#comfort characters that are the filthiest nastiest fiends imaginable

[bora-in-tamriel]

Just enjoying my own writing today, trying to gather juices to finish this big ol thing... 200K words in docs and still going so I'd like to see this finished since I started it lol

Some snippets from the beginning I quite enjoy to soothe the soul today

Varré didn’t linger in the spot either, not entirely a fan of the Runebear filled woods if he was honest. Nature wasn’t his friend at times, so he didn’t tempt it any longer. -- Your blood? The words sung in his mind. The low gruff growl of his voice, oozing with bloodlust. It peppered the nape of his neck with shivers. Though... he seemed to have been waiting to ask it. Now that he thought about it, the question was almost hopeful. Had he been thinking about him? His blood… Varré shook his head to rid the floating thoughts and focused on his new task at hand. He had been slacking as of late, losing Tarnished and being so preoccupied by the brute to have made many tributes for his Lord. Mohg was sure to grow unsatisfied with him if this persisted. And so, he had to make his move tonight. Something fresh and youthful perhaps… --

Everything was in motion on Stormhill at all times, winds blowing trees and grass into motion, making other movements disoriented into the mess. The only way Varré kept track of the beast nearby was his gleaming eyes that shone in the rising moonlight. They approached. Quickly. Eyes snapping wide, Varré ducked close to the ground, a heavy body toppling the other over his back. Easy prey when he was already beaten and battered by other people, but it mattered little to the silver-clawed Tarnished, who slashed the recusant into ribbons.

Varré growled, pushing off the ground with his mace in hand. “Quite the hunter you are, waiting for other people to kill their prey for you, should it not be a helpless maiden,” he belittled, “Prey that fights back too hard for you?” Varré cooed, watching the Tarnished rise to his feet over the corpse. "Ohh, I'm mistaken... The sweet noble in the red hood was mine to slay before you and your mutts got her too, wasn't she?" Red gleaming eyes turned around, watching over Varré with a mindless animosity that Varré barely registered soon enough to dodge the incoming tackle.

“ Oh , did I upset you?” he mocked, swinging his mace at the Tarnished, shooing him back a pace. “Run off with your tail tucked, I see filling your own gut is all you’re good for in the end.”

Claws slashed and swung at his face, but he stepped and leaned out of their reach with precise expertise. His mace swung close calls, but unfortunately his opponent was just as nimble in the end despite his size. He had an advantage Varré did not. He’d vanish from his reach, with his claws no doubt enhanced with an ash. Each swing would hit air or miss by a hair, with a retaliation attack coming back at him in a flash, clashing against his bloody mace. Leaping around Varré, the brute disoriented the surgeon, before lunging forth from his left, slashing out at his legs. With trained reflex, Varré was able to step out of the reach, but the end of his apron wasn’t so lucky.

“Ugh, you cur-” a body appeared in front of him, pushing forth with such force he couldn’t resist. His face met with a hard shoulder, chest against chest as the body pushed him over, toppling him to the ground with a heavy thud. His mace tumbled away from his grasp, leaving him with his dagger on his hip. Luckily the ground was grass and dirt, so the bounce of his skull against the ground was a manageable discomfort. --

“Wait… Wait, stop!” Varré ordered, catching the noble off guard. They stepped back, looking to Varré through their hood. Face hidden, one could only imagine their face bearing surprise or confusion. Perhaps both despite not being known for their expressiveness.

“He is not an enemy.” Varré stood up with his mace in hand, returning it to his hip. “He is simply a… Passion project. In training…” He muttered the last words to himself and looked down at the man who was pushing off the ground with one hand on his bleeding side. Varré smiled slightly, stepping a leg over his form, earning a growl in warning.

“Ohh, you ferocious thing.” He purred, giving a casual pat to his upper back before sitting his full weight atop him. Muscles spent and aching, the man collapsed under him, ready to use his claws again to get Varré away, but the surgeon had his ideas. He dug into a pouch in his belt and dug out a cloth with some crushed mushroom and a Saint Trina’s Lily. With a dash of liquid from a vial, he folded it and mushed the ingredients together. With the makeshift sleeping draught activated, he covered the man’s mouth with a glove and pressed the cloth over his nose. The brute struggled against him, but the pungent smell of lilies reached his senses quickly, dulling his mind until it faded to black.

“That's quite enough now... Rest...” --

He was in a familiar shack, though it no longer smelled of the man living here prior. Ambers still warm in the small fire pit warmed the air inside the broken shack, despite the wind that whistled through the glassless windows. A couple barrels stood in the corner, with his shirt and claws sitting atop them, well away from his reach. His brows almost had time to furrow, but boots shuffled against the old wooden floor out of his sight.

“Thought you wouldn’t be needing those first thing after opening your eyes, hmm? Let’s take it easy after such a wild night.” Varré grinned beneath his mask, leaning against the wooden wall of the shack with an unusually casual air to him. Still, his posture was as conniving as always with his hands latched together at his chest.

Finishing his furrowed brows, the man tried to push up off the ground, but swift steps and Varré’s boot were quick to kick him back down by his shoulder.

“Are you truly that stubborn or that stupid?” Grumbling, Varré looked down at the man lying on his back at his feet. “Or perhaps…” His eyes wandered upon him briefly. “In your case it’s both. So, I’ll put it more plainly for you. Rest. or your wounds will open.” --

A grunt jolted him from his thoughts, snapping his attention to the man, who had rolled on his side, no doubt straining on his stitches. Just then did he realize the flames licking at his hand on the stick he held, making him quickly drop it in the pit with a hiss from surprise. 

Sighing, Varré turned his head back. “What did I just say?” He replied almost exasperated, but the man only hummed a “Hmm-mm” in response.

“Not even a thank you? I could have left you to bleed like a pig for animals to slaughter? Would have been quite the act of karma, wouldn’t it?” The surgeon grinned, mischievous delight in his tone.

“And yet you didn’t.” A single reply snuffed the joy out of his voice. “Why is that I wonder? What was it you said I was…?”

“I-”

“A passion project?”

Varré glared through his mask at the man who was grinning with his eyes closed in turn. It wasn’t hungry or wicked as before. It was a smile of pure amusement. He was enjoying himself too much.

“You seem to enjoy the notion, yet refuse to cooperate as such at every turn,” he replied flatly, earning a chuckle. It was strange. Why was he so casual about this? Did he take Varré’s saving gesture at such high value he felt comfortable loosening up? A regrettable move, really.

“You never did consider my counteroffer,” the brute hummed.

“You’d have me bleed like a pig for your pleasure. Why would I consider th-”

“A delicious one.”

Varré stared at him, almost appalled at his casualty as he licked his teeth through his smile. The familiar warmth weighed in his gut, mirroring that of his face. He was rather thankful of his mask regularly, but it was a blessed relic today. How humiliating it’d be to seem so vulnerable to this smug lowborn.