Chapter Text
—
"Once more. Try it once more, son."
"Must we really do this here? I'm not getting paid to — "
"Helm almighty, yeh've only a few more moments before I lose my patience. The very future of this business lies with you, Roland!" The dwarf roars, throwing up his hands, sending a smattering of old papers and library ledgers flying into Rolan's unamused face.
Rolan ignores the obvious mispronunciation of his name, choosing instead to roll his eyes and tap his fingers on the countertop, an obvious expression of his disinterest. He's worked for Tymon long enough that he knows the dwarf doesn't mean any disrespect — it's simply his way of telling Rolan he's had enough, and that any further mistakes might cost him a few copper pieces from his paycheck at the end of the month. Little more than an empty threat at this point, but not one he's willing to risk, with all the unrest in the housing market as of late.
With a sigh, he prepares himself to recite the humiliating chant again, painfully aware of the snickering customers around him.
"Welcome to Tymon's Tomes, where dreams come to… er, where dreams…"
"Fly, Roland! It's Tymon's Tomes, where dreams come to fly! Hells, if I had anyone else but you to man the ol' shop, you'd be needin' to find a new job for yerself…" Tymon shakes his head in disapproval, throwing a cranky glance Rolan's way.
Shouldn't it be 'Tymon's Tomes, where dreams come to die'? Rolan snorts to himself, letting his bored fingers fidget with a loose copper piece on the countertop in front of him. Tymon's more of a reader than a writer, and Rolan figures he could write a catchier slogan, were the old grouch to give him two nights' time and a bottle of Arabellan Dry. He can't be bothered to match his employer's exasperated gaze, and hopes his lousy attitude is enough for the old dwarf to take a hint and leave him to the job he's being paid to do.
It's just about midday in the Dock District of Elturel — the sun rests at its highest point of the day, sending a shower of sunlight through the arched, narrow windows that make up the front of Tymon's Tomes. If he had to describe the dimly-lit shop, with all its book-smells and candlelights, in one word, it would be this: old. The customers that huddle behind bookshelves and around each corner are middle-aged at best, positively ancient at their very worst. Tymon himself is getting up there in years, without an heir to the business he clearly believes is the "future of magical literacy". Everything about the place is old, worn, decrepit, so on and so forth; hardly a place suited to his budding genius, Rolan suspects.
From his perspective behind the old hickory counter — the one that Tymon refuses to have refurbished, despite claiming it to be three hundred years old — Rolan can just barely make out the sight of the sailors filing one-by-one off their ships, eager to start their lunch break. Cal and Lia must be among them, he thinks to himself, wondering if they haven't been too hungry since breakfast. It's been awhile since they've been able to find a consistent time to sit down as a family for a meal, especially since Lia started working the night shifts, claiming the extra money would come in handy for a down payment on the hypothetical house they've been talking about for years. A silly dream, but not one Rolan hasn't thought of himself — lately, he finds himself slipping deeper and deeper into his daydreams, risking a lecture from his irate boss.
It's the year 1485 DR, Elturel is at peace, and Rolan's life is at a standstill. As much as he wants to imagine a beautiful, exciting future for himself, where he's free to pursue whatever magical studies he desires, Rolan finds himself struggling to focus on his readings at night, exhausted from the monotonous slog of customer service. His days have blurred into one tedious medley of false enthusiasm, his nights devoted to a half-hearted study of magic. Above all of the mixed feelings he has about the state of his life, uncertainty reigns supreme — he's far from the bright-eyed wizard-in-training he once imagined himself to be, and lately, he's been wondering if the potential for greatness ever existed within him at all.
Tymon eyes him up and down disapprovingly, snapping a bulky finger in front of his eyes to get his attention.
"Yer taking several years from my lifespan, Roland," The aging dwarf sighs impatiently, contemplating whether it's worth his time to drill the slogan into Rolan's apathetic head. "I'm gonna grab a smoke. Watch the front while I'm gone." He makes his way behind the counter before disappearing into the backroom, his thick shoes clunking with each step down to the basement.
When Rolan finally hears the thud of the basement door slamming behind Tymon, he relaxes, allowing his restless eyes to scan the front of the store. It's lunch-hour, but those are usually quite uninteresting for an old shop like Tymon's Tomes — he gets maybe ten customers a day, at best, and maybe two of them slide their way in during lunch-hour. Just enough time for him to get some of his nightly reading in, if Tymon's not busying himself breathing down his neck.
Rolan picks up his time-worn copy of Missives of Candlekeep, actually bothering this time to brush the dust off its edges. He's been having trouble finding the time to read lately — not for a lack of interest, but rather from being exhausted from his monotonous day to actually take the time out to read something he enjoys. Lia's been poking fun at his inability to keep his attention on a book — he's sure she doesn't mean any harm, but it does sting to hear her laugh over how he used to finish five books a night as a child.
Been stuck on page 42 for a while now, huh, Rolan?
Rolan pushes Lia's jesting voice to the back of his mind, flipping open to where he repeatedly dog-eared for fear of losing his place.
As he slowly loses himself in the prose of Trystan P. Shale, Rolan barely notices the hours flying past him. He only notices his shift's almost over when the sun flits away from the window, depriving the room of light.
Rolan sighs. He doesn't particularly feel like getting on his tiptoes to light the candles today, and it doesn't seem Tymon's returning from his smoke break anytime soon, so he continues reading until he hears a low whistle from above him.
"Hello there, little wizard." Rolan looks up, disgruntled, only to widen his eyes in shock. The elf standing before him is just about as tall as he is — he's known elves to be quite short, so her height is the first thing that stands out to him. More important than her height, however, is the plain truth that even a nobody like him can see — she's intimidatingly beautiful, the kind of person he's almost frightened to speak to for fear of saying the wrong thing. Her umber-touched hair is tied back in a perfect braided bun, the kind of style that takes weeks to master on one's own. He can't see a hair out of place on her tanned face, and her eyes are a mesmerizing honeyed brown. Her nose, proud and regal, has a slight crook in it — it only serves to add to her charm, and he finds that his heart races ever faster in her mere presence.
"I — Welcome to Tymon's Tomes, where… where dreams come to die…?" Rolan manages to stammer, a flush overcoming his face. He cringes at the obvious error, hoping he doesn't appear too overwhelmed by the strange customer's presence. "No, I meant — gods, what are you here for— what can I help you with?"
"Well," The stranger allows a small grin to creep onto her lips. She brings a finger up to toy with the collar of her exquisitely tailored robe. "It's good to introduce ourselves before jumping to such matters, is it not?" She extends a cordial hand towards Rolan, who blinks, before graciously taking it in his own. They exchange a firm but polite handshake, and Rolan marvels at the sheer strength of her grip.
"Aleria Greengrass, sole heir to the Greengrass family of musicians, travelling concert pianist. I also dabble in wizardry from time to time. You may have seen me on some of the flyers around town, though the bastards at the Post have butchered my family's honorable name, for lack of a better word…" The elf points to a rumpled flyer next to a disorganized pile of books, and Rolan realizes belatedly that the flyers do feature a picture of her. When he cranes his neck to get a closer look, he realizes that the damned idiots spelled her name as 'Alaria Greengross'.
"That's, well, that's rather unfortunate. If it helps, my boss can't get enough of calling me Roland," Rolan points out sheepishly, hoping to strike a connection with her.
"Oh? So who do I have the pleasure of speaking to, if not the lovely little tiefling Roland?" Aleria shoots back, a flirtatious look crossing her face. Her finger twirls with a loose strand of her hair, the only strand Rolan can see out of place on her otherwise perfect buns.
"I'm… I'm Rolan. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Greengrass." Rolan manages to blurt out, frustrated at his sudden shyness. What about this elf is so alluring to him? What about him is so alluring to this elf? He suddenly feels self-conscious, like the eyes of all the customers in the store are on him. He's not usually this insecure, but he hasn't been hit on since he was a lanky, awkward teen, and certainly not by obvious beauties such as her. If he's not misreading her signs, she seems to be interested in him, but gods, why him?
"No family name, little wizard?" Aleria smirks, amused, and Rolan feels a flush of shame run through his cheeks.
"No, I've never had one." The lie is easy enough for him at this point, but he still feels the sting of abandonment renewed in his chest — briefly, but still present nonetheless. A famous pianist from a family of musicians, and he can't introduce himself as anything but Rolan.
"Well, never mind that. I'm here for a copy of Missives of Candlekeep — you wouldn't happen to know where a lady could get her hands on one of those, would you?" Aleria quickly shifts the subject, her voice as smooth as a songbird's. Rolan recalls, then, her mention of wizardry — his interest piqued, he closes and nervously hands over his own copy of the text.
"Don't bother paying, it's on me. I'm already finished with it." Rolan murmurs, looking away. Bringing up his arms to cross them across his chest, he hopes she won't notice how fast his heart seems to be pounding, or how heavy his lungs feel in his chest.
"My, my…" Aleria seems amused again — a common personality trait of hers, perhaps? Her eyes seem to follow Rolan across the room as he rummages behind the counter for a second copy, trailing him with a bemused interest he's never seen directed towards him before. It leaves a warm feeling in his chest, but tinged with the edges of anxiety, the surprise of being perceived for once.
No one pays attention to the tieflings begging in the street, the orphans clutching copper pieces to their chests, the maimed veterans dying under bridges.
No one pays much attention to the tiefling working the counter.
No one but Aleria Greengrass.
"I'll tell you what, Rolan — let me treat you to something special." Reaching into her pocket, Aleria produces a small slip, an invitation of some sorts. She holds it out expectantly, her wrist bent, as if she's giving a treat to an animal.
Rolan takes it from her outstretched hand, turning it up and down in his palm. The edges are gilded with a sort of gold, and the lettering seems too precise to have been done by anything but magic.
'Aleria Greengrass - Reserved'
"I've got a concert in the South of Elturel today — the concerthall directly to the east of High Hall, if you've ever been there. This ticket should guarantee you front-row seating. A little treat, for a little wizard…" Aleria teases, bringing her fingers up to brush against Rolan's chin. They feel cold against his skin.
Rolan flinches at the touch despite himself: when was the last time he'd been touched like that? But her boldness is a refreshing breath of air in a world of tedium, and Rolan finds that he's intrigued by her interest in him. After all, was he not just wishing for more excitement in his life? Perhaps she's a goddess herself, he wonders, sent by the heavens to change his life for the better.
"I'd love to come, Ms. Greengrass, but may I ask one thing?" Rolan almost feels afraid to ask, but he's not so enamoured with her that he's ready to forget his priorities. After a moment of silence, during which Aleria seems to look him up and down in contemplation, she responds.
"What is it?"
"Do you have two more of these invitations? I have two younger siblings, and they've been dying to go to the concerthall since we were… since we were younger." Gods, did he mean to say it so pathetically? He doesn't want to sound so small in front of her, but it's almost impossible not to in the face of such an imposing personality. Rolan almost shrinks under her gaze, which reads as contemptful — the way one might view an ant under a piece of glass, or a dog in a cage. A look of pure, undisguised disrespect, peppered with hints of amusement.
"I suppose I do have a few more invitations for a cute little tiefling such as yourself," Aleria smirks, producing two more invitations from her pocket. Rolan takes them bashfully, accepting them with both hands, trying not to appear any smaller than he feels.
"Thank you, Ms.— " Rolan's awkward greeting is cut off by a dismissive flick of the hand, as Aleria shoots him a knowing grin.
"I'll be seeing you at midnight, then, Rolan. Take care not to be late." Aleria's intense eyes meet his own one last time, as if she means to leave her memory imprinted in Rolan's mind. She turns with a flourish, tucking Rolan's book under her arm, before vanishing as soon as she appeared.
Rolan can only stand there, turning the invitations back and forth in his shaking hands, trying his hardest not to gape in shock. He's never been to the concerthall in Elturel; though he's lived near it at times in his moments of homelessness, he never thought attending it as an audience member would be in the realm of possibility.
He's snapped out of his surprise by a rolled-up stack of papers hitting him in the back of the head.
"Roland! Slacking off again, eh? I oughta fire you— " Tymon booms from behind him, smelling of freshly-ground tobacco and ashes. Rolan groans in annoyance, suddenly brought back to the harsh reality of menial labor.
As he returns to practicing the slogan in his mind, Rolan thinks of Cal and Lia's excited faces, letting a small smile decorate his face. Perhaps this is the stroke of luck they've all been waiting for — that he's been waiting for.
—
The concerthall is larger than Rolan remembers.
Sure, he's only seen it from the outside, but even as a child he'd never expected the place to be so… refined. Elegant. Cal and Lia seem to feel the same way, if their excited giggles at every statue lining the hallway have anything to say. Rolan has to ask them to tone down their volume — the richer-looking patrons are shooting dirty looks at them as they pass by.
Though he chides them for their reactions, Rolan can't help but stop to admire the architecture himself. The entrance of the concerthall is lined with a grand arch, stretching to nearly three times Rolan's height, adorned with magical lights that sparkle and flicker whenever a patron passes by. The end of the corridor houses a grand marvel of painting, the most realistic one Rolan's ever seen in person, depicting what appears to be a tiefling mother and child. Rolan finds himself marvelling at the painting for far too long — when was the last time he'd seen such a positive public reception to a tiefling? It brings a touch of hope, even to his cynical heart.
If the magnificent hall, with its lights and magic, is beautiful, the auditorium is truly divine. Rolan's transfixed from the moment he walks in — the ceiling seems to reach into the heavens itself, and the whole room's bathed in a warm glow akin to a sort of magical candlelight. For acoustics, no doubt.
As they take their seats, Rolan finds himself feeling nervous. Would Aleria really recognize him, of all people? He still hasn't been able to wrap his head around the idea that someone so objectively better than him could ever show interest in him.
All doubts from his mind fade as Aleria walks out onto the stage.
She's just as stunning as he first saw her, but she's no longer dressed in that intricate robe — instead, she's clad in a dress of pure black, modest yet alluring to the sophisticated eye. Rolan finds another blush creeping onto his face as he struggles not to look at the soft curves of her body, the plush of her lips. As Aleria makes her way to her seat, the audience breaks into a polite applause, eliciting a small smile on her calm visage.
Aleria slides into the seat as the applause dies down into silence.
She raises her fingers to the keys, takes a deep breath, and begins to play.
Rolan's taken aback at first by how gentle the sound is. Aleria's fingers glide effortlessly across the black-and-white piano keys, producing a sound that instantly quells any worries whatsoever on his mind. It's almost like magic, he thinks to himself — the music washes over him like a soothing balm, scabbing over the emotional wounds he never thought to pay attention to.
Rolan watches, starry-eyed, as Aleria blazes through increasingly harder sections of the piece with ease. If she misses a single note, even a single intonation, his clumsy ears catch none of it — she might as well have given him a perfect performance, for what it's worth to him. Her fingers flit across the keys like they're a natural part of her body, and he can't help but fall in love with the expression of pure, unsullied concentration on her face.
Rolan's never paid much attention to the bards begging in the street, let alone to the trained musicians at the concert hall, but it's as if his perspective on the world is changing irreversibly with each note. Music, in all its beauty and pain, flows smoothly through every vein in his body, and he feels as if he's been paralyzed entirely. His eyes can't seem to remember how to blink, and he remains transfixed, utterly devoted to her performance.
Aleria's fingers continue to move deftly across the keys, with the trained ease of someone who's practiced the same song thousands upon thousands of times. During the slower sections, she drags out each note with an indescribably powerful emotion, refusing to relinquish even the slightest sway over her audience.
Rolan finds himself captivated by her passion, the way beads of sweat drip down her chin onto the keys below as she rises and falls, the way her chest heaves with exertion as she enters the most difficult section of the piece by far. His breath catches, near-delirious anticipation overwhelming his senses.
Aleria's face betrays no hint of the pressure she must surely be under. With a magnificent flex of her wrists, she expertly guides her fingers through the trap, bringing each note into the world with a precision he's only seen in the most meticulous of spellcasters.
Perhaps it's the summer heat getting to his head in the stuffy concert hall, or perhaps he's been driven mad entirely by her talent, but from the corner of his eye, Rolan sees her intense gaze flutter for the slightest of seconds. Not to her teacher, watching carefully from the mezzanine above, nor to anyone else in the crowd of thousands of admirers vying for her attention — no, her pensive, steel-brown eyes come to rest on him, of all people. Rolan, the tiefling, the passionless, hopeless clerk of a dying bookstore. Her possessive eyes take him in with a greed he's never seen directed towards him in his life, but in an instant, like a flash of lighting, it's gone again.
When she plays, it's as if he's taken somewhere far away — away from his shitty job, away from the city that's never loved him, away from all the disappointments and failures that he's come to accept as reality over the past few years. Pain, shame, and feelings of worthlessness: they all melt away in her light, turning to dust in the face of her unyielding radiance.
He might be in love with the music. He might be in love with her.
As if on cue, Aleria lures him into the closing touches of the piece, jumping from octave to octave effortlessly. She's almost toying with the audience — with him — the way she painstakingly staggers each note, gradually slowing her pace until the tension is almost unbearable.
Ten excruciating seconds pass, and the room is filled with an overwhelming silence as Aleria closes her eyes and rises from her seat.
He blinks once, and the room around him explodes in applause. Cal gives him a nudge and a look, urging him to rise and applaud her like everyone else. Lia seems just as enraptured as he was; she doesn't even notice that Rolan isn't standing like everyone else, she's lost herself entirely in Aleria's knowing gaze.
You're no better than me, Lia, Rolan snorts to himself as he rises to join the applause.
As Aleria takes her bows, her eyes lower to meet his again, and it's almost as if she's beckoning him closer. Worried he might be misreading her signs, Rolan squints to get a closer look, and is taken aback at the intensity in her eyes.
You're already mine, her possessive gaze tells him.
As terrifying as that prospect sounds, something about it feels inviting to him. A fresh start, away from the noise and the mess of poverty, a life filled with contentment and all the love he's longed for since he was a child.
Rolan waits for the applause to die down, for the satisfied patrons to rise from their seats. As they shuffle one-by-one past him, he takes a quick glance at his siblings. Cal is chattering excitedly to his sister, trying to get her opinion on Aleria's performance.
But Lia remains standing, her eyes fixed on Aleria. Looking around, Rolan notices that she's not the only one. Here and there between the bustle of patrons looking to return to their everyday lives, one or two people — a stout, bushy-haired dwarf in the front row, a tall, pale elf in the balcony seats, two identical-looking gnomes a row behind him — remain standing as they are, completely transfixed by the sheer brilliance of the elf before them.
When Rolan turns to look at her again, he understands, for what seems like the hundredth time that day.
Aleria is beautiful, but not in the way the actors at the Theatre are, perfectly-pointed ears and all. She's one-of-a-kind, a custom sculpture in the atrium, the kind of woman whose power and poise is enough to make heads turn down whichever street she walks. In the dim lighting of the auditorium, she almost seems to have been shaped out of clay by some lovesick sculptor, every angle on her face carefully crafted as a testament to the blinding power of love. The beauty mark on the left side of her face has doubtless been written about countless times, and the soft curve of her lips would drive any ordinary person mad with desire.
Rolan doesn't realize he's become one of them until he looks down at his trembling hands, clenched into fists, covered in his own sweat.
As more patrons filter out of the back doors, Rolan gets the sense that he should really do something about it. She's a travelling pianist, after all, and she did take an interest in him back at Tymon's — why else would she personally invite him here? Why would she search the crowd for his eyes, black-touched and unsettling as they are? Though he finds a tendril of shyness creeping into his throat, he lets his own foolish confidence steel his resolve. The worst that can happen is rejection, after all, and he's known enough of that for years to come.
When he gathers the courage to look at her again, all he sees of her is the back of her perfectly-braided hair, disappearing behind the curtains backstage. As she disappears into the shadows, Rolan notices the slight turn of her head, and the pale glint of her golden-brown eyes boring holes into his face.
Beckoning. An invitation.
Rolan looks around, flustered, noting that Lia seems to have recovered from her fixation — she's already gushing to Cal about how amazingly personal the performance felt, as Cal tries to fend off her requests to make this a monthly event for the three of them. They wouldn't notice if he managed to slip away in the chaos; they'd find their way home, as always, and he'd join them later as if nothing had occurred.
When Cal's back is turned to him, Rolan shimmies his way out of the middle seat, pulling his robes up just above his knees to avoid tripping over them. He's aware he looks ridiculous, but nothing matters as much in the moment as getting to Aleria as fast as he possibly can, for fear of missing out on her radiance.
Hurriedly, he sneaks his way onto the stage, barely managing to avoid the few guards standing watch backstage.
The backstage rehearsal area is simpler than he'd expect from such a large concert hall, but refined enough to suit his tastes nonetheless. The wood-plated room is nearly empty — the ceiling seems to be heightened for better acoustics — save for an expensive-looking grand piano at the very corner of the room.
Rolan lets his hands drop to his knees in an attempt to catch his breath. He thinks he's alone, until he hears a slow clap from behind the piano.
"Well done, Rolan." Aleria Greengrass smiles, the sound of her voice washing over him like a cold morning dew.
Rolan looks up as slowly as possible, acutely aware that he's shaking. Fear, excitement, whatever — clearly she's making him feel something, and that's more than he could have ever asked for from anyone.
There she is — Aleria. Not a mirage or a figment of his tired imagination, a real flesh-and-blood person standing before him. Though she's about ten paces from him, seeing her at this closeness again makes him wonder if he really is dreaming.
His eyes drink in the sight of her. Her slender fingers, tapping lightly on the headboard of the piano in front of her, are undoubtedly the same with which she so effortlessly navigated through her études onstage. The uneven arch of her aquiline nose, perfect in its imperfection, is the very same arch he felt enamoured with during their first meeting. Her eyes are a deep, ever-rich brown, and he feels he might lose himself for hours in their depths.
"Rolan," Aleria repeats, and her practiced finger rises to beckon him closer.
She's beckoning him.
Wordlessly, Rolan nods, taking another step closer. Aleria's impatient eyes leave him wanting more, so he inches closer and closer, until he finds himself face-to-face with her. She's quite tall, though she still stands a few inches below him; it wasn't something he could easily notice from behind a counter, but it hardly seems to matter to her. With a single word, she can make or break him entirely. And surprisingly enough, he finds himself giving in to her influence.
"Rolan… That's a bit too formal for my tastes. We know each other a little better than that, don't we?" Aleria grins — on anyone else, the expression would look mischievous, but the sheer power of her aura overwhelms any sense of humor Rolan might have found in the situation. "How about Roro?" Her hand reaches up to brush the hair back from his face, close enough that he can trace every vein across the top.
The pet name causes a brief revulsion to overtake him. Too informal.
"I, uh —" Rolan stammers, but Aleria hushes him with a kiss.
Like a gently chilled wine.
Rolan leans back as Aleria deepens the kiss, snaking her arms around his sides. It's not his first kiss — he's stolen a fair few "first kisses" of his own, but that was when he was a doe-eyed youth, careless to straying hearts and errant feelings. This, this feels unreal to someone like him. Aleria is wickedly good at kissing — her teeth find the curve of his lip like it belongs to her, and her tongue works itself masterfully behind his fangs. She tastes like expensive liquor, with a metallic hint of blood tinging its edges.
They remain locked at the mouth for what seems like ages, before Aleria decides to break for air.
"Roro it is," she pants, looking quite satisfied with herself. A rogueish glint comes into her eyes, and she grabs both of his hands in her own.
"Sit with me, Roro. Let me show you something." Nodding like a puppet, Rolan follows her to the piano, taking a seat besides her on the bench. The soft velvet of the bench sinks as he rests his legs; it feels like the most expensive seat he's ever been in.
"What do you want me to… do?" Rolan murmurs, genuinely unable to process the past few minutes.
"Shh. Put your fingers on the keys like this." Aleria raises her left hand to the keys. Her thumb, middle finger, and pinky fan out into perfectly split thirds, coming to rest on three of the white keys in front of her. Her right hand comes to grasp Rolan's left, bringing it up to an identical position an octave up from hers. Rolan realizes that Aleria's fingers are abnormally long for an elf of her height — undoubtedly one of the keys to her success.
Rolan tries his best to obey, but his ignorant fingers stumble and slip across the polished surface of the keys. Every note looks the same to his untrained eyes, and his ears are deaf to whatever sound they might produce.
With a huff of frustration, Aleria grabs his hand rather roughly, placing his fingers onto the correct keys for him.
"Press down."
"Like this?" Rolan stammers. He feels more clumsy than he's ever felt in his life.
"No, no — yes. Like that." A single, soothing chord fills the room as Rolan, with Aleria's encouragement, presses hesitantly down on the keys. In an instant, the frustration melts from Aleria's voice, replaced with an eager satisfaction that can only come from hearing the correct note. "See, wasn't that easy?"
"Not… particularly?" Rolan winces as Aleria shoots a glare at him, but it's gone again, replaced with her all-knowing smile. Perhaps he's imagining it, he thinks.
"That was a triad." Aleria continues, pointedly ignoring his unsatisfactory response. "My darling Roro... Music and magic have much more in common than you might imagine." Her hand is trailing down his leg now, slipping beneath his robe in a way that sends shivers of anticipation up his spine.
"Lacing cords of magic come just as easily to me as lacing chords of sound together." Her cold fingers find purchase in the soft flesh of his leg, and Rolan stifles a whimper at the touch. All of a sudden, he feels like the most sensitive tiefling in the world. "The Weave, and wherever the source of this beautiful music is — is it not all quite easy, once you learn the patterns that string them together?" Her voice is little more than a whisper in his ear, and he can feel her hot breath on his cheek.
"I — I suppose, if you put it that way, Ms. Greengrass…" Rolan stutters. If this is a dream, why does Aleria's hand feel so cold on his skin? How can he feel her nails tapping against the now-exposed meat of his thigh?
"Please. Call me Aleria, Roro." Aleria whispers, before tackling his lips in a kiss once more.
Rolan kisses back as deeply as he can this time, lifting his hand to cup her chin. If it bothers her, she doesn't take note of it — she simply embraces him, her hands wrapping possessively around his waist.
Rolan closes his eyes, allowing himself to find refuge in her steady arms.
Gods, if this is all a dream, he hopes he never wakes up.