fanfare & Fel

...

Author's note: The story and writing are meant to be over-the-top, heavy-handed, and tropey. If you prefer romance that doesn't beat you over the head with the absurd and smirks at every turn, this might be a little much. Otherwise, enjoy!