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PapaOso male Member

STATUS: We love doing that 5 mos ago
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and the only prescription is more cowbell!
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Take me with you
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I love Princess 😘
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Every few months I stop by here "just because". I've been doing so for like a decade. However, every once in awhile something really GRABS me and I stay for awhile. I live for those moments xD.
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In 🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕 → 10 days ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
FLASHBACK

Lottie & Cas
Part 9



Time: Sola 26th

Location: Rosegate


Charlotte steepled her fingers on the table, her lashes lowering as a wistful smile moved across her lips. “I suppose that makes us two tragic fools, chasing ghosts and answers the world never intended for us to find.” She sighed, reaching for her wine glass. Though the way she set it down afterward was far less graceful, the stem colliding with the table with a clink.

Ignoring her little incident with the cup, Cassius gave her a knowing little nod of playful agreement.

“As for that promise…” she murmured, her expression thoughtful, almost detached. “I cannot swear to something like that. But I will try. That is the best I can offer.” Her voice softened, growing distant as if the words were less for him and more for herself. “I know this much—I need to be better. The girl I am now… I reckon she wouldn’t survive what waits beyond those doors.”

He stilled as her words settled, his eyes locked onto hers. For once, he didn’t have a quick retort, no sharp-edged quip to throw between them like a shield. He simply let the weight of her words linger as he observed her as if searching for answers.

Charlotte lifted her glass again, gazing into the liquid as if it held the answers she sought. A thought slithered through her mind—heavy and cold.

If I am to succeed, then she must die.

Her lips parted slightly as if to voice something more, but instead, she took another a long sip.

A sip that was probably unwise.

A sip that was probably too late to stop.

A breath passed between them, thick with something unspoken, as she considered how his words had reminded her of Wulfric’s warning, of the caution she had already been urged to take. Fear should have settled in, but instead… she just felt tired.

It had been made undeniably clear the Black Rose was not to be trifled with. But what did it matter? She was too stubborn to turn back, too deep in the web to stop pulling at its threads. There was nothing to be done about that.

So instead, she deflected her thoughts, and she looked at him. Really looked at him.

Her brows furrowed slightly, her mind tracing back through their conversation, lingering on the things he had said—the things he hadn’t. There had been something in the way he spoke of paths with no return, something in the way his smirk never quite reached his eyes. A flicker of something unfamiliar stirred in her chest, something she wasn’t prepared to name.

Leaning forward, she braced her elbow against the table, studying him. “You say I should be careful, but what about you?” She gestured vaguely at him with a loose motion of her hand. “You… You speak of all these doors, all these paths with no way back—but sounds to me you’ve walked more of them than you’d care to admit.” Her words, though slurred just slightly from the wine, seemed thoughtful. “And your home…” She hesitated, watching his expression carefully, her own brow knitting together as she pieced together his words from earlier. “You said there’s a lot that goes on within the estate.”

She exhaled, shaking her head slightly as she peered at him with something dangerously close to worry. And then, suddenly, as if guided by instinct rather than thought, she leaned over the table and reached out, her fingertips brushing against his wrist and lingering. Her lashes fluttered slightly as she regarded him, the weight of wine and worry clouding her mind.

“You also said I shouldn’t go at this alone, but tell me, Cassius,” she murmured, her voice honeyed with intoxication, slow and soft in a way that almost felt too intimate, “Have you always been doing this alone?”

The brush of her fingertips against his wrist was light, fleeting, but it burned through the layers of his usual armor in a way he hadn't expected.

Cassius didn’t move at first, his pulse a slow, deliberate thud beneath her touch. His eyes flickered down to where her fingers lingered, then back to her face—her lashes lowered, her expression blurred with wine and something dangerously close to worry.

Then, smoothly, deliberately, he placed his other hand on top of hers, making her breath hitch slightly. His palm was warm and steady, Not restraining. Not pulling away. Just… there.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, rougher around the edges.

“You’re right about one thing, love,” he voiced barely above a whisper. “I’ve walked my fair share of paths without a way back. More than I’d care to count. And I’ve opened doors by the dozen that should’ve stayed closed, just like you’re about to.”

He let his thumb trace across the back of her hand as he considered her his words. “The difference is, I knew what I was getting into… And more than that, I trained for such a life. For years. You? You’re still figuring out just how deep this rabbit hole goes. And Lottie, what if you’re just in over your head here?” He let the weight of his words linger before he sighed.

For a fleeting moment, Charlotte’s eyes dimmed as she murmured, “...Then I suppose I had better learn how to swim.”

“As for my home…If you can even call it that…” He glanced past her, toward the dimly lit corners of the nearby pier, as if something unseen lurked there. “There’s a lot that goes on within the estate, yes. Some of it I understand, some of it I don’t. My father seems to have fingers in every fucking cookie jar in Caesonia. He has his dealings, and I’m not entirely sure what his actual reach is just yet.”

His gaze found hers again, sharper this time. “And about Violet… I’ll tell you what I’ve surmised, but that knowledge doesn’t get to leave this table. Whatever merry band of detectives you’ve gathered can stay in the dark about this one, or they can find it on their own. This is just between us, understood?”

He didn’t wait for a response, instead…he allowed the tension in his jaw to loosen and his features to soften for but a moment. “You also asked if I’ve always done this alone,” he murmured, mirroring her words back to her. A small, knowing smirk tugged at his lips, though his eyes held something less than obvious. “Well, at least I’m not alone tonight.”

Cassius let that hang between them, letting her decide what to do with it, and letting himself, for just a moment, enjoy the warmth of her hand between his.

Charlotte’s lashes lowered as her fingers curled beneath his. She had decided not to comment regarding his father—for many reasons—however, she could imagine living with Calbert was a certain kind of hell.

Then, her eyes rose to meet his more intently after he had finished speaking. “Whatever you entrust to me shall remain between us.” Her eyes never wavered from his as she spoke. There was no hesitation, no flourish, just the certainty of a promise that would not be broken.

Slowly, her fingers shifted, twining with his in a way that felt natural, as if they had always been meant to fit together.

"And you’re right…" she suddenly added, her voice etched in gentle affection, "You’re not alone."

She squeezed his hand and then told him with a smile that was both soft yet sweet. "Not anymore."

“Not anymore,” he repeated under his breath, barely audible. It wasn’t a question, nor a statement of disbelief. It was a simple acknowledgment, one that ran deeper than either of them could likely explain in the heat of the moment.

He leaned a fraction closer, just enough that his breath brushed across her skin. His other hand, still resting over hers, tightened ever so slightly.

“Lottie,” Cassius began, his voice a soft murmur, “I promise, I’ll tell you everything I know about Violet before the night’s over…but…” He couldn't help but look at her with an expression that bordered on intimate. “There is one more thing I’ve got planned for us.

He allowed the silence to stretch between them, letting his words hang in the air like a secret that needed a little more time to unfold. “Can we put all of this out of our minds for a while longer? Just… let go, for a bit? Will you offer me your trust once more tonight?”

Cassius’ smile was slow, deliberate, and utterly disarming, his eyes never leaving hers. “I swear you’ll be glad you did.”

Her brows knitted together briefly then she softened, “... Alright! She finished off her drink in one last gulp then added, “Lead the way.”
In 🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕 → 15 days ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
FLASHBACK


Lottie & Cas
Part 7



Time: Sola 26th

Location: Rosegate
Mention: @Tpartywithzombi Violet


Charlotte’s glass of wine hovered mid-air, forgotten as her hazy mind attempted to process what she had just heard. Her eyes had widened to the size of saucers, shock flickering across her face. Perhaps she hadn’t expected him to regale her with a tale of battling hooligans while wielding an axe over steak and wine—but that was one thing. His final statement? That was an entirely different beast.

Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, she blinked—once, twice, then a third time—her brows knitting together in slow, drunken confusion. The warmth of the alcohol buzzed pleasantly through her veins, making it difficult to hold onto any one thought for too long, but this story? This sliced straight through the haze.

"You should have let them kill me."

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass and her stomach felt as if it twisted

The room seemed to tilt ever so slightly, or maybe that was just the wine. Charlotte wasn’t sure. She let out a breathy, almost bewildered laugh, shaking her head as if that might help the pieces fall into place faster. But they didn’t. They scattered, like loose pearls on a marble floor, rolling just out of reach.

“You… You’re referring to Violet…“ The words came out slow as if she needed to hear them aloud to make them real. But why would they… “ Charlotte exhaled sharply, her fingers drumming anxiously against the stem of her glass. Pieces of the conversation she’d had with Violet came flooding back.

“ But yes, the mutt downstairs is apparently my half brother. He is also apparently great at killing people…”

She now finally understood why Violet had said that, but the fact Cassius had mentioned an axe brought up only more questions.

”… I saw… V-V-Violet D-D-Damien’s dead.. Dead body… With an ax to the face.. I don’t.. I don’t know how.”

“Um.” Her brows furrowed once more, “Did she have a scar on her face when you first saw her?”
Violet had said she didn’t remember anything, but she certainly remembered this specific encounter given her commentary…This means that whatever had happened to her, whatever had left her in that state, must have occurred before this.

Cassius took another slow sip of his wine, his expression unreadable as he let Charlotte’s question hang between them.

Oh, love, he thought dryly, that’s because my dear sister is actually a blood-sucking cursed creature of the night, and the Damien household is a madhouse wrapped in silk and scented candles.

But, of course, some things were best left unsaid; especially given that he had honestly already said too much with the story to begin with. Curse those wine-loosened lips. Even if he was starting to feel his drink a bit, and honestly had no idea where he truly fit in among the Damiens, he wasn’t the type to betray family secrets—not so easily, anyway. So instead of laying out the insanity for Charlotte on a silver platter, he simply chuckled and leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine in his glass.

“You’re asking good questions for someone who’s already deep into their third—or was it fourth?—glass of wine.” His smirk was easy, teasing, but his eyes held something heavier beneath the surface.

Then, after a beat, he tilted his head slightly. “But yeah… She had a scar—nasty thing, too. Looked like it had healed over, but it wasn’t old. Almost fresh, even.”

His fingers drummed against the table, and he let out a low exhale, shaking his head slightly. “Didn’t ask questions at the time. Figured she had enough problems without me poking around her past.”

He lifted his glass in a small, almost wry toast before taking another drink. “But…regarding the whys and hows of it all, I’ll give you this much—there’s a lot that goes on behind the pristine doors of the Damien estate. More than I could ever explain over dinner.”

His gaze flickered over Charlotte for a moment, reading her expression, before he exhaled through his nose, letting a quiet chuckle slip. “Trust me, in matters of the strange… sometimes, it’s best to just not know.”

“No.” Her voice wavered despite the abrupt way she had blurted the word—not from the wine, but from something deeper inside her chest. Charlotte shook her head once, twice, her eyes glassy yet resolute as they met his. “I can’t just… not know.”

Her fingers found her temples and she rubbed them as if she could will away the spiraling thoughts that crashed against her mind. A sigh escaped her, and for a brief moment, she pressed her face into her hands

This wasn’t important to him. Why would it be? He had only just met his family. He hadn’t spent days drowning in an ever-growing tide of questions that refused to give her even a moment’s peace.

Charlotte’s voice, slightly muffled by her hands, came out almost incoherent yet tinged with unmistakable exhaustion. “My life has been nothing but strange since I arrived here a week ago, and I am so dreadfully tired of understanding absolutely nothing.”

She exhaled deeply, gathering herself, before lifting her head once more. Her frustration then softened into something more pleading. “…I grew up knowing Violet. And I promised her I would help her.” She explained, “...I spoke with her after we first met, if you recall.”

“She told me she did not remember anything... Not who hurt her, not how she ended up this way.” Her hands curled into fists against her lap. “Cassius, someone is trying to kill her, and if what you say is true, they may have tried more than once…” She gestured vaguely toward him, toward his story, her movements looser than usual—whether from emotion or intoxication, she wasn’t sure. “ How am I supposed to simply let it slide?”
In 🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕 → 15 days ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Mina, Rohit, & Milo

Time: 10:20 AM
Location:Sorian Gallery of Fine Arts



Milo had been watching Rohit closely, the other man's words lingering in the air between them like notes from a masterfully played violin...rich, layered, and resonant. He had been prepared to respond, to explore the thread of thought Rohit had unraveled about movement, about being trapped in a moment, about whether one could truly appreciate light without having drowned in darkness.

But then, the world moved.

It was a subtle shift at first...just the flicker of candlelight catching on deep crimson, the soft rustle of heavy fabric in motion...but then it all unraveled at once. A presence, sudden and striking, barreled into their space like an errant brushstroke disrupting the smooth canvas of conversation.

Milo turned in time to see her...dramatic in black and red, a vision of depth and contrast, like something conjured from one of his more impassioned nights at the easel. The woman had fallen, or nearly so, and Rohit had caught her with the grace of someone born to navigate the rhythm of life with effortless precision.

For a brief moment, it was all frozen...the scent of roses heavy in the air, the flicker of emotion in the woman’s eyes, the warmth of Rohit’s easy charm as he bowed in greeting.

Milo smiled at the duo in sheer amusement with a raised eyebrow before he addressed the woman.

“You certainly know how to make an entrance,” he remarked, intrigue curling at the edges of his lips. His hazel eyes, sharp with curiosity, swept over the woman Rohit had so gallantly steadied. "Are you alright?"

His voice was gentle, but there was something in his gaze that sought more than just an answer...he was already reading her, deciphering the story written in the tension of her shoulders, the flicker of something unspoken in her eyes.

Mina barely had time to register the sensation of falling before strong hands caught her, halting her descent with effortless grace. The scent of spice and sandalwood filled her senses, mingling with the lingering fragrance of roses from her own attire. She blinked, momentarily startled, before tilting her chin upward to meet the dark, smoldering gaze of the man who had saved her from utter disgrace.

How convenient.

A slow, knowing smile curved her lips as she steadied herself against him, allowing just a second longer than necessary before Rohit released her. As he bowed with the elegance befitting Alidasht nobility, Mina’s smirk deepened. Were all Alidasht men charming? She didn't allow the other accompanying thought to make an unwanted entrance into her mind.

With practiced ease, she returned the bow in the Alidasht style. "A pleasure, Bey Rohit Amar," she purred, the name rolling smoothly from her tongue. "You make quite the gallant first impression. I'm not sure if you were hoping to sweep me off my feet, but it was a fortunate accident if not. I’m Lady Mina Blackwood."

Milo’s lips twitched at that. A woman who met charm with charm, quick-witted enough to keep pace. How very refreshing.

With a carefree shrug, Rohit replied “My life is filled with fortunate accidents.”

Milo’s voice, warm with amusement, drew her attention. Mina turned, her stormy blue eyes meeting his hazel gaze, keen and observant. A man who studied people like they were canvases to be deciphered. How intriguing.

She took a deliberate step back, reclaiming her space with effortless poise, and let a soft, rueful laugh escape her lips. "An entrance, indeed," she mused, fingers brushing a stray curl from her face. "Though I must admit, I prefer to leave people breathless for different reasons." Her gaze flickered between the two men, playful yet measured. "But it seems fortune is on my side today. Two handsome gentlemen to catch me when I fall? Truly, the gods must be feeling generous."

Milo’s grin deepened, his gaze flickering toward Rohit briefly, before returning to Mina with playful appraisal. “Generous, or perhaps merely well-entertained. The gods have always been fond of a good story.”

Her smile lingered, teasing and inviting, as she met Milo’s gaze again. "As for whether I’m alright–well, I suppose that depends." She let her lashes lower briefly before lifting them again, her eyes alight with mischief as she glanced at both men. "Have I successfully recovered my dignity, or must I work a bit harder to make you both forget my momentary lapse in grace?”

“Was any dignity truly lost? I think, all anyone saw, was the lovely Lady Mina Blackwood make a flawless introduction to the two most handsome men in the room.” Rohit countered. He gave her name the same drawn-out and honey-dipped attention she’d given his.

“Your entrance may have even proved the point I was trying to make; life’s stumbles, the darker moments that make the light shine brighter, offer invaluable spontaneity. They make life more exciting, more worth living, and only add to life’s beauty. That is what I’ve found in Milo St. Claire’s works. But I’m interested to hear both your thoughts on that.” He glanced from Milo to Mina, and everything about the woman’s bold attire made him certain she’d have thoughts worth hearing as much as the artist himself.

Milo hummed, considering Rohit’s words as his gaze lingered on Mina, curious as to what she would say. But his answer came with an easy, confident cadence.
"Spontaneity is the artist’s greatest muse. The way light falls in an unexpected way, the way a moment unravels precisely because it wasn’t planned." His lips curled at the edges. "And in that sense, Mina, I’d say your entrance was a masterpiece of timing.” He reached out a gentle, introductory hand. “Milo St. Claire. It’s a privilege to witness the beauty of one such as you, Lady Blackwood. Welcome to my gallery. And as honored as I am to hear that my work has informed the good Bey’s philosophies…I too would like to hear your take on the matter, my Lady.”

Mina’s lips curled, amusement flickering in her dark eyes as she took Milo’s offered hand with a graceful dip of her head. “A masterpiece of timing?” she mused, voice smooth as the finest ink on parchment. “You’re far too kind, Lord St. Claire. But I do believe I must agree with both of you.”

Milo, whose grip was as light as a whisper, gave a soft chuckle—warm, rich, utterly amused. “Ah, but you wound me, Lady Blackwood. I must correct such a tragic misstep before it scandalizes the room—I am, regrettably, no Lord.” His hazel eyes gleamed with playful mischief as he released her hand. “I fear I was only blessed with talent, not title. Though, between you and me,” he leaned in slightly, as if conspiring, “I find the former far more useful at parties.” With a wink and a rather sweet smile, Milo directed his attention back to his art. “But please continue, your thoughts are far more interesting than any semantics could ever be.”

She turned her gaze to the paintings surrounding them, the light of the gallery casting shifting glows and shadows across each canvas. Her fingers absently trailed the fabric of her sleeve, as if resisting the urge to reach for a brush. “The unexpected, the unplanned—those moments breathe life into art, do they not? Some would call them mistakes, but I find they are often the very strokes that make a piece sing.” A knowing glint sparked in her eye. “After all, there are no true missteps in creation, only… fortunate little accidents.”

Her words were meant for Milo, but her gaze flickered toward Rohit as well, holding his for a lingering beat. He had been the first to frame the conversation in such a way, spinning her stumble into something meaningful, something beautiful. She wondered if he always carried that perspective, finding poetry in the imperfect, or if it was merely another layer of his effortless charm. Either way, she found herself intrigued.

“Fortunate little accidents.” Rohit quietly repeated the delightful phrase to himself. The words lingered, rolling around in his head. He needed more of that in his life.

Mina turned back to the artwork, allowing her thoughts to drift deeper into the pieces before her. One in particular caught her eye—darkness bleeding into light in stark, breathtaking contrast. Figures caught in motion, frozen in time at the precipice of something inevitable—tragedy or triumph, it was impossible to tell. And perhaps that was the point.

“They feel… honest,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “Not just reflections of life as it is seen, but as it is felt—the turmoil, the longing, the fragile beauty in every fleeting moment. They do not merely capture, they confess.”

Her lashes lifted, locking onto Milo once more, intrigue sparking beneath their shadowed depths. “Your use of chiaroscuro is masterful. The way you manipulate contrast, guiding the eye not just to what is illuminated, but to what lurks in shadow. I imagine achieving such depth required more than mere intuition. Did you glaze in layers, or do you work alla prima?”

The question was poised with deliberate intent, a subtle challenge woven between admiration. She was not just another noblewoman murmuring pleasantries over fine art. She understood it.

Milo’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile—one that held the warmth of summer’s first golden light. He had entertained countless admirers, endured tedious flattery, and waded through a sea of empty praises, but this—this was different. She truly recognized the depth of it.
Rohit nodded along, listening intently but understanding very little. Chiaroscuro. Alla prima. He liked the way the words sounded, the way Mina pronounced them so elegantly, but what they meant - he had not a clue.

“Yes!” He added with excitement. “What is the illustrious genius’s process.” Rohit continued, looking at Milo. It didn’t matter how well he understood all this artist's terminology, it was always exciting to listen to someone speak about something they were so passionate about.

The artist leaned forward ever so slightly, his hazel eyes aglow with delight. “Ah,” he exhaled, as if savoring the taste of the moment. “A question posed with precision—measured, deliberate, and oh-so dangerously perceptive. You do realize, my dears, that with such insight, you run the risk of truly seeing me?”

His fingers idly traced the rim of his wine glass, the gesture languid, almost meditative. “Yes, working in layers provides control—patience, prudence, the careful shaping of fate with every delicate glaze. An artist may stretch time itself, coaxing a piece into existence as one would a reluctant lover.” He paused, tilting his head, a rogue’s glint in his eye. “But I am—will always be—an alla prima man.”

His voice dipped, rich with something indulgent, like velvet sliding over bare skin. “Chaos, my darlings, is the lifeblood of my art. The unpredictability of oil meeting canvas, the thrill of a stroke that cannot be undone, the urgency of creation in its rawest form—now that is where the magic lives. To tame it would be a sin, wouldn’t you agree?”

Mina’s gaze lingered on Milo, a slow, appreciative smile curling her lips. “An alla prima man?” she mused, her tone dipping into something silky, almost sinful. “A man after my own heart.”

Her ocean eyes flicked toward Rohit, catching his gaze as if she had drawn an invisible thread between them. “I have to agree with Milo. Chaos, after all, holds a certain… undeniable allure. It ties in well with your comment on spontaneity from earlier.” Her tone deepened, her words laced with a knowing tease, as she looked between both men. “There’s something exhilarating in surrendering to what cannot be controlled, don’t you think? A brushstroke that defies precision, or perhaps… a moment of passion that dances on the edge of chaos.”

She let the air hang heavy with her suggestion, her gaze moving between them, daring either man to rise to the occasion. “After all, some of life’s most extraordinary masterpieces are painted in shadows.”

“Life is all about surrender, very little can be truly controlled. But chaos, I think it always wishes to return to order. Like a dance, a bit of spontaneity here and there, but in line with a rhythm. Everything exists in a delicate balance. Without light, there are no shadows, but to stare wide-eyed into the sun will leave you in darkness.” Rohit said with a shrug that simply said ‘what can you do.’ Nothing but surrender to whatever life throws, he supposed.

“I am curious about the Mirrors of Perception, shall I expect more spontaneity in there? A journey through the ever-changing nature of self awareness right? Certainly sounds promising.” Rohit rifled through his pockets for a small golden case and popped the small rectangular object open once he found it. Inside was a row of tightly rolled joints.

“I happen to have some of the finest herbs from home, guaranteed to alter perception and awareness just enough to really, spice up the exhibit. Any takers?” He offered.

Milo let out a wistful sigh, reclining just enough to make it look effortlessly elegant, yet brimming with mischief. His hazel eyes shimmered with the kind of longing reserved for poets and dreamers, a man utterly devastated by the cruel pull of responsibility.

“Ah, my darlings,” he purred, placing a hand over his heart as if genuinely mourning his own departure. “If only I could commit some manner of violent crime—truly, I’d murder with flair—just to linger in your company a moment longer. But alas, the weight of expectation presses down upon me like an overzealous lover, and I must tear myself away before the temptation to abandon it all becomes too great.”

A slow, teasing smile curved his lips as he let his gaze flicker between them, sharp as a blade yet warm as honey. “For if I were to remain even a moment longer, I fear I may do something positively reckless—like fall in love with one, or both, of you.”

With a smooth, unhurried motion, he reached for their hands, enveloping each in one of his own. A man well-versed in reverence, he pressed a lingering kiss to the back of Mina’s hand first, then Rohit’s, each as deliberate as a final brushstroke upon a masterpiece.

“Should you choose to step into the Mirrors of Perception under such,” a pointed glance toward the golden case of finely rolled indulgences, “augmented circumstances, I wish you only the most delicious revelations. Try not to lose yourselves entirely… or do, if the moment demands it.”

With that, he turned, moving with the practiced ease of a man who knew all eyes belonged to him. Yet just as he was about to slip away into the crowd, he hesitated. A flash of something wicked danced across his features as he reached into his jacket and retrieved two ivory cards, embossed with the faint shimmer of gold filigree.

He offered one to Mina, then the other to Rohit, his voice lowering to something almost conspiratorial.

“Should you ever feel the urge to experience the full extent of the gallery’s indulgences, these shall grant you access to the more… selective delights. But be warned—only those truly worthy may find themselves at home in such rarified company.”

A final smirk, a lingering glance, and then—like the final notes of a symphony fading into the night—Milo St. Claire was gone.

But not forgotten. Never forgotten.

In 🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕 → 17 days ago Forum: Casual Roleplay



Time: Sola 26th
Location: On His Way to Sorian




The candlelight flickered weakly as a cold wind slithered through the cracks of the modest home. Laudna clutched Henrik to her chest, rocking him absentmindedly while her young daughter Melissa sat still at the table, eyes fixed on the empty plate before her. The scent of roasting meat filled the air, but neither woman took comfort in it. Their world had already begun to unravel.

A heavy knock came at the door. The room tensed as if the walls themselves could sense the coming storm.

Laudna hesitated before answering, looking to an empty corner of the room as though she was searching for answers as she smoothed the wrinkles from her apron with a trembling hand. When she opened the door, she found a man there, draped in an unforgiving ensemble of black, a stark contrast against the humble home’s candlelit warmth.

His long coat, dark as a moonless night, was lined with deep crimson that flashed like fresh blood whenever he moved. The high collar framed his angular face in harsh shadows, giving him the appearance of something sculpted from obsidian and command. Beneath the coat, a fitted black doublet clung to his broad frame, its fabric heavy with reinforced stitching, hinting at both durability and calculated precision. Dark leather gloves encased his hands, supple yet well-worn, the kind that knew both the hilt of a blade and the cold grip of a throat. His boots, polished to a dull sheen, bore the scuffs of travel but none of neglect—each step measured, deliberate, echoing with quiet authority.

The true weight of his presence lay in the details—the subtle insignia embroidered in dark thread upon his chest, a mark of his station that needed no gaudy embellishment; the way his belt sat heavy with the tools of his trade.

There was no warmth in his attire, no softness, no indulgence. It was the garb of a man who had stripped himself of excess, leaving only what was necessary to uphold his purpose. His hair, thick but white like a man well beyond his years, despite him only seeming to be in his 30s, emphasized the stark lines of his face. The dim light cast deep shadows over his strong jaw and the hollow beneath his perfect cheekbones. Every movement he made was deliberate, as though the very air bent to his will, and his presence carried the quiet weight of inevitability.

But it was his flail that drew the most attention. Spiked and ancient, it hung idly from his belt like a specter of death itself, its heavy iron head engraved with symbols long forbidden. It was not merely a weapon—it was a sentence, a promise, a curse.

His piercing gaze swept over the dimly lit home before settling on Laudna’s face.
"Good evening," he greeted, voice smooth and measured. "I understand your family has been through quite an ordeal. I won’t take much of your time. Just a few questions. If you’ll have me."

Laudna swallowed hard. She nodded, stepping aside as Kilian entered without waiting for an invitation. His boots clunked against the wooden floor, slow and deliberate. He took in the surroundings—a humble hearth, a table set for supper, four chairs pulled out, though there were only three members of the family before him. His attention turned to the heavenly aroma wafting through the air.

"Ah," Kilian said, inhaling deeply. "That smells divine. What are we having?"

Laudna opened her mouth, but the words caught in her throat. Melissa, who couldn’t be more than ten or eleven years of age, answered with a forced politeness as though she were much older. "Rabbit stew, sir."

Kilian smiled and unbuckled his flail, setting it onto the table with a dull thud. "Then I shall join you. It would be a shame to let such a fine meal go to waste. Don’t worry, you will be compensated for the hospitality." He sat at the head of the table; in the seat a father would normally take.

Laudna hesitated for only a moment before mechanically serving him a portion. Kilian took his time, slicing his meat with precision, chewing thoughtfully. The silence stretched, save for the crackling of the fire. They ate in relative silence save for the coos and occasional whines of young Henrik. Eventually though, Kilian broke the quiet as his gaze found that of Laudna’s.

"You must have been relieved when you heard your husband was to hang. A poacher and a horse thief—shameful crimes. But then, what a spectacle that must have been." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Vanished into thin air. Right there on the gallows. There one second…gone the next. Some say it was a miracle, others could have sworn it was the work of devils. What do you make of that, seeing as it was your husband who pulled off such a deed?"

Laudna fumbled with her spoon. "I—I wouldn’t know, sir. We weren’t there."

"Of course, of course." Kilian took another bite. "Strange business, though, wouldn’t you agree? Not many men survive the noose, even less escape it like ol’ Martin did."

Laudna clenched Henrik tighter as he began to fuss. Kilian leaned back in his chair, stretching leisurely, before his eyes flicked across the room. He noted the way the air around the corner of the house stirred slightly, how the dust did not settle quite right.

Kilian smiled to himself. "A man who can disappear like that must be very blessed… or very cursed. Either way, magic is simply not allowed…Which, as I’m sure you can guess, is why I have come here tonight. You wouldn’t happen to know where he went, would you?"

Laudna’s lips parted, but no answer came.

Kilian hummed. "No matter."

He continued to eat, savoring every bite, letting the weight of his presence press down upon them like an anvil. He made idle talk—Melissa’s age, Henrik’s temperament, the weather, the quality of their home. Laudna answered in clipped sentences, her voice growing more unsteady. The tension was suffocating, each moment stretching unbearably long.

"You must love your husband very much," Kilian mused. "He provided well for you, despite his... methods."

Laudna’s knuckles whitened as she gripped Henrik. "He did what we had to, sir."

Kilian nodded, feigning understanding. "A shame that sometimes necessity and law do not align. A shame indeed. Especially when those close to us turn to such vile techniques such as the arcane." His eyes moved to meet with the young girl’s.

"Tell me, child, did you love your father?"

Melissa blinked, caught off guard. She glanced at her mother, unsure.

"Y-yes, sir."

"Did he love you?"

"Yes, sir," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

"And yet he left you, didn’t he?" Kilian leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "A man who truly loves his family wouldn’t run, would he? He would stay. Protect. Provide. And yet, he is nowhere to be found."

Tears welled in Melissa’s eyes, but she held her breath, refusing to let them fall.

"He didn’t leave us."

"No?" Kilian’s voice remained pleasant, almost amused. "Then where is he?"

Melissa swallowed hard, staring down at her untouched plate. She was a child, but she was not foolish. She knew the wrong answer could mean a terrible outcome.
"I... don’t know, sir."

Kilian studied her for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose as if disappointed.

"How unfortunate. I was hoping he at least had the decency to tell his own daughter goodbye."
Melissa’s shoulders trembled, her lower lip quivering as she clenched her hands into fists beneath the table. Kilian watched with detached curiosity, then leaned back in his chair.

"Some fathers are better than others, I suppose."
And then, Kilian stood.

He wandered casually, eyes tracing the modest decor, fingers grazing over the rough wooden furniture. He took a long breath, as though appreciating the air itself, before his gaze landed on the corner.

The only sounds in the room were the ticking of the old clock, the occasional creak of shifting wood, and the uneven breaths of the family. Every inhale, every exhale, dragged through the air like a rusted knife.

Kilian exhaled slowly, almost thoughtfully, before tilting his head curiously. His voice, when it came, was measured. Almost gentle.

“Tell me, girl.” His eyes never left the corner of the room as he spoke to Melissa. “How much does your father mean to you?”

The room held its breath.

Melissa’s lips parted, but no words came. The firelight cast shadows across his face, making the angles of his features sharper, hollowed.

“Go on,” he murmured. “I want to hear it.”

A shuddered breath. Her fingers clenched tighter in her lap.

“He—he means everything to me,” she whispered.

Kilian blinked once, slow, deliberate.

“Everything.” He let the word settle, his voice barely above the crackle of the fire. “A daughter’s devotion. It’s a powerful thing.”

He took a step closer to the corner, dragging the moment out, his boots scraping softly against the floor as he dragged his feet. The room felt smaller. Tighter.

Martin moved before he thought. A wild, desperate rush toward the door.

But Kilian was faster. Much faster.

TRIGGER WARNING:
EXTREME VIOLENCE


Then, without hesitation, he lunged—his hand shooting forward, gripping the invisible throat of the man who thought himself unseen. A strangled gasp choked through the still air as Martin materialized, feet kicking helplessly against the floorboards. Laudna screamed. Melissa burst into hysterical tears.

Kilian’s expression never wavered. "Not every father deserves such devotion... Magic and corruption walk hand in hand, Martin," he said. "And both must be purged."

With a monstrous force, he dragged Martin toward the hearth, the flames casting a violent dance across the room. Then, with terrifying finality, he slammed Martin’s head against the stone. Once. Twice. Again. The sickening crunch echoed through the house, drowning out the sobs. Blood spattered across the brick, across Kilian’s hand, across the floor where Martin’s body slumped, twitching before falling still.

For a split second there was no sound at all. Only silence.

Melissa had collapsed into muffled sobs, her hands pressed over her mouth. Laudna, still clutching Henrik, had gone deathly pale, her lips trembling as if she were trying to will herself into nonexistence. The fire hissed as droplets of blood sizzled upon the embers.

Kilian exhaled softly, releasing the ruined corpse as if he were merely discarding a rag. The moment Martin’s body hit the floor, the sickening wet slap rang louder than the crackling fire. A metallic scent thickened in the air, sharp and cloying. Laudna’s mind numbly registered the color...deep crimson pooling at Kilian’s feet, soaking into the worn wooden planks. Bending down, Kilian searched the man briefly before finding and ripping the enchanted bracelet from his limp wrist…and without even inspecting it he tossed it into the fire to be burned away into nothingness.

The firelight caught the sheen of fresh blood glistening on his gloves, streaked and seeping into the creases of the leather. He flexed his fingers once, the motion slow and deliberate, smearing the warmth across his palm. He turned, adjusting his cuffs, brushing away a splatter of red from his collar. Kilian strode back to the table, picked up his fork, and took one final bite of the rabbit stew.

He closed his eyes in appreciation. "Exquisite."

Then, reaching into his coat, he produced a single gold coin and placed it gently in Laudna’s trembling hands. Her fingers barely curled around it, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

"For my dinner," Kilian said smoothly, his voice untouched by the horror he had wrought.

The scent of iron was suffocating now, clinging to the back of Laudna’s throat. The candle flames shuddered as though the house itself recoiled from what had been done.

Kilian turned to leave, but just as he reached the threshold, he paused. The Witch Hunter glanced over his shoulder, watching the shattered remains of a family he had just destroyed. "Raise your children well, woman. The sins of the father need not pass to the son, or..." His eyes turned to Melissa with indifference. "...to the daughter."

And with that, he stepped into the night, leaving behind only the weeping of a widow and her now, fatherless children.


In 🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕 → 21 days ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
FLASHBACK


Lottie & Cas

Part 3



Time: Sola 26th

Location: The Train

Mention: @FunnyGuy Lorenzo

"Hmm. A challenge, is it? Dangerous game, love...I’m rather good at reading my opponents." Cas leaned forward just slightly, elbows braced against the table as he considered her, really considered her, and then let out a quiet, knowing chuckle.

Then, with a smirk as sharp as a blade, he leaned back. "You were thinking about something soft. Something safe. Something that made you smile without meaning to. A memory. I’d bet my life on it" He tapped the table once, deliberate.

"You’ve been on this train before...many times, I’d wager. And I’d say you weren’t thinking about where we’re going. You were thinking about where you’ve been. Perhaps even who was with you." His eyes held hers for a beat too long, then, because he was Cassius, his smirk returned in full force. "Or," he lilted, "I could be terribly wrong, and you were simply admiring the upholstery."

Charlotte let out a slow hum, impressed. "Interesting," she mused, tilting her head as if genuinely considering his accuracy. In truth, the way he had hit so close to the mark made her feel either amused or irritated; she was still deliberating which. Either way, she wasn't about to let him have the satisfaction of knowing that… At least not right away.

With a dramatic exhale, she leaned back in her seat, tapping a finger against her chin before finally delivering, "Actually, I was reminiscing on something much more profound."

She attempted to replicate that far-off look in her eyes as she spoke, “I once watched a pigeon steal an entire sandwich from a grown man and in broad daylight at that… She sighed, shaking her head as if the memory was still too much to bear. “He fought valiantly, I’ll give him that, but in the end... the pigeon won. The pigeon always wins.”

Cassius couldn't help but cackle at her response, the glint in his eyes unmistakable. There was something about her playful attempt at deflection that intrigued him. He leaned back in his seat, folding his arms across his chest, his expression a mix of amusement and genuine curiosity.

He studied her for a moment, his gaze flickering with intrigue. “I was certain you’d be a terrible liar, but that wasn’t bad, princess…not bad at all.” His tone was light, teasing, but there was a certain edge of respect in it as well.

“But fine, fine, fine, Lottie… You don’t have to tell me the truth. Honestly, your answer said more than enough.” He winked, flashing her his best smile as his words continued. “Just know, love…I see you.”

Suddenly, a soft voice cut through the air, interrupting their playful sparring.

"Excuse me, my lord and lady," the attendant said, stepping into their little world with a polite smile. "Would you care for some refreshments? Perhaps tea or something stronger?"

"I’ll have an Old Fashioned, but tonight feels less like whiskey and more like rum." he said smoothly, not breaking his gaze from Charlotte. "And you, Lottie?" he asked, his tone still carrying that playful edge.

“Champagne with vodka please.”

“An excellent choice. A favored selection among the nobility of Krasivaya,” the attendant commented lightly with an approving nod. His eyes then flickered between Charlotte and Cassius, as if making some unspoken observation, before offering a small bow. “I shall have them brought to you shortly.”

Charlotte’s gaze flickered back to Cassius, her lips curling into a warm smile as they locked eyes. Then she leaned back, her fingers absently fiddling with the delicate chain of her locket, the butterfly pendant hidden safely beneath the fabric of her gown, tucked away like a secret too precious to be exposed.

"Well, that rather unfortunate incident with the pigeon at the Park of Sorian was, indeed, a reality," she admitted, her voice carrying the familiar lilt of amusement. "However, I must concede that you are correct—my thoughts had ventured elsewhere, somewhere far less feathered and far more sentimental."

Her smile softened as she exhaled, the warmth of nostalgia settling over her, "I was thinking about the lovely times I’ve ridden this train with my family," she confessed, her fingers still idly tracing the chain at her throat as though drawing comfort from it.

"My mind went to this time we brought the Edwards back to Veirmont with us. Duke Gideon and my father—oh, those two were utterly inseparable, thick as thieves. No matter how much Duchess Victoria tried to pry our families apart, my father never stood for it. He and Gideon were childhood best friends, soulmates in a way—though I do believe they’d have preferred a far less poetic term for it. And together, they were just so funny."

A laugh bubbled from her lips, light and airy, as if they were both there now making her laugh, "The absolute nonsense they could spin from thin air—it was like watching two jesters in a private court of their own making… And then, of course, there were the conversations with Lorenzo all the times we’d go back and forth from Sorian and Veirmont” She finally lifted her gaze back to Cassius, her voice dropping to something softer, "Those I hold so close to my heart.”

Her gaze returned to the window, the moonlight casting its silver glow across their faces. The world outside rushed past in blurred streaks of darkness and light, but here, in this fleeting moment, time felt suspended. Something about it loosened the careful restraint she so often carried, and before she could think to stop herself, her words slipped forth like a confession whispered to the night. "Not many people are fortunate enough to have had two remarkable fathers in their lifetime… I suppose the universe decided to be kind to me in that regard."

Charlotte hesitated, her fingers drifting instinctively to the hidden locket beneath her dress. The metal was warm from resting against her skin. She clutched it now as if holding onto something far more fragile than gold.

And then she saw him.

Walter stood before her, bathed in the golden light of a rising sun. His eyes, once so full of laughter, now held a sorrow too deep to name. His body wavered, edges dissolving like mist at dawn, fragments of his very being breaking away. Scattering into the wind like dying embers.

And then he was gone again, and so was the entire vision before her eyes—erased as if it had never been.

Charlotte’s breath hitched silently, barely perceptible, but the moment had already unraveled her. The surface of her eyes shimmered, catching the moonlight like the glisten of morning dew. For a moment, it seemed she might leave the thought unfinished, might let silence swallow it whole. But then, barely above a whisper, she spoke with quiet conviction. "I’m going to make sure I keep this one."
In 🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕 → 1 mo ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
FLASHBACK

Lottie & Cas

Part 1


Time: Late Night, Sola 25th
Location: Vikena Estate


The trio lingered by the lakeside for a while longer, allowing Olivia to regain her strength as the night stretched on. The cool breeze carried the distant echoes of the city’s unrest, but here, wrapped in the quiet of nature, they found a brief respite from the chaos. Cassius remained watchful, his gaze flicking toward the horizon now and then, ensuring their cover remained intact. Charlotte kept close to Olivia, offering soft reassurances as warmth gradually returned to her friend’s limbs.

Despite the night's earlier dangers, a comfortable camaraderie settled over them. Laughter…however faint, occasionally slipped through as conversation wove between lighthearted remarks and more solemn reflections on the fire and ways of Eromora. It was a repose formed under the moonlit calm of an otherwise chaotic evening.

Once they were certain Olivia had recovered enough to move and that the city watch had been sufficiently distracted by the warehouse fire, they agreed it was time to return.

The walk back to the Vikena estate was cloaked in the hush of night, the distant echoes of the city’s antics fading into a quiet lull. The streets, now slick with lantern light, bore no trace of the fire’s earlier rage, as if the night itself conspired to smooth away the evening’s sins. Cassius walked with an easy, unhurried gait, hands resting at his sides, exuding a confidence that suggested he belonged in the night as much as it did in him.

The grand estate loomed ahead, its elegant façade and the colors of the flora decorating the grounds painting quite the picture of luxury. As they reached the entrance, Olivia...still shaken but composed...offered a final glance of gratitude before slipping inside, disappearing beyond the heavy door.

Charlotte moved to follow, but before she could cross the threshold, Cassius reached out...slow and deliberate...his fingers catching gently around her wrist. Not a restraint, not a demand. Just enough to stop her, to hold her in that moment with him. The warmth of his touch, even through fabric, was unmistakable.

As she turned, he was already close, standing just within the veil of shadow, his compelling eyes catching the light in a way that made them gleam with something unreadable...something deeper than mischief, smoother than charm. He didn’t rush, didn’t stumble. He merely let the silence stretch between them, letting the air grow charged with the weight of his presence before finally, smoothly, effortlessly, he said it...

"Come out with me tonight."

His voice was velvet, dipped in heat and temptation, carrying a certainty that made the invitation feel more than enticing. His smirk...just the barest hint of it, curved at the corner of his lips, not arrogant, not pleading, but knowing. As if he had already imagined the night unfolding in a way neither of them would regret. As if, for just a little while, the world outside this moment didn’t exist.

And in that pause, in the space where breath met possibility, Cassius waited for her response.

Charlotte's breath hitched ever so slightly, her lips parting as if words might form, yet none came. Her gaze locked onto those storm-gray eyes, holding her there in the hush of the night. The space between them felt charged with something unspoken as the moment drew on with only the sound of crickets to fill the void.

At last, she found her voice, though it came softer than intended and touched with uncertainty, “It is… rather late, Cassius.” she finally managed, her words lighter than she intended, almost breathless.

Cassius let his smirk deepen, a quiet, knowing amusement flickering behind his eyes as he studied her hesitation. The way her breath hitched, the way she held his gaze yet wavered ever so slightly...it was enough to tell him she wasn’t wholly rejecting the idea.
Still, he didn’t press.

Instead, his grip softened, fingers barely tracing against her wrist before he withdrew, as if releasing her from some unspoken spell. He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable, save for the ever-present glint of something roguish in his eyes.

"Mm…it is rather late, isn't it?" he murmured, voice low, edged with something dangerously smooth, yet absent of disappointment. If anything, there was patience in his tone, like a man who already knew the answer, even if it hadn't been spoken yet.
Then, with effortless ease, he stepped back, granting her space but not relinquishing his hold on the moment.

"Tomorrow, then." His words were simple, assured...not a question, but a promise left hanging between them, laced with certainty that the night they might have shared would simply wait for them.

Charlotte’s gaze flickered away for a mere second, but the second was all he needed. When she looked back, his smirk had deepened, amusement twinkling behind his storm-gray eyes.

Her breath caught as he had slowly let go of her, and her gaze had slowly lowered, tracing the ghost of his touch along her wrist, where warmth still lingered even after he stepped back. A warmth crept up her neck, brushing against her cheeks. She raised her eyes slowly, only realizing at his last statement that she had been holding her breath. Exhaling suddenly, the release came unsteady, betraying the storm within her. When she opened her mouth to speak, her words tumbled out in a splutter—

“I—Uh—I… Yes, very well—”
Her lips pressed together immediately after, mortified at her own lack of composure. A fleeting pause, then—determined to salvage what dignity remained—she attempted to bandage the wound with a practiced, graceful smile, as if she hadn’t just unraveled beneath his gaze.

Cassius watched her unravel with the kind of satisfaction that came not from arrogance, but from the simple pleasure of knowing. Knowing she wasn’t unaffected. Knowing his presence stirred something in her, just as she stirred something in him.

His smirk lingered, but his eyes...sharp, perceptive...traced the warmth blooming on her cheeks, the way her breath wavered before tumbling into a flustered response. He didn’t move, didn’t so much as shift a muscle, only letting the weight of the moment settle around them, allowing her to gather herself, to try and smooth over the crack in her composure with that practiced, graceful smile.

For a long, drawn-out beat, he simply regarded her, his expression unreadable save for the glint of something dangerously knowing in his gaze. Then, with all the ease in the world, he let a soft chuckle slip past his lips...low, rich, indulgent. Not mocking. No, there was something almost fond in the way it rumbled from his chest.

"It’s a date, then…Sweet dreams, Lottie," he murmured, voice dipped in something warmer now, something like satin, before he turned away, disappearing into the night like a shadow that had merely chosen to linger a little longer by her side.

Good heavens… What have I done?

The Next Evening


Time: 5pm, Sola 26th
Location: Vikena Estate
Charlotte’s Outfit:Dress,Hair
Cassius’s Outfit: Outfit

The dim candlelight wavered against the mirror, casting flickering shadows over the trembling young woman reflected within. She lifted her chin, a fragile attempt at composure, though the slight quiver in her frame betrayed her nerves. The delicate fabric of her burgundy dress hugged her form, its shimmering embellishments catching the low light in a way that made her feel almost unreal—like a doll dressed in finery, waiting to be played with.

Her fingers twitched as she swallowed against the weight in her throat. The room was quiet, save for the occasional hum of the world beyond her window, but inside her chest, her heart was beating like a drum.

The long, wavy locks of her raven-black hair spilled over her shoulders, perfectly arranged—too perfect. She reached up hesitantly, loosening a strand from the pinned-up style, letting it fall softly against her cheek as if grounding herself in something familiar. But still, her reflection looked like someone else.

Her blue eyes, wide and uncertain, shimmered with an emotion she couldn’t name.

Perhaps she should have felt like a princess in a glimmering ensemble like this, yet, she couldn’t quite decipher what exact emotions at the moment.

What have I done?

Her own question haunted her in that moment. She had impulsively agreed to a date with Cassius Damien, Calbert’s son of all people. A man who set her pulse racing in ways she had yet to understand and whose touch still lingered, branding warmth into her skin long after he had vanished into the night. And yet, beneath those honeyed words of his, he was still his son.

Her lips parted, though no words formed. What did this mean for her, for the investigation, for him? She knew better than to allow herself to be swept away, to let the lines blur between intrigue and foolishness. For a moment, she tried to convince herself that maybe she was doing this for the investigation. That was what the others would assume after all.

Charlotte swallowed hard, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, only to let it fall again as she exhaled. The night ahead promised something thrilling, that was for certain.

Perhaps, just for one evening, she could allow herself to forget the questions, the hesitations, the weight of all that loomed between them.
Just for one evening.

And so, with one final glance at her reflection, Charlotte turned away from the mirror, gathered her resolve, and stepped down the stairs. For whatever reason, the Gods had blessed her with an empty foyer. She made her way over to the towering front wooden doors to the Vikena Estate and opened them.

The dying sunlight streamed through the open window of Cassius’s chambers, painting the space in hues of amber and gold. The faint scent of leather and bourbon lingered in the air, a reminder of the man who occupied the room.

Steam curled in delicate wisps from the washbasin where Cassius stood, a towel slung loosely around his hips, beads of water trailing down the sculpted ridges of his abdomen. The remnants of his bath clung to his skin, glistening in the light as he raked a hand through his damp, tousled hair. His fingers brushed against the familiar unevenness of an old scar across his chest as he wiped some of the wetness from his body…a whisper of past battles, of wounds that had healed but never quite faded.

He exhaled, slow and deep, rolling the tension from his shoulders. Excitement hummed beneath his skin, coiling low in his gut. The anticipation of the night ahead was a force he didn’t quite know how to name, a fire he wasn’t sure he wanted to tame.

Charlotte.

Her name drifted unbidden through his mind, and for a fleeting moment, his hands stilled.

She had occupied his thoughts far too much lately. It was unsettling, how she lingered there, like a melody he couldn’t shake. How her voice echoed in his ears long after she had spoken. How her breathless hesitation from the night before had left him wanting. Not just for another moment, another chase, but something deeper, something he couldn’t put words to.

He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. Gods, what has she done to me?

Pushing the thought aside, he let the towel drop and reached for his clothes. He dressed with the ease of a man who had never second-guessed himself a day in his life…movements fluid, unhurried, like a master slipping into his finest coat before a hunt.

The crisp linen of his undershirt stretched taut over his broad shoulders before he rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, exposing the strong forearms laced with faint, silvered scars. His fingers made quick work of fastening the dark leather vest over it, the rich material molding to his frame like it belonged there. A belt cinched at his waist, the glint of his silver necklace reflected the basking light, subtle, but never forgotten.

He smirked at his reflection, tilting his head slightly as he tugged the collar just enough to hint at the appeal of his muscled chest beneath.

And yet, despite his ease, there was an edge to his anticipation tonight. A restlessness. Not born of nerves, but of something deeper, something he hadn’t quite allowed himself to name.
With a final sweep of his fingers through his hair, he grabbed his coat, slinging it over one shoulder as he strode toward the door.

Charlotte was waiting. So was he.

And he’d be damned if he would wait even a second longer.

Cassius moved through the Damien estate with a steady, unhurried stride, his boots echoing against the marble floors. The residual aromas of parchment, wine, and something distinctly Calbert clung to the halls, but he paid them little mind. His thoughts were already beyond these walls, fixed on the path ahead.

Stepping outside, the evening air greeted him…crisp with the lingering warmth of the setting sun. He shrugged into his coat as he descended the grand steps, his eyes flicking toward the Vikena estate, just a short walk beyond the courtyard. The distance was nothing, yet each step felt charged with anticipation.

The lanterns lining the path cast a flickering glow against the cobblestone, shadows dancing at his heels. It was a quiet walk, save for the distant hum of the city beyond the noble district, but his pulse thrummed with something far louder.

Reaching her home, Cassius ascended the front steps, rolling his shoulders once as if shedding the weight of whatever stray thoughts lingered. Then, with a smirk playing at his lips, he rapped his knuckles against the wooden door, the sound crisp in the evening hush.

The door opened almost instantly, revealing a pale face framed by wavy black strands. Her gaze flickered over the figure standing on her doorstep, the moonlight catching the shimmer of the sheer cape draped over each of her elbows. For a moment, she simply looked at him, the space between them stretching. Then, as if waking from some fleeting reverie, her red lips parted into a gentle smile.

For a moment, Cassius forgot how to breathe.

The door had barely swung open, and already she had him undone.

Charlotte Vikena stood before him, bathed in the soft glow of the evening lanterns, and gods above...he had never seen anything so effortlessly beautiful. The burgundy dress was all class, but it clung to her in ways that made his mouth run dry, accentuating the soft curves of her frame while the sheer cape draped over her shoulders gave her an air of something almost ethereal. The rich color contrasted against her pale skin, making the blue of her eyes even more striking. And those lips...red like the sweetest sin...curled into a smile that sent heat curling through his veins.

Cassius had spent years surrounded by beautiful women, had danced with them, flirted with them, tangled himself in their sheets...but none had ever hit him like this. None had ever made his pulse stutter with something deeper than desire.

And then she spoke.

“Hi there,” she greeted, her voice touched with a breathy lightness. As if realizing something about her demeanor, she quickly shifted, straightening her posture before leaning ever so casually against the doorway, only for her elbow to nearly slip. Recovering with a soft ahem, she placed a hand on her hip and quipped, “Selling cookies, are you?” She presented him with a cheeky smile. “I'll take the thin mints, please. Though I suppose I could be persuaded to try whatever else you're offering.”

Thin mints? Cassius might’ve burst into laughter if he hadn’t already been reeling from the sight of her. Instead, a slow grin tugged at his lips, something utterly helpless and completely charmed. Dweeb. Adorable. Endearing…absolutely and completely her.

Without missing a beat, in the most Cassius way possible, the words were out of his mouth before he could even think to stop them. "Sex on the promenade then."

It took half a second for his own brain to catch up, and ...ah, fuck.

His smirk wavered just slightly as realization dawned, the memory of their first meeting flashing across his mind like a warning bell. He had promised himself he wouldn’t be so crude again, wouldn’t push his luck, and yet, here he was...Cassius Vael, the master of self-sabotage.
But the words were already out, hanging in the air between them like a lit fuse. No taking them back now.

So, he did the only thing he could. He doubled down.

Cassius shot her a wink, roguish, playful, and entirely unrepentant, his gaze watching hers with keen amusement. Would she fluster? Fire back? Slam the door in his face? Either way, he was utterly, hopelessly entertained.

Charlotte blinked, her lips parting as if to form a response, only for a breathless giggle to escape instead. She raised a hand to her lips as if that might contain it, but the laughter still danced in her blue eyes as they flicked back to his.

“No, no,” she finally managed with a lilting voice, touched with that airy sort of sweetness that made even a refusal sound almost affectionate. “Absolutely not.”

And yet, the corners of her lips remained lifted, and the warmth still lingered on her cheeks. She shook her head ever so slightly, as though she couldn’t quite believe him, and yet, at the same time, completely could.

With a soft exhale, she straightened, smoothing the fabric of her dress with an almost regal grace before folding her hands in front of her.“Well then.” A pause, just long enough to compose herself and clear her throat before she continued, “Shall we start making our way?” she asked, tilting her head with a smile. “Do we need to obtain a mode of transportation?”

As if on cue, the steady clatter of hooves against cobblestone filled the quiet air of the early evening. A sleek black carriage, in all its very Damien-esque glory, rounded the corner of Cherry Lane, its lanterns flickering like fireflies in the twilight. The driver gave the reins a small flick, slowing the horses as the carriage came to a smooth stop just a few steps away from them.

Cassius barely spared it a glance, his storm-gray eyes fixed on Charlotte, watching her reaction with quiet amusement. His smirk had settled into something softer now…less teasing, more intent.

He took a step closer, closing some of the space between them, though not nearly enough to overwhelm her. His voice, when he spoke, was low, edged with something almost conspiratorial.

“The carriage ride will be short,” he admitted, tilting his head slightly, “but what comes next…” His lips quirked at the corner, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “For that, you’re going to have to trust me.”

Cassius let the words linger between them for a breath, studying her face, the way the lantern light played across her delicate features. Then, with deliberate slowness, he extended a hand toward her.

“Do you trust me, Lottie?”



In 🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕 → 1 mo ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

Time: 10:00 AM
Location:Sorian Gallery of Fine Arts
Mention: @Helo Rohit
Attire:A Suit Fit For A True Artist


Milo’s lips parted, a flicker of surprise flashing in his hazel eyes. It wasn’t often that someone spoke of his work with such depth, much less with the poetic grace this stranger managed so effortlessly. There was a magnetic quality to Rohit’s words, and Milo found himself genuinely moved as he reached to take the man’s hand.

"Your words," he began softly, his voice warm, "are as lustrously crafted as the masterpieces you claim to admire. It’s a rare thing to hear someone articulate what my work strives to convey…rarer still to hear it done so beautifully."

He glanced briefly at the gallery around them, letting his gaze linger on his works before returning his eyes to Rohit. "The honor is mine, Lord Amar, self proclaimed 'admirer of masterpieces' " Milo continued, his tone earnest. "Not just for your admiration…though I do deeply appreciate it—but for the way you’ve allowed my work to move you. That is the highest compliment any artist can receive, to reach the parts of someone they didn’t even know could be touched."

His expression turned thoughtful, and for a moment, Milo seemed to wrestle with whether or not to say more. "I’m curious," he finally admitted, his eyes narrowing slightly as they searched Rohit’s face. "What did you see in there, truly? Beyond the paint. Beyond the bite of that so-called entity." His voice dropped, carrying the weight of genuine curiosity. "Did it show you anything of yourself?"


In 🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕 → 1 mo ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

Time: 10:00 AM
Location:Sorian Gallery of Fine Arts
Mention: @Helo Rohit
Attire:A Suit Fit For A True Artist


The faint glow of candlelight illuminated the gallery’s opulent halls, casting a warm sheen on the polished marble floors. Among the throng of visitors, Milo St. Claire observed with silent reverence.

The artist was dressed in a striking black suit adorned with intricate gold embroidery, the lavish design curling over the fabric like gilded vines. The tailored coat hugged his form perfectly, each flourish of gold shimmering faintly under the gallery’s warm lighting. A high-collared ivory shirt and an opulent cravat completed the ensemble, punctuated by a delicate golden chain draped across his vest. A sleek black cane, more for flair than function, tapped rhythmically against the floor as he moved. His hair, golden and meticulously styled to look effortless, caught the light like threads of spun sunshine. He carried himself as though the room existed for him alone…a presence both magnetic and slightly theatrical.

His sharp hazel eyes flitted over the crowd, studying expressions and gestures as though each person were a character in a story he was silently composing. But then his attention sharpened, landing on a figure standing before Reflections of Reverie. Something in the way this individual lingered…a certain depth in their posture, perhaps, or the intensity of their gaze—piqued Milo’s interest.

A rapping of his cane in synchronicity with each of his steps announced his arrival before the man himself appeared, gliding through the gallery like a performer entering the stage. He stopped just shy of Rohit, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, alluring hazel eyes alight with curiosity.

"I couldn’t help but notice," Milo began, his voice smooth and lilting, "the way you lingered in the Reflections of Reverie exhibit. Your expression was... fascinating…like someone who’d been caught in the jaws of an entity they couldn't quite escape. Or perhaps I'm projecting." He laughed lightly, the sound warm but with a faint edge, as though he relished the mystery his words might conjure.

With a dramatic flourish, he extended a hand. "Milo St. Claire." His eyes sparkled with amusement as he introduced himself. "And what name belongs to one with such a discerning gaze like yours?"



In 🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕 → 2 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


In 🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕 → 2 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Flashback, Sola 26th
Ari & Milo


Dearest Lady Ariella Edwards,

I trust this letter finds you recovering well after your evening in that wretched place. It is with no small amount of amusement that I recall your charming declaration that my artistic eye is, shall we say, “rather awful.” How boldly you cut me down, and yet, with such exquisitely untamed grace...how could I possibly be offended?

But, my dear, I wonder... Have you truly glimpsed the depth of what I create? A single glance at a lone painting is akin to tasting the first drop of wine before it’s had time to bloom upon your tongue. And though I will concede that the grotesque and immature subject of my recent portrait might have left much to be desired, I must ask...did I not capture every ounce of his delusion with uncanny precision? Was it not a masterpiece in its own right, for no other reason than the audacity it required?

I would be remiss if I didn’t offer you the opportunity to see more. The gallery holds so many secrets...each piece a layer, each layer a revelation. There’s a reason art is meant to be experienced in full, under the soft glow of candlelight, with shadows shifting like whispers on the canvas. You may find that something stirs in you yet...something deeper, more visceral...if only you let yourself be drawn into my world. After all, the greatest works of art are those that provoke, that linger long after you’ve turned away.

Of course, should your opinion remain unchanged, I’ll bear the brunt of your critique once more. However, call it a hunch…or perhaps even arrogance, but I am certain that won’t be the case. Furthermore, the punishment that has been cast upon you will be far more pleasurable for us both, should we take the time to truly get to know one another.

There’s so much I could show you, far beyond the confines of any portrait. I trust you’ll follow your curiosity and let it lead you to my door. After all, the only way to know the truth of my art...and of me...is to immerse yourself in all that I have to offer.

Yours, awaiting with great anticipation,
Mr. Sunshine
Milo St. Claire


Ari set the letter down on her lap, her fingers idly tracing the edges as she mulled over her predicament. Was it worse to endure the dungeons again or sit through the agonizing stillness of being painted? She wasn’t sure, but the answer was becoming clear—this was far worse. Sitting for hours, under the scrutinizing gaze of an artist —it was almost unbearable.

The thought of the king’s portrait made her bristle. It was arrogant of anyone to think she might like what he painted. But the king's face stirred something deep within her, an unsettling mix of emotions. Still, she felt a pang of guilt for having defaced the work. Whatever her feelings about the king, it had probably taken the artist ages to complete.

Standing up, Ari’s bare toes curled into the dirt of her sanctuary, grounding her in a place that felt far more real than the painted halls of the palace. It had been too long since she had returned here. After the disaster of Drake's birthday party, especially with her mother’s sharp tongue, home was the last place she wanted to be. She needed to be in *her* home—the sanctuary she had built among the ruins.

The once-empty space was now a haven of intentional clutter. Flowers and leaves adorned the walls with delicate care, some hanging to dry, others placed purely for the joy of seeing them there. Tiny skulls and bones, remnants of animals, had been fashioned into charms that hung like talismans of protection. Her books were scattered everywhere, pages half-turned, notes and sketches drawn hurriedly in the margins—evidence of her restless mind.

With a sigh, Ari left her cove, feeling the weight of what was to come. She moved with purpose, but inside, all she could think was how desperately she wished she didn’t have to face this.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Ariella has spent most of the morning attempting to Locate his gallery. She didn’t even bother going home to clean up her appearance. Her dirty feet, grass-stained, mud-stained dress, and messy hair with random strands of grass stuck within two braids that hung down her shoulders. By all accounts, she looked poorly but for Ari, she was by far her at her happiest.

She reached the gallery door “ Milo St.Claire” gold plated on the door. She let out a sigh before pushing open the door.

Stepping inside she looked around, unable to see a single soul.

Hello? she called out.

As Ariella pushed open the door to the Sorian Gallery of Fine Arts, the quiet sound of her entrance echoed through the vast, elegant space. The gallery was an embodiment of opulence... marble floors polished to a mirror shine, soft lighting illuminating the intricate details of paintings lining the walls, and sculptures artfully placed to draw the eye. Each piece seemed carefully curated to create an atmosphere of refinement and prestige; this was a place where the finest art could truly be appreciated. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and lavender, a subtle but unmistakable mark of sophistication.

A few patrons wandered through the main hall, their hushed voices melding into the sound of footsteps against the floor. Despite the serenity, there was an undercurrent of business and formality, where even the faintest out-of-place detail could disrupt the gallery’s carefully maintained aesthetic.

To say that Ariella’s presence disrupted that very aesthetic would be the understatement of the century.

She looked nothing like the other patrons... dressed in mud-stained clothes, her feet bare and dirtied, with strands of grass clinging to her wild hair. Her braids swung loosely as she stood there in the entryway.

From the other side of the room, a sharply dressed woman in her late thirties noticed Ari immediately. Ms. Ingrid Hollis, the gallery’s lead receptionist, was an embodiment of order and propriety. Dressed in a crisp gray blazer with a matching skirt, her expression instantly soured as she took in Ari’s disheveled appearance.

Her heels clicked sharply against the marble as she made her way toward Ariella, an air of passive aggression practically radiating off of her. She forced a tight-lipped smile as she approached, her tone dripping with condescension. Excuse me, miss, but I believe you may have taken a wrong turn. This is The Sorian Gallery of Fine Arts, not the local market. She looked pointedly at Ari's bare feet. We do have certain... standards here.

Ingrid folded her arms and let her eyes drift over Ari, making no attempt to hide her distaste. Perhaps you’d like directions to a place more suited to your, ah, current condition?

Ariella's eyes looked down at her feet then back up, ready to snap back at the rather rude woman. But before Ari could respond, a smooth voice cut through the tension.

Ms. Hollis, I believe there’s been a misunderstanding, said Mr. Duval, a tall man with slicked-back, curly hair and a carefully maintained beard. He appeared behind Ingrid, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit with an air of effortless charm. Mr. Duval was Milo’s personal assistant and public relations representative...a man known for his ability to manage crises and navigate delicate social situations.

Ingrid stepped back, visibly confused by his intervention. “Mr. Duval, I...”

He held up a hand, silencing her with a firm smile. “This young woman is a special guest of Mr. St. Claire himself. There will be no further issue.” His eyes flicked to Ari with a warmth and understanding absent in Ingrid’s judgmental gaze.

Ingrid’s face blanched, and she instantly backtracked, her tone suddenly much softer. “I-I wasn’t aware. My apologies, miss.”

Mr. Duval dismissed Ingrid with a nod, turning his full attention to Ari. His voice dropped into a more conversational tone as if he were addressing a friend. “Miss Edwards, I presume? Mr. St. Claire has been expecting you.” He extended an arm toward the gallery’s inner halls. “Allow me to escort you to his lounge.”

Offering a large smile to Mr Hollis she took Mr Duval's arm with pleasure. “ Thank you, “ she said nodding to Mr Duval as they began walking through the Gallery. For added effect, Ari slapped her feet against the Marble floors as the sound echoed through the room. Leaving a muddied trail across the clean floors.

“ I didn’t expect the gallery to be so … expensive.” she added looking around at all its finery. Her mother would die knowing that she showed up to a place like this looking as she did.

Mr. Duval chuckled softly as Ariella took his arm, her enthusiasm brightening the air around them. He felt the weight of her playful mischief as she slapped her feet against the polished marble, the sound echoing like a heartbeat through the gallery. The muddied trail she left behind seemed to almost rebel against the pristine decor, a bold statement of individuality that was both charming and audacious.

“Ah, well, it seems we have a little avant-garde art of our own in the making,” he quipped, casting a sidelong glance at the trail. “Perhaps we’ll need to commission a piece entitled The Footprints of Disobedience for the gallery's next exhibit.” His tone remained light, a clear attempt to match her energy. Ariella held back a chuckle, biting her lip instead she smiled.

As they walked further into the gallery, Mr. Duval gestured to the various pieces displayed around them, each one a testament to the caliber of Milo's work. “I can assure you, Miss Edwards, that the gallery's charm isn’t merely in the price tag of its art. It’s the stories behind each piece that truly captivates. Mr. St. Claire has an unrivaled talent for capturing the essence of the human experience...much like your own journey here today.”

He paused for a moment, allowing her to take in the vibrant colors and intricate details of the paintings lining the walls, but continued after that brief moment.

As they approached a set of opulently intricate double doors, Mr. Duval’s demeanor shifted slightly, a hint of seriousness entering his tone. “If you’re ready…Mr. St. Claire has been looking forward to your arrival.”

With a graceful gesture, he pushed the doors open, revealing a comfortable lounge bathed in golden light, and adorned with plush furnishings and paintings stacked against the walls. Sunlight streamed in through tall windows, casting a warm glow that danced across the walls. At the center of it all, lounging comfortably with a glass of brandy on the rocks in hand, sat Milo St. Claire himself, a smile already spreading across his lips as he saw her enter.

"Lady Ariella Edwards," Milo greeted smoothly, rising from his seat. "I knew you'd come."

"An order from the king would encourage that," she muttered under her breath, her voice carrying just enough edge to cut through the silence. She stepped further into the room, her feet leaving a trail of dirt across the polished floor, each footprint a subtle act of defiance. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the richly upholstered chairs, the intricate details in the tapestries, and the quiet opulence that seemed to press in from every angle.

But then her attention drifted to the windows, where the world outside called to her with a pull that no amount of luxury could match. The sprawling countryside beyond the glass seemed to breathe with life, the distant fields and whispering trees alive in a way the enclosed grandeur of the room could never be. A small, wistful smile tugged at her lips. No beauty within four walls could ever compete with the freedom and raw allure of the open air.

"I'm here because of… a painting, was it? Something I'm supposed to sit for?" she asked, her voice laced with playful curiosity. Her hands swung back, fingers clasping around her arms as she rocked gently on her heels, adding a touch of endearing awkwardness to her otherwise poised stance. Her eyes sparkled with a mix of intrigue and amusement, her brow slightly furrowed as if the idea of sitting still for a portrait was entirely foreign.

Milo’s smile widened at Ariella's cutting remark, clearly relishing her defiance. He watched with keen interest as she glanced longingly at the world outside, her small smile not lost on him. There was a wildness to her, something unrestrained, that was as captivating as it was refreshing amidst the gallery’s orderly grandeur.

He took a leisurely sip of his brandy, his eyes never leaving her. "Oh, indeed," he said, his voice rich with amusement. "The king can be quite… persuasive when he wishes. But I assure you, my dear Ariella, this is no mere task assigned to you out of obligation… It is meant to be penitence, after all."

Rolling her eyes and letting out a sigh, Ariella gave him a smug smile. Setting his glass down with a soft clink, he moved forward, his steps measured and smooth, closing the distance between them with a casual ease. Milo’s presence seemed to fill the room; he had a way of making even the largest of spaces feel intimate, as if there were no one else in the world but the two of them. Giving her a once-over now that they stood so close, Milo smiled as he spoke.

"My name isn’t dear, it’s Ari," she quipped back. "Do you think I’d be here had you demanded anything? The king required me to be here. I would be much happier elsewhere, but I’d rather not spend another evening in the dungeon."

Her mood seemed to have shifted from the carefree demeanor she had earlier in the day. Something about Milo St. Claire seemed to bring that out of her. Crossing her arms, she added, "Do we have to do it in here?" she asked defiantly, watching as he continued to eye her. "Artists love the outdoors, no? Perhaps we could just find a nice field, and you can just paint while I…" She looked around the room. "Not be in here," she said, offering him another smile.

The artist’s smile softened, a hint of amusement flickering across his face as he studied her, taking in the shift in her demeanor with clear intrigue. His gaze lingered, dark and assessing, as he leaned back slightly. The intensity in his eyes shone through, though his perfected congeniality never faltered.

“Ari,” he repeated, the name slipping off his tongue like a promise. “So quick to forget we’re well past formalities. You did, in fact, vandalize a piece of art that would be worth millions on the market. A night in the dungeon and a free portrait are hardly severe punishments. Perhaps you just enjoy showing me you’re difficult to please.”

Crossing her arms, Ari squinted at him. “I am not hard to please. I’m rather easy to please.” She looked at him through the corner of her eye. “I just don’t like formalities, but if you're more comfortable with them, you may call me Lady Edwards. I also don’t agree that a canvas with some paint on it is worth more than my freedom, but I suppose that is where we disagree.”

He tilted his head, the dim, warm light casting shadows across his face as he seemed to consider her proposal. “The king may have brought you here, but don’t fool yourself,” he continued, his voice a deep murmur that somehow still held command. “You came to me. Your presence here… your stubborn, defiant presence… is no one’s decision but your own.” Her eyes drifted back to the large windows, counting the moments until she could leave.

A smirk touched his lips, and he stepped closer, closing that small distance again. “You want to be outside?” he mused, his voice calm, almost teasing. He let the suggestion hang there, a subtle challenge in his tone, before leaning just a bit closer, his gaze unwavering. “Besides, a field would be too… ordinary for you, wouldn’t it?” His eyes flickered with curiosity, as though seeing something intriguing in her just beneath the surface. Ari glanced back at him as she noted his intense look at her.

“How about this, Lady Edwards… Pick your most beloved place in all of Sorian, in town or out in the wilds, it matters not. Wherever you decide, I’ll paint you there.”

She couldn’t invite him to her secret spot—that was her favorite place—but there was a close second. “Lovers Lake,” she said without hesitation. “It’s one of my favorite places—the lake, the colors, the smell… everything. It’s beautiful.” She smiled at him. “Thank you…” she said softly, appearing to relax.

“So… does that mean you’ll be painting it today? I don’t know the artistic process, if I’m honest.”
Milo's gaze lingered on her as she described the lake, her voice softening with the memory of it, a spark of genuine fondness breaking through her defiant edge. He allowed a small smile, amused by the unexpected glimpse into her softer side. But, as her question lingered in the air, he tilted his head, letting the moment stretch a bit before answering.

“Unfortunately, Lady Edwards,” he began, his voice low, a trace of regret woven in, “the gallery’s launch in a couple of days leaves me with little freedom at the moment. My time, it seems, is bound to too many demands. But…” he let his words hang, leaning in a bit closer, “I’m sure we can arrange a way to meet again. After all, how else am I to capture the essence of the elusive Ariella Edwards if I’m not to exist in her aura for a time?”

Ari perked up “A launch? Oh! I’m sorry when I got your letter I assumed … I’m sorry.” she paused looking down at her feet “Oh…That explains that lady in the lobby.” she laughed nervously. “What about sketches though? I figured this painting would have been an afternoon thing.”

He brushed off her comment about sketches with an amused, almost dismissive wave. “Sketches? I’m flattered by your concern, but I’m afraid I’ve moved far beyond such basics. When the time comes, I won’t need sketches to see you...just the brilliance of my eye and the mastery of my hands. You’ll simply have to trust my expertise.” A soft challenge entered his eyes. “And if trust doesn’t come easily, well…Perhaps I can find ways of earning it.”

He held her gaze, his expression playful yet intense, letting the words settle before adding, “Until we can escape to the lake, perhaps we can take advantage of a few moments here and there, getting to know each other. I imagine, in that time, you may find me far less a tyrant than you think.” His smile returned, a touch wicked. “Or perhaps more of one.”

Ari hummed thoughtfully, rocking back and forth on her heels with a mischievous glint in her eye. She cast a sideways glance at him, feigning casualness before fully turning her attention his way. "If you consider yourself a tyrant," she teased, her lips curling into a playful grin, “you clearly haven’t met my mother. She's a whole different league."

Her smile softened, warm and inviting. "You know," she continued, "I imagine sitting for a portrait wouldn’t feel half as daunting if I were acquainted with the artist.” She let her gaze wander around the room, admiring the paintings on the walls with genuine curiosity. “One of the gentlemen gave me a little tour on my way here," she mused, before leaning forward with an almost conspiratorial smile. "But maybe you could give me a private one?"

She paused, giving him a look of mock defeat. "Of course, if you're too busy with the grand opening, I wouldn’t dream of imposing." Her voice carried a hint of wistfulness as if her request were just a whisper of a wish. "I could always return another time."

“Today,” he began, his voice softening with amusement as he studied her expression, “I may be the busiest man in the entire world.” He paused, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly with intrigue. “But don’t think for a moment I’d be too busy for you.”

With that, he extended his hand toward her, the invitation clear in his gaze. “Come along then, Lady Edwards.” His tone was teasing, but his offer carried a hint of intimacy, a thread of sincerity woven beneath the playful charm. “After all, it’s only fair you get to know the man behind the work if you’re to trust his talent. Consider this…a little prelude to the lake. Plus, given your thoughts on my kingly portrait…I simply can’t wait to hear your critique of the rest of my work.”

“Oh, the busiest man in the entire world?” she echoed, her tone rich with mock surprise. “Well, I’d hate to be the one to distract you from such important duties.” Her voice was teasing, but there was a glint of curiosity in her eyes.

Finally, she unfolded her arms and placed her hand in his, her fingers warm and light in his grasp. “But who am I to turn down an invitation from such a busy man?” Her smile softened, a hint of sincerity slipping through her playful tone.

“And don’t worry—I’ll be sure to give my critique, fair and honest as always. Just know that I’ll hold you to that promise of the lake. I may be a lot of things, but I’m certainly not one to forget a promise.” With that, she inclined her head, a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she allowed him to lead the way.

Milo’s fingers closed lightly over hers, his grip confident yet unhurried, as though there was all the time in the world despite the mountains of preparation yet to be done over the next few days before the launch. With a faint curve to his lips, he led her toward a specific section of the space, where the soft hum of conversation and footsteps between the workers and those who had found their way with early passes faded into the background.

He paused before a smaller doorway, stepping aside to let her enter first. “Prepare yourself, Lady Edwards,” he said, his voice low with a hint of playful warning, “for here lies the true heart of my work. I suspect it may surprise you.”

He glanced back at her, his smirk unmistakable, before removing the cover from a painting next to them. It was rather large, so much so that shadows seemed to crawl out from its very edges, wrapping around the figure barely visible at the center. “The Whisper,” he said, his voice quieter now, his hand resting lightly on the frame. “A personal favorite of mine. It’s not meant to be comfortable. Art, after all, isn’t always kind. Sometimes, it reminds us of what we’d rather not see.”

“What do you think, Little Miss Chaos? Too much darkness? Or perhaps…” His lips curled into a teasing smile. “…just enough?” Milo stepped back, studying the piece for a moment before glancing at her again.

Ariella tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took in the painting. “Chaos suits me, doesn’t it?” she teased, her voice laced with playful defiance. “But this… it’s not just dark. It’s something else. Like it’s alive.” Her voice softened, a flicker of genuine admiration creeping in as her gaze lingered on the piece.

Milo moved suddenly, with purpose, toward another painting. With a fluid motion, he pulled the cover away, revealing a piece of art that seemed to pulsate with its own raw energy. It was a vast, sprawling canvas, dominated by shades of deep crimson and bruised purples. The scene was fragmented yet cohesive: a faceless figure emerging from a churning sea of hands, some grasping, others reaching, as though in desperation or prayer. The edges of the painting dissolved into shadow, giving the impression of something endless and consuming.

“I call this one The Weight of Wanting,” Milo murmured, stepping back so she could take it in. “Desire, hunger, need... It devours as much as it sustains. It’s beautiful in its tragedy, don’t you think?”

Ariella's breath hitched as she absorbed the painting's intensity. “It’s… haunting,” she admitted, her tone softer now, almost reverent. “But there’s something… painfully human about it. Like it’s holding up a mirror no one wants to look into.”

He didn’t wait for her response, instead moving to the next canvas. With a sharp tug, he unveiled a smaller but no less striking piece. This one was painted in stark black and bone white, depicting a skeletal tree growing out of a pile of crumbling masks. From its branches hung fragments of broken mirrors, each reflecting distorted, mournful faces.

“Truth’s Bloom,” he explained, his tone quieter now. “It grows from the lies we tell ourselves, feeding on what we try to bury. But the truth always finds a way to emerge. Sometimes it’s ugly. Sometimes it’s... unforgiving.” His eyes lingered on the piece for a long moment before flicking back to her.

Ariella’s gaze was fixed on the painting, her expression unreadable. “The masks… they’re us, aren’t they?” she said softly, almost as if to herself. “We wear them, thinking they’ll protect us. But in the end, they just crumble.” She turned to him, her eyes meeting his. “It’s raw. Honest. And, yes, unforgiving.”

Milo moved to the next painting, his hand brushing the fabric of its cover as he paused. “This one…” His voice dropped, carrying a weight that hadn’t been there before. “This one is closer to me than most.” He pulled the cover away with slow precision, revealing a hauntingly intimate work.

A single figure sat alone in a cavernous, empty room. The walls loomed with shadows that seemed to shift and crawl, swallowing the light that trickled through a cracked window. The figure’s face was turned away, but their posture spoke of crushing grief, of a burden too heavy to bear. Around their feet lay scattered items... a broken violin, a wilted rose, a small, tattered book... each rendered with exquisite, painful detail.

“Elegy for the Living,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s about those we lose, yes, but also the parts of ourselves that die along with them.” He glanced at her, his stormy hazel eyes searching hers. “Do you see it, Lady Edwards? The beauty in the breaking? The truth in the ache?”

The room felt heavier now, as if the paintings themselves had filled it with their collective sorrow, longing, and fragile hope. Milo stepped closer to her, his expression unreadable. “Each of these,” he said, his voice low, “is a piece of my soul. The side of me that doesn’t bow to kings, smile to the masses, or entertain salons. It’s raw, and it’s uncomfortable, and it’s real. But isn’t that what art is meant to be?”

Ariella tilted her head, her vibrant red hair catching the light as she studied The Whisper, her green eyes narrowing with a mixture of curiosity and something softer. She stepped closer, standing on her tiptoes to get a better look, as though the height might offer her some secret insight. Her fingers twitched at her sides, wanting to trace the shadows on the canvas but knowing better than to touch.

“Darkness isn’t always a bad thing,” she murmured, her voice unusually quiet. “Sometimes it just… feels honest. Like this.” She glanced at Milo out of the corner of her eye, trying to suppress the hint of awe tugging at her expression. “It’s… different. Portraits show faces, sure, but this shows something. Something I can’t quite name.”

When he unveiled The Weight of Wanting, Milo watched her closely, a faint smirk playing on his lips as her breath hitched and she leaned in again, her arms crossing loosely over her chest.

“It’s a lot,” she admitted after a pause, her tone laced with reluctant admiration. “Not too much, though. It makes you feel, and that’s… unexpected.” She wrinkled her nose, trying to mask her intrigue with indifference. “It’s not like those grand, dull paintings of kings that just sit there looking smug.”

As Milo moved to the next piece, Truth’s Bloom, he noted her reaction with quiet satisfaction. She tilted her head again, her hair brushing against her cheek, and frowned—not with displeasure but with thoughtfulness—as her eyes flitted over the skeletal tree and the shattered reflections.

“It’s haunting,” she said softly, standing back on her heels for a moment before rising again onto her toes, as if trying to see more of the hidden faces in the broken mirrors. “Like it knows something we don’t.” She hesitated, glancing at him. “Why do you hide these?” she asked, her voice betraying her genuine curiosity.

“They’re not like anything else I’ve seen, Milo. They… make you look twice. Portraits don’t do that.”
When the last cover was removed, revealing Elegy for the Living, Ariella stilled completely. She didn’t step forward this time, instead hugging her elbows as she gazed at the figure in the painting. Her throat tightened, and she pressed her lips together, determined not to let the ache it stirred show on her face.

“It’s lonely,” she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And heavy. Like the kind of sadness you carry because you don’t know how to put it down.” She paused, her gaze flickering to the broken violin. “It’s beautiful, though. In a way that hurts.”

She looked at him then, really looked, her eyes searching his face for answers. “Why would you want to hide these parts of yourself?” she asked, her tone soft but insistent. “You say they’re uncomfortable, but they’re… alive. These aren’t just paintings—they feel something. They make you feel something.” Her cheeks flushed as she realized how earnest she sounded, and she quickly added, “Not that I’m saying I like them, of course. Just… that they’re not what I expected.”

Ariella stepped back, her arms still crossed, though her expression softened as she glanced at the paintings again. “You’re right, though,” she said quietly. “Art isn’t supposed to bow or smile. It’s supposed to leave something behind. And this…” She gestured to the room, her voice trailing off. “…it does that.”

Milo tilted his head slightly, as though considering her words. His hazel eyes gleamed with a flicker of something unreadable…mischief, perhaps, or maybe satisfaction. He took a measured step closer, the soft rustle of his silk shirt filling the pause between them.
“Hiding them?” he echoed, his tone low, carrying the weight of his amusement. “Oh, Lady Edwards, far from it. These”...he gestured to the haunting collection around them... “are about to be laid bare for the world to see. Every shadow, every fractured reflection, every ache I’ve poured onto these canvases will be spread before Sorian’s prying, judgmental eyes.”

His hand grazed the edge of Elegy for the Living, his touch deliberate but reverent. “But now that you’ve seen them first,” he murmured, his voice softening, “I can’t help but feel as though this moment belongs to us alone. A secret, just for you and me, before the masses try to make sense of it all...or worse, twist it into something it’s not.”

Milo’s eyes lingered on her, sharp and searching, as though he was committing her expression to memory. Then, his lips curved again, this time into something warmer, less guarded. “Let Sorian see them,” he continued, his voice more than resolute. “Let them try to wrap their minds around the weight and the shadows. But whatever they take from these pieces, it won’t compare to this...to witnessing you standing here, raw and unfiltered, letting them truly and wholly wash over you.”

Ari's gaze admired the paintings, her eyes tracing the intricate details as though unable to tear herself away. The intensity of her focus was palpable, as if each brushstroke held some unspoken truth. A soft chuckle escaped her lips, a fleeting sound that danced through the quiet room, followed by a smile that curved playfully across her face. But then, something shifted—like a cloud passing over the sun. The smile faltered, fading into a quiet sorrow as a thought seemed to settle in her mind. Her eyes, bright and full of life only moments before, clouded with realization.

"Sorian doesn’t like the strange and unusual," she murmured, her voice tinged with a mix of resignation and quiet bitterness. "They much rather you wear shoes and curtsy to every demand." Her shoulders, once poised with an air of casual confidence, sagged in defeat, as if the weight of her words had taken their toll. "It’s a shame that these will likely be scrutinized…."

Her eyes shifted from the paintings to their creator, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them before she spoke again, her tone softer now. "I like the strange and unusual though," she added, a spark of warmth returning to her gaze as it once again found its way to the artwork before her. The smile that bloomed on her lips this time was genuine, albeit tinged with a bittersweet fondness. "You paint portraits and landscapes, but I think these are the most honest I’ve seen."

A soft sigh escaped her, as though she had been holding her breath for far too long. Slowly, she took a step back, her body relaxing as she clasped her hands in front of her, the motion almost meditative. "At first, I thought you might paint me like you did the portrait of the king," she said, her voice trailing off with a touch of uncertainty. "But now… I hope you do something like this."


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