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It never seemed to rain in Tristitia anymore. The land was nothing but a dry, barren wasteland where no fool dared to tread; trees dried and cracked in the middle of winter when it used to snow. At times it felt as though the sun never set, but every night when the sun set, those who lived there wondered why they even had that thought, and why they seemed to repeat it - perhaps there was something about the way the days dragged that made the inhabitants feel as though one day went on for a whole year.
It never used to be like this. There never used to be this much bloodshed, either, but war is war and no one can stop the hellhounds that came with it and the way they stripped the land of its natural beauty. The half orc remembered when the land was lush, the land he and his closest compatriot thrived in, but he was starting to forget it. Every day, a memory is forgotten, and the more time he spent away from Abbot the more he forgot.
A man screamed in the distance, crying to the sky for forgiveness as the last of his goats had collapsed en route to a market in a neighbouring town where he could finally, finally, sell it for a few gold pieces. That was all he had, he cried, nothing but his goats. The hunger took his children, his wife, his water, and now his goats and all he had left was himself. The half orc watched with baited breath, taking his eyes off of the wounded soldier he had been holding the cleanest cloth he could find against a gaping wound that didn’t seem to want to stop bleeding. He watched as the man took out a knife and raised it to his ear in such a manner that he wondered if he had been a cleric, and threw the ear to the ground before repeating the motions on the other side; and then the lips, and then the nose, and then one eye before he, at last, collapsed. The halfling under the cleric’s compressions shuffled a little before tensing again - the cloth was nowhere near sterile, but it was all they had.
The bleeding had stopped, another cleric stepped in to wrap the soldier’s wounds. The half orc’s attention was back to where the man had just collapsed. This was the way it was now. No more snow-covered mountains and sunrises, prestidigitation against the night sky, only famine and the culling of the, what the Ivory Tower called, weak.
Animal excrement and mould filled the air as a wind blew from the south - the foul stench of death clinging to the space around them. It was a stench that a wartime cleric got used to but at times it managed to hit like a freshly sharpened blade through the heart. It was certainly getting to the newbies, the satyr who was mourning over his first loss despite all he did to help especially. Hunched over a rock with a gloved hand to his mouth and the other to his stomach, Whittaker was not looking too good. It worried him, but as soon as he saw Perlah make her way over to him, he knew that everything would be okay.
It was quiet outside of the burning cries of wounded soldiers and villagers, the result of a bandit attack or mass pillaging they did not know, all they knew was that they were called from all corners of Tristitia to assist with the wounded and care for the dead and dying. Next to the man Robby had just patched up was a small child who will never see the light of day again, for there was an axe lodged into their skull, mutilating it beyond repair. They looked to be beaten and bruised, too, suffering for god knows how long from internal injuries before the axe had been thrown - this part, Robby thought, was always the hardest part of the job. A cleric’s job was to care for those in need, but it became all too hard when children got involved, especially if there was no family nearby.
The family.
The family.
The………….
Oh, and it was getting all too much and suddenly the soft, sweet voice of the wood elf he so desperately wanted to speed up her rhythm felt like a puncture to his eardrum, she was sweet, one of the many in his team that he considered his own child, but he so, so, so desperately wanted her to stop talking and asking a wounded villager about what actually happened because, in Robby’s eyes, that was not important right now because a child was mutilated and all Mohan cared about was connecting with those who lived but they could do that later. Later. Later.
The woman Mohan was speaking to did not know the mutilated child. Robby couldn’t stand to be there anymore.
With a huff, the half orc stood, armour rattling and clanking as he stepped over the blanket of bodies piled up to the heavens, careful he didn’t crack any bones or hurt anyone that was calling out for a cleric to save them; his pace speeding with every step, passing an aasimar who had his eyes locked on him, cautious to speak because he knew, oh he knew so well, not to pester him when he got like this. But he was worried, so worried, that this would be the day that Robby walked into the woods and never came back. Had Dana been there too, she would have thought the same.
The aasimar watched him still, his bold, blue eyes away from the soldier he had just fed some medicinal herbs to help an invisible ailment and on the half orc walking away. It was always a bit worrisome when the leader walked away, but he knew all too well that Robby walking away meant he was avoiding whatever situation was coming his way - was it the noise? The weight of the world on his shoulders finally cracking a bone? The terrifying thought of being perceived? His hands were shaking, the aasimar noticed, such a subtle thing that no one but he would have noticed due to the amount of time he had known him and how intimate the two were - a half orc and an aasimar, the most beautiful creature you could ever meet and the most destructive, horrendous looking thing. That didn’t bother Langdon, though, there was something nice about a holy creature being seen with something unconventional.
And so he watched and waited. Waited for the right moment to follow him. It was never the right moment, but still he got up and followed, the bloodstained feathers on the sides of his head fluttering as he followed.
The world echoed in the half orc’s brain, rattling back and forth back and forth to the point in which he did not hear anyone come up behind him. If anyone did, he would punch them in an instant, but part of him thought that he wouldn’t this time. Perhaps he was too out of it to control his motor skills, a basic necessity for his line of work, not to mention a basic necessity for life. Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he continued to walk and never came back, falling off the rocky cliff that he and Abbot met at from time to time discussing how Abbot finally found a reason to live and asked if what he saw in Mohan was what Robby saw in Langdon. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it wasn’t. Robby didn’t like this conversation.
He knew that it was the same, but he also knew that he would never keep a portrait of Frank in a locket attached to his belt like Abbot did with Mohan. The prettiest girl in the world, Jack called her, much prettier than any elf he had ever encountered before.
But he was walking, yes he was walking. Walking and barely able to hear anything, so much so that he barely felt a ball of fire graze across his shoulder, singing the fabric a little but just close enough to the skin that it snapped him out of his daze.
“Reaction to pain, he’s fine,” A snarky voice came from behind.
Robby turned, eyes blown wide.
He came.
Of course he came, he’s like a dog and you’re his master.
Langdon grinned wide at his partner, a hand on one hip while the other fondled the air, threatening another spell, “Come back, we’re almost done and I think some of the kids need a pep talk,” the air filled with silence, Robby still looking back at Langdon. It got too quiet, so quiet that Langdon was starting to get annoyed; this annoyance manifesting itself in the furrowing of feathers and the illuminated halo that typically rotated clockwise turning anticlockwise. He was frustrated. Robby knew that. What Robby knew more was that it was fun to tease him like that, stay quiet for as long as possible until he turns with a huff and a puff, saying that he doesn’t care when, in fact, he does.
That wouldn’t happen today, though, he concluded after a whole twelve seconds of silence. At last, he nodded and started to walk back. Their pinkies hooked, making the holy markings on Langdon’s skin glow subtly. They’d unhook them as soon as they were in sight of the team.
Robby would look over his shoulder from time to time, letting the all too familiar call of death will him back to the cliff.
-
From the outside, the inn looked peaceful, tucked away behind bushes. Its structure was made of varnished, weathered oak and many, many windows; some foggy with age and some brand new. Despite the early hour, workers could be seen scurrying past the windows on the bottom floor, presumably rushing to prepare breakfast and run errands before the majority of people rose. A bustling inn, the most popular in the region and run by an old flame, an old colleague and her daughter; she had swapped out the medical life after adopting her daughter, knowing that it was safer that way. Her daughter would never be stripped away from her. She’d tried so hard to become a mother, after all. Near the top floor of the inn was a special window. This particular window was one of the lucky ones that featured stained glass - a religious image depicted. Light entered it in kaleidoscopes, rainbows dancing up the walls as if they were fairies.
A band of tabaxi stood upon the stage surrounded by candles and large, warm lights that an artificer had made on the spot after overhearing someone mutter and grumble about there not being enough light on the stage and that the tabaxi band were shrouded in darkness. Carefully woven rugs adorned the wall behind them, books on shelves as if they were trying to make the tavern look somewhat sophisticated when it was anything but, the band played and played on their instruments, funky music soaring through the air that bubbled indoors.
A man to the left of the room appeared to be drinking more than what was considered healthy, and yet stayed standing. He seemed at peace with a stout in hand.
There was a group of misfits in every corner of the building. Orcs would hold arm wrestling contests and throw food at one another if they lost, sometimes even ending in a bar fight that would be observed by a group of fairies that would flutter around, casting prestidigitation in the form of sparkles or light to rile them up even more, laugh, the fairies would, for they loved to cause mischief. In the fog of someone’s pipe, a goblin would play cards with a bugbear, a lizardfolk and an orc who appeared to want nothing more than to stay away from the group of fighting orcs across from them - he’d snarl at them and go back to his card game right away - the pipe belonged to a genasi, one who told stories as if they had seen every second of the world from the moment it was created. All of this did not diminish the music that played, the murmurs, shouts and pint glasses broken against the concrete floor only bringing an additional harmony to the band.
The band was not enchanting, nor very good at what they were doing, but it was enough to keep Langdon’s eyes stuck on the stout that sat in front of him. In a way, he had no idea what he was doing there, outside of paying a visit to an old friend. Perhaps it was the allure of a collective effervescence? To be in a room with people from all different waypoints on the map, none from the slaughter he and his partner had just come from, all from places that knew him as nothing but an aasimar, and his partner as a half orc, that happened to be at a mediocre tavern on a night where the tabaxi band performed. A moment to forget the poverty and war he had just helped clean up.
No one sat in front of him aside from a bugbear who wove what appeared to be a blanket for the child in her lap, paying no mind to anything but the pieces of wool wrapped around her fingers. Knitting needles were rare these days, so people had to make do with what they had. The aasimar watched intently, distracted as if he were tied up with a distant memory. A memory of home.
There were only a few seconds of peace in that moment before the crashing sound of plate and cutlery to table snapped him away. Robby had returned from his chat with Collins and her daughter, somehow managing to weasel a discounted meal out of her. He pushed his plate towards Langdon, letting him take a few items before pulling it back, letting them both sit in silence as they ate.
It was always like this after a long day mending wounds and cleaning the dead, ensuring that humanity was upheld and no one was left alone and unclaimed. They had tried to talk about it in the past, but sometimes it was better to just sit and enjoy each other’s company. That was what it was. Sitting and remembering that their significant other was still alive. The tabaxi band still played, disrupting the peace and quiet they longed for. It was no use hoping to sit in silence - taverns were never the best place to go to after a job, but Langdon was raised by an old tiefling who could never be seen without a pipe in her mouth and an irritable tone when she spoke, so it was the only real place that felt like a hug from his mother. Dana still hugged him when she could, she’d never stop hugging her surrogate son and daughter, but Cassie and Frank were always so far from her and drenched in work that she hardly got the time to anymore.
“I keep thinking about that kid with the axe,” Langdon finally broke the air, reaching out and squeezing the half orc’s hand twice, a silent communication of affection, “Hit a bit close to home.”
“Well,” Robby squeezed his hand back before he continued, voice blunt and to the point, “That’s the job, Frank. It never gets easier and it’ll only get worse from here. You should know that.”
-
It was early autumn, nearing the middle, in fact, a little after the sun had risen. It was chilly, gearing up to be warm once again, but not quite there yet. It was a time of boiling warmth despite an icy cold from the early hours of the morning - two opposing forces contrasting each other delightfully.
Splintered sunlight peered through the curtains, the drapery ornately decorated with intricately woven patterns, it crept forward and forward, stretching across a table which homed a set of leather gauntlets, lockpicking tools, medical supplies, and a myriad of daggers from unknown origin; potions and apothecary tools on another table, hidden from the sun in this moment. A stick of incense had just been lit and recently blown out, for its ember burned bright and smoke began to fill the room. Warmth engulfed the room in a multitude of ways. The room started to smell ambiguous, displaying notes of wood and frankincense, an intoxicating scent that would do nothing but calm the senses. The sun crept further, pointing towards the aasimar cleric who sat at the centre of the room, not too far from the burning incense, legs crossed in a lotus position, wings gently swaying as they allowed him to hover slightly above ground.
It was something of a morning ritual that Langdon had learnt in recent months; a way of draining the last of the forbidden magic he had toyed with behind everyone's backs for years as a way of dealing with the massacre which took his kids and wife from him. It was a slow and steady process, one that started with tapping back into the basics of clericism and then earning the trust of those he had hurt once more. It was tormenting, Sisyphean, even, but one must think Sisyphus is happy, and Frank, despite the pain he was in, was learning to be happy. While the loss of his wife and kids was life shattering, he was learning to honour their memory and allowing himself to fall in love again. It was okay.
He’d light a stick of incense and meditate for a few moments. He hovered, soft, light robes flapping gently around him. Candles surrounded him in a circle, each pillar candle standing at different heights and stages of burning, some nearing the end of their life, and some bought just the other morning from a merchant who hand crafted them whose store sat right on the riverbank so that he could collect clay from the soil to create plates to eat from when food became more plentiful. It wasn’t entirely his own collection, most of it an offset of what he and Cassie had stolen from their mother as children or some of Robby’s that he was just borrowing for one session, but then one became two and two became three and suddenly Robby started to buy a new set of candles for his own rituals. The half orc barely meditated, anyway. It was a battle Langdon was losing.
Robby did see the appeal in meditation, especially considering the job of a cleric is to be in touch with the body and soul and how it entwines with the world around them. He’d be stupid not to understand that. There was just something so terrifying about the thought of being stuck in his own mind. He was happy for Langdon for returning to his roots and bettering himself, but it was simply not for him.
How sweet, he’d think as he watched his beloved light a stick of incense with the snap of his fingers before settling into what looked like true peace, how sweet this aasimar is.
Times like these made him forget the punches, the screaming, the death grips, the pushes, the spells that neared hexes and banishments. It always seemed to leave something of a bad taste in his mouth, recalling those memories, but somehow he knew that there would come another day that he’d want to push him off of a very high vantage. He’d fail him again, they both would fail each other, and it’d end in bruises cuts and kisses that hurt for months on end. And somehow, somehow, he knew that there was a part of Frank that liked the torment, the unstable power dynamics; and Robby would be lying if he said he didn’t too.
But enough of that.
And now here Langdon was. Finally having a moment of peace and quiet before his beloved. It was arguably his favourite time of the day; nothing but the sound of birds chirping good morning, rustling leaves as a squirrel scurried about, and his own breath reaching his ears. The world seemed to stand still. It was just him and this little piece of the world. Pure serenity. Arcana and chakra woven into something beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Kutastha Chaitanya. All things are woven on the loom of eternity, consciousness is at its purest.
“Michael,” A soft voice came from what felt like the echoes of time itself, “I know you’re watching me. Worried I’ll do it wrong?” The aasimar was watching him with one eye open and a gentle smirk to match; a set of feathers had moved from his face so he could see the other. It was rare for him to call Robby by his given name, but whenever he did it was always met with soft, gentle blue eyes and a teasing grin. Aasimar were traditionally seen as good luck, visitors from the heavens, but there was always something a little more sinister behind those eyes, or perhaps that was just the way he saw him. Things should not fall to ruin, they will not fall to ruin, will they fall to ruin?
Dana said she felt like her god spoke to her directly the day she found the young aasimar, and then the second one a few days later, soon calling them her children. Tieflings were, on the contrary, said to bring bad luck and ruin to everything they touched, so whatever god that blessed Dana with Cassie and Frank knew that that was not true; tieflings had hearts of gold.
Shuffling under the covers a little before, Robby shrugged, letting his head raise a little to get a good look at the man in front of him.
Golden light spread across the room, creating a shadow on the wall in front of Langdon in the shape of the stained glass window, the stained glass making little parts of the light a slightly different tone of gold than others. The sun had fully risen. Langdon had closed his eyes again, looking to be at peace and Robby knew he was back in his meditative trance.
All was well, all was well, all was well.
One with the world. One with the universe. That is what he was.
Robby could swear he saw some of the dark magic spill from the tips of his feathers. Fluttering away and back to Shadowfell, the realm in which dark magic came from.
Suddenly, a gentle pressure was placed on his forehead, pulling him out of his meditative state. Jolting and losing balance, he fell to the ground but did not raise his guard. A hand cupped one of his gentle rubbing with what felt like calloused thumbs. Not battle worn, but worn from years of aiding those in need; a cleric’s hands were often overlooked, seen as gentle and kind compared to those of a soldier’s, but in reality they were just as calloused. Lives were held in their hands. There were even times where he had helped women give birth in active warfare, small fey blessing the rough hands of a half orc, careful that the glass-like skin did not fracture on his leather gauntlets.
Langdon shook his head as he looked to the half orc, eyebrows furrowed and the intricate gemstones that adorned his clothing jingled as he moved, “I was meditating.”
Robby raised an eyebrow, “You were doing it wrong,” A lie. He squeezed his hand as a form of comfort. Again, twice as a sign of affection, a silent I love you. Suddenly every bad thought he’d had about Frank a moment prior disappeared.
Langdon grumbled, knowing it was a lie, before he offered a gentle smile and nodded in thanks. Despite it all, he was still Robby’s best.
All was well.
-
The bandits came again.
Perhaps it was a result of the heavens finally opening, the first rain in years? People indoors and unable to go outside because they feared drowning, those who had never seen rain fearing it was acid falling from the skies, a punishment of sorts that forbade them from going outside. The bandits came. They came and pillaged the village where Mel and Whittaker had stayed that night; Whittaker witnessing firsthand what injuries would need treating while Mel frantically used her scaled hands adorned with rings and rings and rings and a botched summoning circle to call the rest of the team. They needed to come as soon as possible or there would be no village and Mel, the poor half elf, despite her scales, a trait brought on by academia rather than birth, showing a talent for draconic sorcery, was fearful that the two of them would not be able to fight back if they were hit next. A meek satyr and anxious looking half elf were an easy target.
Whittaker always thought that if he were to die in the field, he’d die happy if his best friend were nearby.
Mel thought the same.
They were never sure where the bandits came from, nor why they came beyond the intent to pillage, to destroy, to keep the masses poor. No one wanted to put meaning behind the heinous acts committed in the world, especially as they filtered through personal belongings to find the smallest piece of evidence that the woman who had her unborn child spewing from her stomach, organs missing but bones and child intact, was loved. No one but Cassie.
Frank learnt early on not to get too attached to those he treated, completely going against the words Dana raised him on. Cassie, despite her hotheadedness, hardly akin to the typical aasimar, never lost that compassion - it worried Dana, but even she saw that those she treated came out a lot happier than those her brother treated. Cassie could tell how hard it was for her brother to follow the sterner exterior that Robby lead with at times, but, perhaps, she thought, that empathy never left, Frank reserving it specifically for their leader; for moments in the lowlight where an aasimar and half orc danced to the beat of the trees swaying in the evening wind.
A dance would be saved for later.
There was always a dance saved for later.
The winds brought with them a spiced aroma, one that was from a specific time, a specific place, one Langdon hadn’t smelt in a very long time. He hardly got the chance to indulge in the scent because it was immediately replaced with the smell of rotting flesh; a minotaur ripped to shreds passing by on a stretcher to the makeshift morgue across the way - they made a morgue everywhere they went, so often that they couldn’t remember if it was Samira’s idea or not. It was a nice little place, a place to pay tribute to the dead and for their bodies to be laid out for their loved ones, if any remained, to say a final prayer. They were never sure if anyone came to say goodbye, due to how in demand they were at times and needed to move from location to location with little room to twiddle their thumbs, but some saw comfort in the thought that visitations occurred.
Robby scrunched his nose as the body passed, shaking his head quickly to return his focus to the amputated leg he was trying to reconnect to the body - a difficult spell that required the utmost attention. From the outside, he looked to be one with the arcana, entirely focused and not once shifting his attention, but as the body passed by, Langdon noticed the way his hands started to shake, shoulders curving and a silent, invisible mage hand summoned to slap him out of it. It was something small, and yet it meant everything. He never liked the idea of the morgue being so close to where they worked, but where were they to go if not there?
The concept of death frightened him, but it also enticed him. His hands shook still, a fear that he could not save the person he was trying his hardest, his absolute hardest, his very hardest, to help would not make it out of this like the five others who did not prior. She held onto one of Langdon’s hands, squeezing it so tightly that he feared his own circulation would give up, wailing as if in competition with the rest of the cries around her.
“You alright, cap?” The aasimar almost whispered, facing the woman below them but looking through the corner of his eye at Robby.
“Fine,” The answer was short. Frantic.
A hand reached over to his own shaking one, gently placing it on top and letting a thumb run up and down the leathery skin, “No you’re not,” These words were shallower than the last, filled with worry and a hope for everything to be okay - no malice, no ill intent, just love and adoration. His hand squeezed the other’s, letting magic flow downwards as support.
Robby’s hands no longer shook. Langdon had a way of charming him like that.
Later, when the woman was walking with a steady gait once more, Langdon let himself flop onto Robby; his head nuzzling into the crook of his neck. Gentle, delicate kisses, like those from a ghost, were placed against the skin of his neck. It was something small and quiet, not anything like what was typical for them both, but so deeply comfortable. A glow seemed to emanate around them - the effect of an aasimar in love.
Mel watched her friend relax in the distance as she prepared her travelling pack to move onto the next village for supplies. She smiled, happy that Langdon was finally happy once more.
-
Days later, the air had grown colder. The rain had stopped but left a permanent mark on the average daytime temperature. This particular morning had been slow with nothing eventful occurring besides the blackbird that perched at their window and pecked around once every few hours. A nest must be nearby.
The two of them had spent hours in the town square, stopping by each and every store that piqued their interest, all in the hopes of helping those who were begging to get by - a potions store to stock up on greater healing potions that they absolutely did not need but you never know in this line of work, an armoury for the pauldrons Langdon had been saving his copper pieces for, and various other stores for a few knick knacks that would inevitably be squashed between the pages of a spellbook; so many of them in there at this point that they would not think too much of it, he had so many in there already. A leatherworker supplied them with hides that none of them knew what to use them for, they just had a feeling that they would need it. Into the bag of holding they went, never to be retrieved once more.
Just as they were approaching an arcane store, a cool wind brushed past. It was nothing but a soft breeze, but there was something about it that made Langdon tense, shoulders rising to his halo.
Was he scared? What was it that made him tense up?
No, he wasn’t scared. It was nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. Nothing at all and nothing to pay any mind to - there was just something in the air. Absolutely nothing to worry about.
He knew exactly what it was, yet he chose to ignore it, knowing all too well what would happen if he followed the scent that the winds bore. It was a prickling sensation, one that crawled its way into the holes of his skin and ripped his body to shreds; it picked and pulled apart his organs, rearranging them into positions which would cause his body to feel as though it were bleeding, crying, screaming for help. A rough hand stroking down his back before it cut his wings off and plucked his feathers until he looked like nothing but a human.
The dark arts worked their way into one’s body through the act of temptation. He had been tempted once more and now the urge to crawl back into the neverending tunnel, pitch black and no exit in sight, was in his sights once more. He shivered, suddenly unable to hide the fear that hid behind the bright blue of his eyes - blue skies turning grey and murky in an instant.
It was suffocating. He was suffocating. Suffocating, and yet he could not move; he had a mouth and yet he was unable to cry for help. It was dark, it was getting too dark, his head was dipping a bit too far under water and he could not swim.
Is this it? Are the dark arts stuck with me forever?
Oh, oh so slowly, did his head turn to look at the force on his back, terrified that the god of the night themself was right behind him, hand on his shoulder, and when he turned to meet eyes with the one scratching at his back through the silk he wore, he jolted. It was the god of the night, a tantalising grin on their face, laughing sinisterly as if to say that recovery was not possible. There was only relapse.
There was a loud chorus of cheers in the distance. He snapped out of it.
A row of people hung from nooses in front of a crowd who appeared to be in utter bliss that those people had been hung. Limp and lifeless, they hung like ducks in the window of his childhood home, the ducks that he and Cassie had caught during the day while Dana worked and smoked when she came home, letting them hang in the window to dry out before they ate.
“Frank?” A gentle voice came from above, right where the God of the Night had been just a moment prior.
He did not cry. He did not shake. He stood there, eyes wide. It was Robby. It was not the God of the Night at all, just the half orc he travelled with with a hand placed to his back.
One of the hung men was cut loose and a group of soldiers immediately got to work on disemboweling him. His organs would be sold or thrown into the crowd for those who begged for anything to eat, even if it was one of their own kind. Langdon shuffled a little so that scene was out of his vision. That man had a mother.
Robby bent down a little to meet his eyes, finding himself eternally lost in the aasimar’s eyes with how vast and blue they were - he often believed that they were a vision of what the afterlife was. How beautiful that would be, “We good here?” His brows were furrowed and jaw slightly ajar, “You don’t often flap your wings like that, especially when you’re frozen in place. Looked a bit pissed off but…..Not in the way you usually look when you are.”
Langdon nodded frantically, a bit breathless for no reason other than the racing of his mind, “Yeah, yeah! I’m fine,” he kept his wings close to his body; a defense mechanism.
A sigh came from the other followed by a shaking head. He did not speak as he moved, knowing that any further words would cause nothing but an argument and that was the last thing he wanted to do right now. Slowly, but steadily, he moved his arms so that they wrapped around Langdon’s lanky body, careful not to squeeze him too hard with his orcish strength and to be nothing but kind to the one in his arms.
Light radiated from the markings on Langdon’s body.
Thereafter, his wings wrapped around them both, creating a little safe haven for them both to share nothing but gentle kisses and the soft, silent sound of their breath.
-
The morning sun trickled through a tiny opening in the curtains. It was a bright, burning sunlight, one that chased the rain from a few nights prior away, the sky outside a deep azure, blue skies and clear, not a cloud to be seen up above. A wyvern hatchling scratched against the windows of their inn room causing the outside world to become nothing but a blur, a distant memory.
They had been sharing a room with Abbot and Mohan the past few nights, since they had left their last job at the same time and ended up making their way together to an inn that was fully booked outside of one room definitely suited to two people but desperate times call for desperate needs. Abbot had been kind enough to let them use the bed, although he did make a snarky comment about how those with back issues shouldn’t sleep on the ground like youngins like he and Mohan.
The two had left the room a few moments prior, having left in search for something to eat with what little coin they had. Mohan would giggle to herself as her beloved seemed to forget his age and race down three flights of stairs, barely even touching the stairs he moved so fast, he would make it to the ground floor in the time it took Mohan to blink, and now the two of them were seated at a table with a piping hot bowl of goulash each. The inn was not busy at this time of the morning, a quiet drone of a hum filled the room, but every now and then Abbot would turn to look at a meek eladrin asking everyone she could build the courage up to speak to if they knew where a teaching nurse was. Abbot took a mental note to summon Dana after breakfast.
Back in their room, the sun crept further and further until the rays bounced off of Langdon’s feathers; little shadows that danced across the glasslike skin like fairies on their way to a tea party in the eternally blue sky above.
“What are you doing?” The aasimar finally asked after what felt like hours of watching Robby’s index finger running up and down the golden patterns that wrapped around his ribs from behind, up his shoulders and down his arms, spending extra time to run around one of the parallel lines that swooped from his costal region and up to his collarbone, the two mirroring each other on either side of his body. This seemed to be a precious task, something so gentle, something that someone who would not run away or hurt him would do; he was here just to love him. For now, at least. Later, there would be another argument, another betrayal.
But that was later.
“I like the markings on your body… They’re pretty,” The other mumbled, voice muffled partly due to the way his head burrowed into the crook of Langdon’s neck, “Little mazes for me to run my fingers over,” A gentle hum as he took a break to press a small kiss to the base of his neck, and then another one, and then another one, “Though my favourite is the one at the base of your wings. On your back - I didn’t know that you had them until you let me look at your entire body… I’m not even sure if you’ve seen it yourself,” He pushed himself up on his elbows, looking down at the alluring creature below. He’d scan the markings all over his torso as if committing them to memory.
He only shook his head in response, not having the words to explain how he never really cared for the markings on his skin. Every aasimar had them. Why was Robby so entranced by his specifically?
Robby liked a lot about him.
Sweet, sweet half orcish Robby. He was head over heels for this aasimar.
Exasperated, Robby continued, “You’ve got streaks going down your back, they’re like engravings that stop at the base of your wings,” he reached down to tap his nose with a finger, a gentle tap that would snap Langdon out of whatever he was staring at, whatever he was overthinking. In truth, he was too busy staring at the little battle scars that made up the beauty of Robby’s face - the little cuts and bruises that never healed, the scar that made its way from the base of his neck to his hairline,, “You adorn yourself with gemstones, and yet there are beautiful streams of gold embedded in your skin already. You’re beautiful, Frank, I’ve always thought so.”
Langdon was never quite sure of the exact moment that Robby started taking notice of his attributes. He never was.
-
Langdon had taken up playing the ocarina on their travels. Robby didn’t know where it came from, nor did he understand where the aasimar found the time to learn how to play it in between resting, travelling, and working, but he did recognise the style as that of dwarven carvings, but that didn’t matter; what did matter was that the moments where they were on the verge of an argument - another bout of bickering that could end in harm, the verge of death, the stripping of magic from one’s hands - were pushed back by a delightful tune from an unseen servant that Langdon had summoned without Robby’s knowing. An unseen servant, if a caster had mastered the spell, was a direct copy of the caster, after all. The half orc would never admit to it being a joy to listen to Langdon or his unseen servant pitter patter along on his instrument.
The night was still fairly young, the remains of dinner abandoned for just a moment but not abandoned enough for any creatures of the night to invade their little campsite. It was a rather brisk night despite it being on the cusp of spring and summer which was rather odd but perhaps not too odd for the area that they were in at present - neither of them had been to Retsina in their travels before. One could see the stars perfectly from their location, the sparkles that radiated from them somewhat hypnotising; a reminder of how big the world truly is.
Neither of them knew the names of the stars, they weren’t astrologers, and yet they spent their evenings mapping out where they would go first if they were to travel through space one day and if they could cure all illness from up there. It was a bit of a childish thought. All that mattered, though, was that they were good enough for them. Enough room for mysticism. They were, as Abbot would say, mystified.
Too lost in thought, the half orc didn’t take notice of the tunes that were playing behind him. Nor did he notice that the tunes were played by Langdon’s unseen servant and that he was approaching him and would soon take his hand, snapping him out of his daydream.
Robby protested at first, but that quickly changed when he settled into the aasimar’s arms, head resting against his armoured shoulder; the new pauldrons. He smelt of fig tonight. Musk and fig. Welcome it was, home it was.
And they danced, and they danced, and they danced.
Swooping around each other, comfortable and trusting the other enough that they would not drop them, they would not leave them to rot on the ground.
They were happy. Far too happy.
Dancing together to the sound of Langdon’s ocarina, the two of them, as they lost themselves in each other, realised that this, this little spot here, that this was home.
And it would be home for ever and ever.