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“You hold up well, for a mage.”
Viconia says it one afternoon while they’re mopping up the unexpectedly messy end of some bandits who sought to ambush the party between districts. Edwin makes a show of picking dirt off of one of his sleeves, and only looks up when she doesn’t begin fixing the flaw that is a long, still oozing cut on his arm.
“Well?” he demands, and if he’s not mistaken, she almost appears mirthful, “I’m waiting. Are you going to heal me or not? (What is it with clerics and their absurd need for posturing?)”
She quirks an eyebrow, and then approaches him easily, like – and perhaps this is a foolishly bardic way of putting it – a large feline. A panther, or perhaps, given her heritage, a behir, which is not feline at all, but considerably more serpentine.
At this point, Viconia’s healing spells seem to take almost no time at all, and Edwin rolls his eyes back as he feels the skin and muscle of his arm start to pull itself back together. He once made the mistake of looking, watching it happen, and he felt nauseous for hours afterwards.
Being nauseous, he has found, is even worse when you don’t have the opportunity to rest at your leisure, and except for when she takes it into her head that doing anything worthwhile is utterly pointless, their wise and venerable leader (which he means about as much as an inspirational speech to an orphanage, which everyone knows can never be nearly as sincere as people tell themselves it is) is a slave driver. He has not found himself to be particularly appreciative.
“So, what reason could you possibly have to hold up well on the front lines of battle, Edwin?” she continues, “It seems to me that your energies would have been better spent elsewhere.”
Drawing himself up, he harumphs, and draws his robes tighter about himself.
“I am a conjurer, Viconia,” he says, “We need to be able to defend ourselves from the beasts we summon, should they choose to be ungrateful for an opportunity to aid our cause (Gods know they have nothing better to do, anyway!).”
“And have you?” Viconia asks, and now, Edwin is sure, he is not imaging the sneer on her face.
“Every beginner makes mistakes,” Edwin replies, “But I am no beginner, and dare I say, I never have been.”
Her lips curve down into a pout, and she leans in. Edwins catches a whiff of her as she does so, sweat and dust, mostly, but underneath that, something poisonous and alluring. When she speaks, her words are the kind that should be frightening, but for the promise in her voice and the way her fingers tiptoe up over his chest (for once, he is grateful he is not wearing armor.)
“If you’re lacking the scars of your compatriots, I’m sure I could do something to remedy that,” she murmurs, and Edwin feels his own mouth curve into a smirk. The natural response of one who is superior when faced with a challenge.
“It would be a most . . . exciting . . . tale,” she continues, her breath floating against his ear, “Wouldn’t you say?”
“My dear Viconia,” he replies, heart pounding, “I’m sure you are aware that Thavians are renowned for their magical power. It would not be wise to go against one without . . . proper preparations.”
“I’m sure I could manage,” she replies, and pulls away. Her eyes are dark with something akin to desire or bloodlust, and it’s hard to say which.
But he’d hardly be an adventurer if he wasn’t willing to find out (even if, on most days, he doesn’t consider himself any such thing at all. Perhaps a better analogy would be that he was hardly a proper mage if he wasn’t interested in exploring such an unknown.)