— in blackwater woods, mary oliver
if i made a starter call just for smut threads would anyone like that
fiyero chuckles, high-pitched and raspy— incredulous at the idea of legato putting such specific thought into his gift.
with it, he pinpoints that spot in her heart that loves and shares and loves to share. he finds it efficiently, wraps his threads around it and tears at its strings. what a darling man.
’ we would, ’ she says quietly. a smile plays around her lips, awe-struck.
she immediately tries the gloves on, motions that are practiced with the finest of fabrics, yet careful in her swiftness. for a moment she’s scared to tear the tips of each finger with her claws. but they don’t rip and she doesn’t think they would have ripped if she’d done it with less care. they fit perfectly smooth against every muscle and sharp talon.
turning her arm as it’s held up a few times, this way and that, fiyero just looks and takes it in. what a darling present.
both hands now blackened and softened by feathers legato had picked one by one, she reaches out to frame his cheeks. those same feathers crowd his vision as fiyero leans in, a sharp pop of colour between all that darkness. and she kisses him.
a soft but firm press. a wild but elegant nature.
’ you tempt me so, ’ comes muttered when she parts from him, thumb gently swiping across his cheek. ’ thank you, legato. i haven’t gotten anything except for wine, but … ’
her grin is cheeky, breaks her face into excited fondness. she thinks she sees her inspiration in him, having made it his very own, and it may be one of the most rewarding things she’s ever felt.
’ … i will get something now. and i will make sure to put as much care in it as you have. ’
kiss another dude’s wife and then make it up to him by kissing him too
went thru my screenshots again. i’m so fond of the lighting in the first one. and also sweaty fiyero. naturally
The very last voice Lorene wanted to hear all night is suddenly right there, in his ear. Lorene turns, and the look on his face as he's suddenly grabbing distance away from Fiyero is nothing short of devastated.
He shouldn't be, though--he's immediately self-aware of his expression, and desperately tries to deconstruct it, and shove its remnants out of sight. Why should he be so stricken at Fiyero's presence? (Nevermind that the gorgeous Tiefling is wearing little more than a leather bralette and some big pants. Lorene struggles to hold onto his last remaining braincell; gods help him, Fiyero is so blisteringly hot.) The bard himself didn't hurt Lorene. Lorene hurt Lorene--Fiyero merely pointed it out. It was a constructive interaction, overall.
Maybe it's the years he spent wandering an unfriendly Multiverse: Lorene knows when he's not wanted. There's something about him that Fiyero despises, and frankly? Lorene doesn't have the strength of heart to defend himself. (He hates himself, too.)
At least...that was the case. That would have been the case. If all Fiyero had done was step up, drag Lorene away, and say what he said, that helpless, hurt look would still be all over his face. He'd still be doing exactly what Fiyero accused him of--shrink away from conflict.
It's when Fiyero shoves the drink into his hand that Lorene's ears twitch upward in budding anger, and his face tighten into an irate frown. Something about the brazen, drunken way Fiyero insists silently join me, or are you a coward? sets Lorene's teeth on edge.
He meets the Tiefling's eyes, and shoves the drink back into his hands. Not so forcefully as to spill it, but the motion communicates plenty. Lorene's spine is straight and rigid.
Telepaths do not drink. They cannot drink. Not if they don't want to be even more of a danger to everyone around them. But how can he say that? He won't. Fiyero doesn't need to know what he is. No one does.
"No." His answer is brisk, a bit sharp, but he tries to stay quiet. He doesn't want anyone overhearing this, knowing that Fiyero has many friends--his fellow Asgardian Reinite Roux among them. "Don't assume things when you don't have any facts." He doesn't hesitate. Not this time. "Is that what you think I am, bard? A vapid, shallow little royal, with a mind only for manipulating the people around me, because my personality is so inherently repugnant that that's the only way I can get others to talk to me?"
His words carry an undertone of steel. It's quiet, and forcibly subdued. He's trying not to be rude. But he's very clearly not happy.
"I got carried away. It's as simple as that. I wanted something I didn't need, and I got carried away chasing it down. Miss Harper wanted it more than I do. I'm only trying to do what's just. The thrill of the chase has no inherent value--but happiness does. And owning the Red Sun will make Miss Harper happier than it would make me."
His spine is still straight. He expects Fiyero to push back, to question him more, to come at him again. He's ready this time.
the glass of wine is pushed back into his hand and fiyero takes it, willingly, an expression of bafflement clear on his face.
it is genuine surprise. a glass of expensive alcohol is an offering of connection in faerûn. so much so that jaheira tried using this custom to poison him the first time they met. it isn’t meant to cause the offense that’s visible in the prince now.
(he clearly remembers coher bringing him a glass of wine whenever they met at a ball, to make the conversation easier.)
lorene seemed to hate it. and he says it, too, with his body and his words, and it’s belated but fiyero’s reaction shines brightly— a smile on his face, pleased and true.
he lets lorene talk, busies himself with the task of emptying his own glass a bit more before slowly pouring the contents of the rejected glass into his own. he’s not one to waste things. and it’s good wine, too, almost as good as the ones his fiancé picks for their collection at home. once the prince is done, he tips the glass up in a silent toast.
’ yes, ’ he says. ’ that’s what i think. ’
he seems thrilled. excited, really. not offended at all, that lorene should let politeness pass them by. he’s being honest now and fiyero prefers that to anything else he could have said.
’ you’ve phrased it so expertly that i assume you know the type. that gives you a much better chance of not being one. ’ he laughs quietly, sips at his glass. ’ a vapid and shallow royal, i mean. naive, maybe— the thrill of the chase is often all there is. if you didn’t enjoy it, or if it didn’t have value, why participate at all? ’
he reaches out with a hand. lorene’s so terribly tense. bending a claw, fiyero nudges the prince’s chin up, so that they may look at each other better. an invitation of closeness he hadn’t made before.
’ the chase can bring happiness, too. especially if you lose. relax, little noble. you’ve made your point and i quite liked it, to see you so riled up. where does all your tension ever go? anywhere fruitful? ’ he shakes his head, drags the tip of his claw across lorene’s cheek very, very softly, before letting go.
his gaze has become a little colder, but he still holds it. and his smile remains.
’ the wine was an offering. expensive ones like this are valuable to me. i rarely ever come across them back home. ’
He did it. He won. The tapestry of the Twilight Tundra was his.
But as Lorene approached the auctioneer, Jack of Clubs in hand, he drew closer to the art gallery--and found himself peeling away from the excited stream of people rushing up to claim their winnings.
The Red Sun was undeniably a beautiful piece. Thread art also happened to be one of Lorene's favorite mediums--what few pieces of art at the Royal Keep back home that had survived the Usurper's ransacking and his mother and uncle's liquidating in order to pay for public works projects tended to be tapestries. More to the point, the scene the artist had depicted wasn't just of the Twilight Tundra. It reminded Lorene of home, so strongly that when he first saw the piece, he thought he might weep.
But now that the thrill of the hunt was over, now that he'd secured a victory (and now that he'd had a chance to step outside and clear his head after overthinking himself into a spiral earlier in the event), the Prince realized what a fool he'd been. The Red Sun was enormous. What was he thinking? There was no way this massive thing would fit into his and Insight's humble little condo.
Something disgruntled and peeved brushed against the edges of his thoughts. No--someone. Lorene's telepathy was (finally) constantly active now, so occasionally he'd catch other people's stray thoughts brushing against his self-made Psionic shields, just like he was used to. Carefully, Lorene lowered those shields just a bit, and looked around the crowded room.
There. The person with whom he'd accidentally gotten into a bidding war over the Red Sun. The Ten of Spades--Helena Harper.
A cold feeling settled into Lorene's gut. A sense of horror and shame--how had he gotten so carried away? And over something he couldn't actually use? It was completely nonsensical. And Helena? Had been nothing but kind to him, from the moment he arrived in Spirale. He hadn't interacted with her extensively, but despite her sharp edges, she had a warmth to her that could not be denied.
She deserved the Red Sun more than he did. She also, apparently, wanted it more than he did. Lorene resolved immediately to make this right.
But he needed to be subtle, and he needed to be quick.
Lorene skirted slowly around the crowd that was slowly dispersing around the auctioneer. Helena was within thirty feet of him; he could do this. He lowered his Psionic shields a little bit more.
The Prince's majyk wasn't strong by any metric. He had a very limited telepathic range, and a very limited telepathic scope. Without leaving himself completely unshielded and vulnerable (unthinkable), he could only send or receive surface (worded) thoughts--or pick up little subconscious thought impulses. But he could send those, too.
Lorene subtly threw out a thought that sounded more or less like the voice of Helena's impulsive thoughts, like a doubtful inner voice, and queried: what's your address? To her, it would seem like an if I had won that auction, I'd be giving the auctioneer my address right now kind of thought process. When Helena's thought-voice answered, Lorene memorized her address, and rebuilt his own Psionic shielding to its previous strength.
The Elf walked up to the auctioneer, handed them his Jack of Spades, gave them his best Gala smile, and quietly, confidently repeated Helena's full name and address for their delivery information.
"I might have to commission the same artist for another piece sometime," he commented offhandedly. "Maybe for a similar piece, just smaller. I really love their work. Thank you so much for all of your efforts today."
of course, he’d been avoiding prince lorene.
not much surprise there. mostly, fiyero was busy chatting with the faces he recognized fondly, like balduran and ethos and helena.
who had lost her piece to lorene, so of course that warrants fiyero’s attention. he’s not sure what he would have said, had he not heard the clear repetition of helena’s address. surely it would have been a tease, a jest, something to rattle the elf and not much else. he seems to lose it as the words leave lorene’s mouth.
’ you really are ridiculous, ’ he says instead.
and just like that he’s putting a hand on lorene’s shoulder to push him away from the auctioneer (gods forbid he stop helena from receiving the piece without spending a single gold piece on it), and then swiftly removes his hand once they’re out of earshot.
’ what use is the thrill of competition if you throw in the towel afterwards? i’ve only seen you shrink from conflict. ’ as they’re walking, fiyero grabs a glass of wine from one of the staff and hands it to lorene— he’s already carrying his own, sips at it with a low smile.
’ or perhaps you’re trying to gain her favour? a generous prince who can afford to pay any amount after raising it all evening, relinquishing his success to the dashing lady he played against. it makes a good story, i’ll give you that. ’
fiyero’s not really saying anything. he doesn’t believe any of it with any certainty. but it is fun, to pick up the few threads he’d discovered about lorene and play with them, see if any of the knots stick.
he’s also clearly drunk and in a good mood. he did just win himself a statue of birds, after all.
i found out what i need
no, there's no meaning except for
what you mean to me
i live for happiness
i live because it feels good
gorgeous bday fizev art done by cryptiduck, gifted to me by @viladlind ❤️
all about health
send one ( or more ) in to learn all about…
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Ask my character “How do you feel about ______?” Can be an idea, person(s), place, or thing, and they’ll have to answer honestly.
fiyero’s room (not the master bedroom that he shares with zevran), where he’ll often work on music or get drunk by the fire or invite friends and/or lovers to.
a big emphasis on extravagant comfort that is messyyy. jewelry strewn about, tons of blankets, a pot of flowers from one of his loved ones … those probably get switched out regularly. he’s a spoiled man.
also, baby bed! look at scratch!
He put a lot of thought into what Fiyero was going to get. She was deserving of more than what Legato was capable of providing; that thought mingled between self-hatred and high praise for the tiefling. So he spent several days figuring something out, crossing things off of the thoughtful list, eliminating ideas that just weren't good enough.
Eventually, when they exchange gifts, Legato offers out his gift box, finished with a large red bow.
" Actually-- this matches what I got for Zevran, " he admits. " I thought you two would like that. "
Legato made Fiyero a pair of elbow length gloves, decorated with the same crow feathers he had gathered up for Zevran's scarf. They are simple enough to match their other outfits, but with a wild, yet elegant nature to it.