#cldhrbour

[recitedemise]

He always knew this moment was to come. It was inevitable, as sure as the cresting of the sun in their mornings or the chilled, troubled tells of winter after fall. Gale, short of breath and exceedingly short on magic, is but a mortal, feeble man on hemorrhaging time. He had went about his days, that terrible orb sucking at his strength. Feeding it, he'd discovered, had a sort of diminishing pleasure... In fact, that fire that claims him is but heightening further. Hells. It is no longer tamable. It can no longer calm.

Gale looks at his amulet, that jewel nestled inside something pearlescent and as radiant as an opal. For weeks, he'd taken to study, a study of a nature with some unspeakable strain. Knocking the pole of her tent and peering inside, perhaps she'd discern this with the tells of his weariness... But, there: how humble his smile, and how tender his eyes. Gale, what's at last pulled you from your books? "This is an evening fashioned for more than one if ever I've seen one. May I come in?" he starts companionably, a grey hair made all the starker in the gleaming starlight. "Say, for all the dark of the shadows you would drape upon yourself—and it is a charming shade on you, to be sure—I've been of the mind that the opposite is just as flattering. I've seen how the stars would rally in your presence, Serana. If ever there's to be a marrying of colors, it would be in the way they'd find you." Too much, Gale. He laughs, good humored apparently, and gathers himself again. "It's no mistake that you find comfort in the night. That said, I've wondered, it must grow terribly cold some nights. It's a far cry from the mornings, isn't it?"

@cldhrbour.

[wolfbrawn]

"that's it. that's a good boy."

Devotion brought him to knees in an aching form of worship, his altar all marble flesh and mink-coloured hair. Serana stood over him, skirts bunched at her waist, their shared state of half-undress setting fire to his blood.

Farkas had kissed the pale peaks of her hip bones and the softness of her belly – low enough that the peach-pit of her womb lay somewhere beyond his lips. He had buried his nose in the thatch of her mound and breathed deep her scent. Teeth had scraped against the arch of her foot as it rose, coming to roost on his shoulder, before he began his feast on her inner thighs, working himself closer to where she parted in invitation. Once there, he pressed the raw heat of his hungry mouth against the cool, petal-soft folds of this grave-scented girl.

For all the mass and power of him, he made himself subservient, submissive, reduced to a mouth that licked long and broad before lapping where he knew Serana to be most sensitive. Large hands cradled her hips, supporting her, holding her in place, his coarse beard dragging and rasping. Sweet she was, reminiscent of stone fruits, of the too-ripe bounty of late autumn. In his eagerness, war-paint found itself smeared, muddying his features, spoiling the porcelain skin betwixt her thighs. He drank from her until fingers delicate and nacreous tightened in his dark hair, lifting his head away. Gentle, firm.

Obedient, Farkas was peeled away, guided into gazing up, drunk on the arousal that lay thick and sweet on his tongue. She looked holy, to him. Something divine rather than infernal. Shameless in her femininity, in the swell of hips and breasts, in the beauty of her moon-drenched features. Serana – forever caught in the summer of her years – met his eyes, dark and adoring. A corpse-cool hand stroked his face, inviting him to part his lips so a thumb could push in his mouth, tracing the glinting edges of his bottom teeth. Greedy, he sucked her deeper, his tongue curling around the intrusion.

“That’s it. That’s a good boy.”

The sound that escaped him was bestial, a low whine better suited to velvet maw of a spotted hound. Those darling words made him throb with want. Only then did he realise how tight his breeches were, how they suffocated the part of him so hard it ached. No matter. No matter at all. Farkas smiled crookedly, boyishly, around Serana’s retreating thumb, rumbling his contentment as she pulled his face back into the sweet apex of her thighs with a blissful sigh. This was reward enough.

[bendwill]

❝ what is better? to be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort? ❞

𝐬𝐤𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐦 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜. @cldhrbour

A PART OF HIM ALWAYS BELIEVED HE WAS BORN WRONG. Miraak had long since learned the truth, the same day he devoured his first dragon soul. It was an evil that was a part of him. An evil that was him. Heedless of who he built himself to be, always there under the surface. Short of another Dragonborn, it made sense a vampire — one of her calibre especially — would know what it was to resist a nature that urged to dominate everything and everyone around it.

He cannot answer her question in full. He hadn't the experience of being born good. She did — vampires were made, not born.

“Who is to say. Do you think they'll ask you that question in Sovngarde? In Coldharbour? Who can answer such a question?”

[americanedpsycho]

❝  two  bodies  were  discovered  last  night  in  the  woods,  that’s  all  the  information  i  have.  ❞  he  shrugs  as  if  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  missing  bodies.  he  glances  back  at  @cldhrbour  ❝  whoever  did  it,  i  think  they  might  have  wanted  to  leave  a  trace  or  some  sort  of  trial. ❞

[decidentia]

◈   @cldhrbour said: ❛ she's respectfully standing off to the side of the training grounds. no desire here nor back at dawnguard to engage where she felt unwanted. or at the very least held in suspicious regard. red eyes cast between the wolves (the ones she can smell) waiting for her friend to finish business within the grand building. it felt somber. a cloud heavy on an otherwise cloudless night and though she assumes her words are not wanted or needed, lips open to say, "i was told. . . and i am sorry. i know of loss and the grief that comes with it. and i know the rage that lays between." - for farkas if you want !! ❜

If there existed words to explain this grief, Farkas did not know them.  Such profound loss had him itching to shed his human skin, to howl baleful and wounded into the round, impassive faces of Secunda and Masser – but duty was a collar, and honour was the chain.  Together, they kept him tethered to Jorrvaskr’s grounds, where he could smell the lavender-water used to bathe their murdered harbinger and all his now bloodless wounds.

Targets were cleaved and whittled, splinters littering the cobblestone like kindling.  Violence was an art like any other, and it proved a meditative practice.  Farkas worked until his body voiced complaint, until he ached to his very bones, and his greatsword felt twice as heavy in his hands.  Dark hair, damp with sweat, curled against the back of his neck and frosted at its tips.  Tendrils of steam leaked, faint and ghostly, through the chinks in his armour, while every ragged exhalation rose as smoke from dragon-fire. His only audience were the cold and distant stars, indifferent to his distinctly mortal suffering.

Or so he had thought. 

Exertion had a way of quieting the mind, and his distraction was such that he did not see her there, on his periphery, deathful and still and draped in shadow.  Only when she spoke did he notice her, did he note the muted scent of grave flowers and fresh-tilled earth, a perfume of sweet-sour decay.  It threaded with his own identifying musk, that of burrows and fur-lined dens, salted skin and woodsmoke.  A copper tang of old blood stitched them together, predators as they both were.  Predators wearing human faces, hiding the horror that coiled and bristled beneath.

Stranger she might be, but her condolences saw the Companion sheath his weapon, that gargantuan sword swung to roost against his back, its rest well-earned.  Then he made his way to her, empty-handed.  Low-burning brazier light lent him a bestial eyeshine, those same embers catching in her othering shade of crimson.

“What do you do with them?”  Farkas asked softly, earnestly, as he came to a halt before her.  His head tipped forward and he surveyed her openly, without shame.  “What do you do with the feelings?”

[darkgifted]

𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐂𝐑𝐘𝐏𝐓 tends to possess at least a few secrets, admittedly finding (another) vampire within one bore an element of surprise that had caught even her off guard. once the initial confusion and no shortage of wariness had passed, in no small thanks to serana's silver tongue, shock had turned into an undeniable intrigue.

❛ how long were you hidden away? ❜ arlis finally asks to break the silence of their trek back towards camp for the evening, boots moving softly over the damp earth of the forest floor as her gaze slides towards the woman, ❛ it hardly seemed well-visited, that crypt. ❜

she also cannot help but notice that, much like astarion, serana bears a cold, sharp beauty to her, striking enough to cause the eye to linger a beat or two longer than it should. ❛ did you ever anticipate being found? ❜ —— @cldhrbour

[maremortus]

general  lets  escape  an  exasperated  sigh  as  clawed  hands  carefully  erected  their  tent  ,  moving  it's  position  several  times  in  order  to  avoid  boundless  amounts  of  sodden  muck  and  filth  .  oh  how  valora  detested  the  idea  of  having  to  make  camp  in  such  an  unsavory  place  ,  not  because  of  the  danger  ,  but  rather  because  the  mire  made  her  uncomfortable  .  her  nose  was  far  too  keen  to  suffer  such  a  stench  ...  but  alas  ,  they  will  have  to  make  do  .  happy  enough  with  a  patch  of  padded  moss  ,  valora  rolled  out  beds  for  both  herself  and  serana  once  she  noticed  that  space  was  lacking  .  it's  a  gesture  she  makes  soundlessly  ,  without  hesitation  despite  the  trust  between  them  still  being  somewhat  up  in  the  air  . 

"       if  you  insist  ,      "          a  court  response  ,  spoken  in  a  relatively  gruff  voice  as  the  general  finalised  the  set  up  of  their  temporary  accommodation  .         "       ...     i'll  keep  you  company  for  a  while  ,  if  you'll  have  me  .  i  don't  think  sleep  will  take  me  just  yet  .      "          valora  added  ,  treading  over  to  the  other  so  they  could  stand  side  by  side  .  long  moonlight  scaled  tail  lifted  as  she  stepped  across  patches  of  mud  ,  winding  around  her  waist  to  avoid  being  dirtied  .         "      i  greatly  prefer  being  in  the  water  ...       "         a  complaint  came  uttered  'neath  her  breath  ,  turning  shortly  afterwards  to  face  serana  .  vermilion  gaze  wandered  her  visage  for  but  a  second  ,  soaking  up  her  image  for  the  most  fleeting  of  moments  .         "      how  are  you  feeling  ?  now  that  you've  been  liberated  from  that  tomb  ,  i'd  say  even  this  bog  is  a  blissful  experience  by  comparison  .       "

cont. @cldhrbour

[recitedemise]

“Stay. Please.” - 🥲

How surprising.

He doesn't like the sound of Serana asking, not in a tone that tender and bloody soft. Had Gale a chance at his way, he'd have lassoed her the sunrise, distilling her the golds of each summery dawntime to press into powders to color her eyes. They'd fit well in glassy jars dressed up in twine. He'd have her taste the morning like a drizzling of jam, raspberry notes with shreds of orange rind coupled ever sweetly with his oozing heart. She shouldn't have to ask. She should only have. And gaze softening fiercely as he hovers by the exit, he thinks one day, perhaps soon, he'll let her know.

Absently, Gale counts his blessings for the lateness of the hour. His thoughts feel less naked in the soothing dark.

"Well," he answers, all his bones, every nerve crackling fond, fond, dribbling, "far be it from me to deny an insatiable mind. Consider my time yours--" every measly second "--and if you don't mind my saying, the sound of my voice." Ha. Funny, Gale. He closes the tent flap back, starlight shimmering beyond, and shuffles back inside. As of late, their rambling discussions are perhaps riding those coattails of a ruse. Of course, the pleasure he finds in them is not at all feigned, genuine, real, and oh so honest, but Gale knows were all mortal language to suddenly vanish, he'd still come to see her--still in this tent. He can hardly deny it: his heart is yearning. And it's such a dizzying feeling, a realization that more than rattles his soul as he settles beside her where she lays in her pillows. He's back here again. He's back in want.

But Serana feels warmer. Her eyes are kind.

And Gale longs to brush her hair behind her ear. He clenches his fingers, knuckles bone-white.

Oh, you starving wizard... "I can think of no better place to be than by your side. Now, where had I left off?"

[lechroniques]

@cldhrbour : “ We're all useless alone. ”

𝗧𝗛𝗘   𝗗𝗔𝗥𝗞   𝗚𝗜𝗙𝗧   𝗖𝗔𝗠𝗘   𝗣𝗔𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗗   𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛   𝗔   𝗖𝗨𝗥𝗦𝗘.   The   burden   of   immortality   where   sometimes   decades   would   stretch   thin and   pull   along   and you were   completely,   utterly   alone.   Alone,   wrapped   in   darkness   as   though   it   was   an   old,   worn   blanket.   Rough   against   the   skin.   ᵁᴺᴮᴱᴬᴿᴬᴮᴸᴱ   …   He   couldn’t   stand   it,   even   the   idea   of   it   making   his   skin   itch   and   crawl.   There’s   a   humourless   laugh   that   falls   from   parted   lips,   baritone   vibrations   settling   in   his   chest   where   a   ᴴᴱᴬᴿᵀ   might   be.   Like   a   melancholic   note   laced   throughout   a   play   layered   in   tragedy.   No,   no.   He   could   not   handle   loneliness.   Though   he’d   never   admit   his   fears,   this   was   one   of   them.

“Useless.   Tragic.   Very   heavy   weight   that   we   are   expected   to   shoulder,   I   don’t   know   how   some   master   it   and   manage   to   walk   through   life   without   a   companion.   Roaming   endlessly   without   a   soul   by   their   side   …   seems   almost   masochistic.”

[bendwill]

❝ i know who you are. ❞

𝐬𝐤𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐦 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜.

“...Do you?”

THREE WAS BECOMING A BIT OF A CROWD. As lonely as Miraak had been in Apocrypha, that preexisting desperation made it no easier to interact with people. Then again, how did one properly interact in this scenario? With a relic, a woman from a different age. The more time Miraak spent around Serana, the more he wondered if this was how other people felt about him.

No. It was probably worse. At least he had the books to keep himself up to date. With her, it was like talking to someone still half-stuck in a dream. That feeling only intensified at her statement. For as much arrogance the First Dragonborn had, he seemed surprised to hear those words. They were not quite the mutterings of one influenced by the stones.

“Tell me, then. Who am I?”

[endawn]

[ SHIELD ]: the sender catches hold of the receiver's shoulder and draws them back and away from a threat, pulling them behind them for their safety.

 a lucky thrust , a lapse in reflexes. all one needed to end a fight quickly. yet, it was not so simple when your opponent was of the undead persuasion. something -- in their dawning horror -- this marauder was coming to the conclusion of as their blade buried itself beneath pax's breastplate. only, then, to be met with snapping jaws as body pushed itself further down the length of blade. a fervent hunger and frenzy dulling the bite of tempered edges as singular focus took hold: blood. beating, coursing rapidly. right beneath the skin, the heat of it near palatable as he drew closer and closer. the whites of the man's eyes visible in their fear. ( this is no man but a monster ! ) came the final thoughts as teeth sank into the flesh of their neck; elongated canines sundering it with ease. blooming saccharine filled yearning maw with the sustenance it craved. more, more, more -- drown me in it ! fill me, complete me. anything to sate the plaguing famine hollowing out and mangling a wretched stomach.

 appeasement did not come. the vampire could not drink his fill before a hand was wrapping fingers around the curvature of pauldron and prising him away from quarry. not so much as a hiss slipped past bloodied lips before a rush of air cut passed face and the ting of metal striking rock echoed against cavern walls. execution guided the intent, a swing mere moments from cleaving head from body. fortuitous timing spared him the agony of losing his mind ( and the subsequent affair in reclaiming it ) and the jarring nature of it pulled him from the blood haze or, at least, enough for awareness to prick at the edges. blinking away the murkiness, his saviour took the shape of @cldhrbour as she guarded the knight now propped askew against a wall behind her; blade clipping edge of spine and protruding below the backside of cuirass. gloved hand absentmindedly gripped hilt as blackened ichor leaked between pierced skin and metal while the numbness soon relinquished itself to the pain creeping in. adrenaline fading from frenzy cut short; pangs remained. despite this, gaze remained steady as he watched her next course of action with a morbid fascination and expectation. bloodshed not yet over.

[mindsmade]

[ swipe ] sender notices a smudge of something on receiver's face and gently wipes it off - for aerendyl ☺️

meme

He expected heat to permeate his skin. In a sense, it did — it does, still, in the tone of a faint blush, rather than directly from her fingertips. Touch itself hardly flusters him, at least not when it's anticipated, bestowed by someone he's come to expect it from. So far, he didn't take her to belong to that category of people.

How glad he is now to be proven wrong.

Happier still he will be if the extension of the gesture were to be welcomed in kind, but he's cautious in his approach, the motion of his hand towards hers deliberate.

❛  My thanks,  ❜ the druid speaks, his fingers chasing hers to catch them just past midway between them — perhaps a mere second shy of their return to Serana's side. With that same attentiveness yet upon that gentle capture, he turns her hand to reveal her palm, the pads of her fingertips, and as such the grime she took from his face.

He runs the pad of his forefinger across, as if intent to free her of the muck she lifted from his skin, prim as she's revealed herself to be. The dirt, though, he never once minded ( how could he, as one so attuned to its base element? ) — the blood all the more so. Mere weeks ago, blood-letting of this calibre had never been a necessary part of his responsibilities. His life was a peaceful one, arguably stagnant, even.

He doesn't look at the bodies littered about them to break himself out of his reverie, instead sparing their almost, but not quite joined hands a longer look.

A smile equal parts sardonic ( towards himself ) and warm ( towards her ) splits his features once he looks up again, a second or two later. ❛  Hm. I expect I look a lot more dishevelled than you do.  ❜ He's loath to think of what manner of fabric, skin and other gore he might have between his teeth, in his hair and stuck to his skin, still. Wildshaping rarely was a pretty affair to him.

❛  Though, I have been told it's a good look on me.  ❜

[darkgifted]

𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐗𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐒 heavily on slender shoulders, it already feels easier to breathe, easier to think without the burden of the shadows. the city is sure to bring its own set of challenges, undoubtedly, but there is a warmth to the night air that proves soothing against the discomfort that churns within her. she's separated herself from the others, tucked away in a little corner of the camp they've set up at the crossing, and now delicate fingers are trembling with effort as she works through movements instinctive enough as to feel carved in her bones. ❛ gods, ❜ she blinks when pulled from her reverie by unexpected appearance, hands swiftly retreating within the folds of her sleeves, ❛ must all you vampires be so prone to sneaking about? ❜

shifting her weight with a restless sigh, arlis glances up at serana. ❛ i could..., ❜ a pause, teeth plucking at her lower lip before her hands settle once more at her sides, ❛ i could use your help, serana. ❜ @cldhrbour

[metalsiren]

@cldhrbour ​ 🇭​​🇮​​🇹​  ​🇹​​🇭​​🇪​  ​🇭​​🇪​​🇦​​🇷​​🇹​  ​🇫​​🇴​​🇷​  ​🇦​  ​🇸​​🇹​​🇦​​🇷​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​.

the  club  she  frequents  offers  a  sense  of  home  that  sawyer  latches  onto.  the  bouncers  and  bartenders'  names  etched  into  her  memory  as  friendships  formed  over  the  years.  she's  casually  chatting  with  a  familiar  face,  excited  nature  peeking  through  every  word  she  speaks.  the  night  is  meant  to  be  carefree,  a  night  where  she  can  dance  the  night  away  with  friends  and  find  little  responsibility  until  the  sun  hangs  high  in  the  sky  once  again.

a  part  of  her  doesn't  expect  what  she  sees  next,  a  familiar  figure  slowly  and  seemingly  floating  through  the  crowd.  that  excitement  amplifies,  burning  bright  in  her  gaze  and  the  width  of  her  smile  as  she  pushes  herself  off  the  bar  and  makes  her  way  toward  the  other  dark-haired  woman,   ❝  serana! ❞  she  calls  out  in  a  way  that  just  barely  makes  it  over  the  volume  of  voices  and  music  that  rumbles  throughout  the  venue,  genuine  and  undeniably  warm, ❝  you  came! ❞  her  arms  spread  wide  once  she's  close  enough,  wrapping  them  around  serana's  neck  and  drawing  her  in  a  close  embrace, ❝  i'm  so  happy  to  see  you! ❞

[griefology]

there was a level of embarrassment that came with needing help. rennym has always grown to be self sufficient ———— yes, as a child, she'd had handmaids and nurses, those watching the princess' every steps, but she'd always grown picking herself up after falling.

it was only lately that life became harder to bear. the price of responsibility, she supposed.

❝ what do you need me to do to make you feel better ? ❞ @cldhrbour asks, and the kindness makes nym's skin prickle. makes her hair stand on end. ❝ i'm fine. ❞ she sharps quickly, arms folded across her chest in protective barrier.

serana does not move, though. it is nym who yields, tired. she sighs. ❝ i am fine. i don't suppose there's anything to be done. have you ever run from something you aren't sure is able to be outrun ? ❞

[recitedemise]

"Just know that no matter what happens, I won’t think any less of you. Sometimes things just have to be done."

Right. "I should wonder if there's any way to diminish your opinion of me at all. You're entirely too forgiving. I don't believe I deserve you."

Not at all. Gale, turning to his friend, finds the tight line in his jaw relaxing. There, Serana stands a phantom in Last Light's dreariness, a whisper of a soul so bleeding and bare. She looks to him openly, doey eyes bedazzled as though dripped with diamonds. And cradled in their vastness, he can glean her emotions--her warm heart, its flavor, and it's too still song. She bears in her a fondness. He thinks she's fond of him. And gazing at this woman, Gale returns it in kind; with a soft, tender smile, he's a fondness for her.

Downstairs, their party stirs, conversing longly with Isobel about stories and plans. But here, Gale has kept company the moon beside the pried-open shutters. It shimmers through, lending Serana a near ethereal glow.

His eyes crinkle, beholding her kindly. "When the time comes, rest assured, I will do what feels right with both the stars and you as my witness." His orb throbs, and no one, no soul really knows yet his final decision. In the empty, it rings: some things, Gale Dekarios, must be done. "I stand without a fear. One look from you can rally in me all the courage I require." Oh, Gale. "Were it that we only met sooner."