Dove: “you like this song, dear”
Strife “Did you know i like this song, dear?”
Her lips compressed slightly and one brow arched as she put her hands loosely on her hips. With Gwena now busily settling herself in with the Penheart- and really, if that hasty marriage had been done by any other, Capricia would’ve had considerable suspicions about it- and no mother-in-law-to-be in charge of the household, the elementalist had discovered first hand that there was… really nothing much for her to do at Hawksbury.
The servants fairly ran themselves. The house itself was in fine repair. The gardens tended to. Of late, all she’d found to occupy her time was going room by room and replacing the ‘Gwena in the throes of love’ violet pieces that had nearly taken over Hawksbury. Admittedly, Capricia had had quite a few laughs over just how many of those particular pieces there were. Let it never be said the Leours twins did anything by halves.
An example of that would be the notice she’d just received. Ah, her sweet Wolf. Not only had he given her reason to be irritated with him, but he’d lovingly ensured that she could reach the heights of anger by abducting one of the Wachenfelds she’d begun to feel rather possessive of and going to Orr.
Had she been standing in the home that had ‘sheltered’ her throughout childhood and her adult life, it was wholly likely that the windows would have been shattered and much of the carpeting a smouldering wreck. Out of deference to the Leours name that would be hers at some point- something else to bring up rather pointedly to her betrothed; they’d been beaten to the altar by the Penheart , of all people- Capricia had restrained her temper and not given way to gouts of flame or bolts of lightning that would’ve damaged the wall paneling.
One slow breath was exhaled and a soft snort echoed shortly after.
Very well, if her beloved felt the need to scamper off on his own, Wachenfeld in tow, then she would take her temper and do the same. Not Orr, of course. Having never visited the desolate land, she really had no desire to- Risen didn’t scream and flail about as Separatists did, so they were nowhere near as exciting to ignite. There had been, however, reports of trouble in an area called ‘Dry Top,’ and that…
Ah, that would be the perfect foil, wouldn’t it?
Capricia’s self-centered interest wasn’t about to send her prancing off to tend wounded Zephyrites or handle whatever it was that had begun writhing out there. Something about sylvari? Yet again. One would think that whole race of leafy decorations had a branch or two missing upstairs in light of recent events. No, her preferences for cleansing the city she called home and the surrounding areas of Separatists were tantamount. She would leave word that she’d skipped off to this Dry Top and take herself up past the Citadel, perhaps.
Flame Legion… Mmm… The elementalist smirked to herself as she swept through the halls, her skirt hems snapping with the electricity that was crackling through the satin folds. It was a name that should, in truth, be put to the test. Fire, after all, did not halt lightning in the slightest.
It’s always astonishing to me how utterly patient he is. All of the restraint I was taught has been slipping away, day by day, because of his tolerant amusement, his gentle affection, his obvious enjoyment of the places I take him and the games I think of to play.
Warbands, I imagine, do not teach one to play. In truth, neither did the Kurosawa family- my training did not include playing chase, hide and go seek, tickling until the other cries for mercy, gasping between laughs. I think he and I are drawing more out of each other. I know that he is doing such to me.
His paws are ticklish. His nose is cool when he nuzzles my neck. His fur is warm and soft, and his body heavy when he curls about me as we settle to sleep. Even when I puff breath into his eyes to watch him blink, my Agorix rumbles that low, purring laugh and tightens his grip about me.
I miss nothing we have left behind. He is my family.
A trail of discarded armour and dented floorboards lead to the hearth, where a ripped corset lay atop an overturned chair and the glittering remnants of a wine glass caught the firelight. From there the trail continued, littered with torn silk and scorched leather, to the bed.
He had only thought to take a walk with her through town, to enjoy the night air and perhaps find a Separatist or two willing to serve as a diversion, before they returned home.
'Really though,' Noel thought with a frown, as he threaded his fingers through Capricia's, 'I ought to have known better than to expect a quiet evening.'
Fallen Angels assaulting civilians, a possessed arrow thief, his fiancée’s blood on the cobblestones, grave soil golems seeking flesh. Even now the memory caused his blood to run cold. Skin. They wanted skin. Her skin.
His gaze swept up from the purpling oval above the curve of her hip to the pink crescent moon on her shoulder, one pallid, calloused hand tracing the path of those lupine eyes.
She let him bruise her, encouraged him to bite her, laughed as he tore away what stood between her skin and his. But only because he asked, and not until she agreed.
He let her bite him, encouraged her to bloody his back and shoulders with scratches, laughed when she burned through anything that separated his body from hers. But only because she agreed, and only after he asked.
She did not belong to him any more than he belonged to her, and when he took from her it was never more than what was offered, never more than what was offered in return; because they were equals. And so he would not curb her freedom in order to keep her safe, would not hurt her in the name of protecting her; instead he would fight beside her as he fought for her, would make the world safer for her, with her.
When her breath was not tickling his chest, when her leg - still half-clad in a slouched stocking - was not draped across his waist, with her ankle just within his reach.
Much, much later.