One to be a murderer who will unleash death One to be a monarch whose crown will weigh heavy And one to be mad whose ideas will change history
Viago and Rook drinking enough wine to put half the population of Treviso to sleep but somehow they still are in good spirits (of sorts.) It's Teia that hauls their asses to her room to sober up, but the whole trip back is them reciting really really bad poetry to her, or saying how much they adore her, the woman has enough epithets to fill fifteen books front to back. And she can't help but smile, making sure to store all the situation in her mind to tease them later. When they wake up twelve hours later with no recolation of where the fuck they are. [She ends up trapped in their embrace, but Teia doesn't mind one bit]
Home
Ingellvar remembers the taste of blood and dust once that useless trial of a war was finally called off for good. Baron turned to ashes, ashes that they somehow got to keep in a strange turn of events. Punishment enough to be handled by an orphan's hands. The filial uproar upon the dying wasn't new, what was recent was the reticence of the Mourn Watch to uphold their vows outright without a care for nobility. Same nobility that funded their coffers. In retrospective, Ingellvar should have seen it coming. But they hand't been thinking so far ahead, their only goal was to preserve dead and undead alike. The fact that the scuffle reached this magnitude was on the nevarran nobles lack of common sense. They took a step further when called to testify, proclaimed their place in the war of banners. Looked back to their fellow necromancers and knew they had to do this for them. One more sacrifice, for peace. Their pulsing scars healed under the attentive care of Vorgoth. The one on their face was tight, nevertheless it was a symbol of pride to them. Their fellow necromancers, brothers, sisters, partners in arms, all aided Ingellvar in preparations for the voyage. Nessa's warm cookies, Agnes' papers to pass the time, Lorenzo several music sheets [for practice, i don't want you to come back and hear a "I didn't have a chance to practice the hymns"] many tokens and trinkets to guide their steps outside the Necropolis. A Necropolis that Ingellvar didn't belong for the foreseeable future. It stung, deep within, they never left home before. It wasn't home anymore, was it?
Well, that was my free day off. I didn’t do anything, except draw this picture. But this Challenge was way to fun and since Lilya Ingellvar, excuse me, Mrs.Volkarin is a warrior, it fits perfect 👌
I’m so happy how they turned out, especially Emmrich💚
Hand kisses
Emmrich absently taking Rook's hand and pressing a soft kiss over their knuckles whenever he feels like it.
The necromancer had grown so accustomed to the Lighthouse and the rest of its occupants [and their relationships] that he slips into the familiarity of it all.
He had his reservations as first, as would any senior necromancer displaying physical affection to someone who could be mistaken as his student. [Rook: I'm over thirthy five, Emmrich. At most i would be your partner investigator in a thesis, in fact, there's this one that -cue rambling about research initiated-]. They would dive into conversations over diverse topics.
He knew Ingellvar did it partly because it was something familiar, something they both shared and didn't make him think twice about this courting they were dancing around when the possible demise via Elven Gods, Archdemons and The Blight was knocking on their literal doorstep [The caretaker had informed them of the several hits that the crossroads had taken since the false deities made their attempt to come back, it wasn't good.]
After one too many close occasions in which he had to see Ingellvar struggle in battle, with enemies circling them like prey, receiving quite a beating at times [Rook: Im a mage, not a warrior, they come in too close and i have to sprint. No Taash, i don't need exercise, but thank you for the suggestion. What? No, don't encourage them.] Emmrich had enough of his own self imposed woes [As Johanna called them] and decided that if his days are going to be numbered from now on [And he wouldn't trade Mafred for anything, mind you] his affections shouldn't be caged by his unreasonable doubts.
Kissing Ingellvar in front of other people was a step too far for him, so he started with something small, something he knew his fellow necromancer loved.
A hand kiss. A soft gesture that carried more meaning than intended at times. [The first time he did it Ingellvar spent the whole day absently staring at things. Yes, they shared kisses before during their dates but there was something in the action of doing something like this in public that was thrilling, loving and fresh.] It was encouragement enough, so he keep at it.
And if he was turning into a besotted fool, so be it.
[Then there was that "incident" in the Necropolis when he forgot where they were and he did it.
That's probably when the many [many]rumours started. Myrna seemed curious but respectful so she wouldn't bring it up unless someone else did.
Vorgoth, thought, was another story.]
