hades/persephone dream thread - duplicity

[unabatedly]

from here

Ereuvir:
It becomes very clear, though perhaps only slowly, that he is driving her deliberately closer and closer to the brink. He's taking his time with it, no hurry, though he will go easily and smoothly wherever she sees fit to move him. When she isn't, though, when she's holding back or trying to hold herself still, he's relentless about his own pleasure in this, which seems to be to taste as much as possible of her. He clearly prefers his tongue over his teeth, the better to savor the textures of her, but wherever it seems to drive her the most crazy, he'll easily nibble just a little bit, graze his teeth maybe a little less gently, soothe that space with his tongue a moment later.

Still, he's definitely ramping up the intensity, not so much trying to get her to come as trying to get her to chase for it, push him to the right places. Each time she does, she discovers he is unsurprisingly relentless, until there's really nothing to do but surrender to the inevitable.


Neria:
She isn't certain what to make of it all, the way he practically traps her in her own pleasure. Guiding him will get her what she wishes but drawn out, savored; letting him do what he wants nets her the most pleasure, though not always precisely at the focal points. He's goading her sweetly and taking what he wants, and Neria does her best to stave herself off only because she wants to feel what he wants, wants to lose herself in the sensation of denial, but even that is a game she doesn't want to waste too much time on.

No, eventually, she's meeting him halfway, going after her own pleasure once she can't stand it any longer, when her breaths are coming quickly, hitched in her chest. Her fingers, once content to drag through long tresses of his hair and to cradle and caress the back of his head, do more to coax him to the places where she knows she'll come undone. She feels the coil of pleasure rise up through her legs, leave her quivering. Practically bowing over him, she comes with a quiet cry that is for his ears alone, swallowed up in the utter silence of the wood around them...save for the faint rasp of her own breath.

She doesn't buckle, surprisingly, but her grip is tight on his shoulders to keep her balance while she rides out her orgasm, keeping him there for just a few moments longer before she loosens her hold.


Ereuvir:
He returns each quiet noise with one of his own, encouraging moans and soft sounds, like he's coaxing her to it rather than the relentless force he's actually displaying, once she meets him there. It turns to a purring, pleased noise as she shakes through her orgasm above and around him and he keeps teasing at her through it, until she's shuddering a bit with it afterwards.

He tips her over a moment later, the fall controlled though it may not seem to be. She lands in his cloak, not in the snow, and while there's no residual body warmth to soak up, she'll find it's plenty thick enough to keep her from the cold, that it warms to her own heat and touch. She's not liable to spend too much time considering it, though, because Ereuvir follows her, leaves her bereft only in that he takes a moment to look down at her, expression still hungry. He licks his lips, not quite showy but a lot more like an animal, deliberate, and then he grips her dress at the tear he'd already made and rips the entire thing open, almost casually. They are gods. It can be mended.

It's more important for him to get his mouth on the rest of her, a heated trail up that starts where he was previously and trails up over her belly, teeth scraping more frequently now as he works up her body.

"You're warm," is what it sounds like against her skin, a better compliment than one to her beauty. They are gods. They are all beautiful.


Neria:
She half tips over and half falls right into the open arms of his cloak, which cradles her as Ereuvir climbs up and tears the rest of her dress open. There's a momentary shift, not a flinch but something else that's caught like surprise, and then he comes down to her, starts to roam over the rest of her body. Neria tries to hold still, really she does, but the scrape of his teeth over exposed flesh draws up goosebumps, makes her shiver with anticipation and desire and excitement. With something that could be taken for a laugh, her fingers weave into his hair, over the back of his neck, and any piece of clothing he's still wearing that she can reach, she's trying to nudge it off or open so she can at least touch more of him now.

"You say that like you've never touched anything warm in all your days," she murmurs, giving him a long look from beneath her lashes. Her fingers find the little catches of muscle over his shoulders, his back, and it's here that the warmth feels like it spreads outwards. Surely that can't be right - she's a goddess of spring, not of warmth - but it feels like sunlight over his skin as he drags his mouth further, further up.

When at last he's close enough, Neria is reaching to draw him down so she can kiss him, to drag her teeth over his lips and nip at them. Her hands go exploring again, down his sides, his ribs, like she's trying to map out a world just by touch alone. He is cool to the touch but never cold and she presses to him like she might look for shade on a hot summer day. Her mouth falls to his jaw, sampling there with a smile.

Comments

[notcharming]

"Nothing like you," he murmurs in answer against her skin, shifting higher. There's no clothing for her to find, now, not unless she's going to try to push him out of his pants from this angle. He's working on them himself, though, kneeling above her and dipping down gracefully where he's pulled, kissed. He's left himself a mess from her aside from the animalistic swipe of his tongue and his hair is disheveled, all of the cold perfection transformed at her touch.

He should have to deal with his greaves, but they are gods and so he simply... doesn't. He'd let her undress him before, torn her dress off her, because it pleased him, not because it was necessary. Similarly, it pleases him to get his pants off this way, held over her, on his knees with his mouth worshiping whatever skin it can find, whatever she allows, in the press of her hands in his hair. He arches into her touch, a soft sigh leaving him at the warmth of her hands, like sunlight down his back, but it is not enough to make him forget what the purpose behind this is.

He stops just shy of entering her, though, chilled fingers holding her open, trembling and vulnerable, but he waits for her to realize he's paused before he asks,

"Do you know what to expect?" she is a goddess of the Spring. He would presume fertility and lovemaking are well within her domain, and he expects he may be about to be laughed at for his question. Still, he feels it must be asked. There is a difference, he thinks, between what is happening here and the... appetites of some of his fellow gods, despite what it looks like and he would not fail to at least attempt to extend the courtesy.

[unabatedly]

He'll find she allows everything and anything, partial observer and partial actor, her fingers spanning over what skin she can find and map out, like she's trying to learn him on her own from the moment he dragged her in for that first kiss. The slow crawl up her body has her enamored through it all, drawing out her eagerness, her excitement, all of this new and not. Her hands go questing for clothes and find she does not have to, and so her brief foray allows her to brush his hair out of his face once more, her mouth seeking claim to his pale throat and down to his shoulder.

She feels his fingers coaxing her open, his body pressing close, and what is nearly inevitable comes to a standstill. Her gaze finds his only once the realization that he's paused hits her, bright eyes regarding him. With a smile, she leans away, back on an elbow. Her other hand slides over his side, marveling at him. "I'm aware of what it entails." He isn't wrong to assume fertility and lovemaking is a natural part of the cycle she governs, enough that she is no blushing bloom in the field. All the same, she hasn't the appetite of their fellow gods. There must be meaning.

And then, there's this.

With her hand, she pulls them closer together, and she rises up to kiss him. It's a softer but more passionate display, heated, craving. "I know what I want." It's this. It's him.

[notcharming]

Perhaps in another place and time, there might be a clever comment to that, something to make her laugh. He certainly twists his mouth just so, a comment all it's own, though it's in pleasure, not teasing. But this is not the time or the place and so he just dips his head in acknowledgement, mouthing gently at her shoulder as he pushes inside her.

He goes slowly, not for her sake or his own, nor even to tease, but because that is simply who and what he is. Inexorable, creeping, inevitable. More so, there is no need to rush in this moment, even if there was an urgency to the rest of it-- they are of one mind and one accord and there is no hurry and there is no reason to not savor every soft noise that she makes.

He savors, too, the smell and the feel of her, now, running his nose and lips up from her shoulder along the line of her neck, a low noise of pleasure escaping him as well, edged deep with contentment.

[unabatedly]

Her hand cups his cheek, brushes aside his hair, and her fingers find their home in silken strands and at the back of his neck as he presses closer. There's an undeniable desire to feel more of his mouth, to let him bury his teeth in her, and the thought comes so naturally that it's difficult to know if that's the dream or Neria herself. It doesn't matter in the end, not when he moves slowly to push into her and bring them together. She moves her one leg, draws it out and brings her knee up, but besides that, she is mostly motionless. It's not for pain or for worry, but because she is fixed on that single point of contact, frozen but to watch him and to admire.

The press is tight at first, enough to steal her breath. Instinctively, her fingers clutch at his back, the points of blunted nails the only giveaway of her own desperation and roiling desire. With a tip of her head, she offers more of her throat and body to him, even as she finally loses what little patience she might have still been clinging to, and she tugs him just that little bit closer, just a little bit deeper, so she can have him fully.

With a muted groan, she presses her forehead to his shoulder. She remains there for a moment, savoring the same way he is.

[notcharming]

It is the slight hint of pain from those nails that seems to rouse him from the first moment to the next, though it's not right when she digs in, but rather a moment later, as though it takes him a moment to focus on something other than the warm heat of her. The first pull out and push back in is slow, tidal, savored as much as the moment before. He shudders, soft but unmistakable, at the third, and then he is raising himself up, one arm on the ground beneath them and the other hand going to hook around the back of her bent leg.

It lets him get a bit deeper, perhaps, though surely a mortal man would tire quickly like this, but more importantly, it allows him to look at her, head dipping until it rests in close enough reach for a kiss, but doesn't quite complete one.

He says nothing, but he also holds nothing back. It is a rare thing, even among the gods (perhaps especially among the gods) to allow oneself to be seen. He gives it without thought or question.

[unabatedly]

She holds onto him like he's the one who's warm, or maybe the friction is just too delicious to let go, but she opens herself more for him when he hooks his hand around the back of her leg. The exhale that shudders through her carries her voice, giving her the cue to turn her head and look at him, to truly look at him. He's right there, face dipped close enough that she could just cant her head and bridge the gap to kiss him. She doesn't.

Instead, her eyes lock onto his own and remain there. She doesn't search his gaze for anything, though Neria drinks in the color of his eyes and the roll of desire in his frame that feels like it's ricocheting between them. Seconds tick by and she just smiles, turning her head to kiss him with a tenderness that isn't completely fitting for the moment, an arm wrapping around his shoulders to keep him there with her. It's not enough to pull him or to offset the balance he has with his arm propping him up, but it's enough for her to press her fingers into his hair and to drag her fingers along his scalp as her kiss grows heated and needy, just shy of desperate as he continues to press into her.

She arches her hips to meet him, giving as good as she gets, enjoying the back and forth of movement and reveling in every moment of it. Rather than come up for air - she doesn't need it, neither does he - she parts only to exhale when their hips meet, her body tightening. And then she kisses him again, wanting to drown.

[notcharming]

Her tenderness finds an answering one in him, their kiss soft but heated, a low moan of pleasure voiced into her mouth that seems less about the sex and more about this kiss. He doesn't understand fully what is happening, why this is as it is. This is not what he does. This is not how he has sex, when he decides to have it at all. She is different, immediate and breathstealing and he does not know why.

Her desperation draws out more of his own, her need more of his need. She is something he is not supposed to have and he wants her desperately, wants to claim every part of her for himself, so that no one else can touch her.

He knows that is not as it should be, but in this moment, he doesn't think he cares and, furthermore, he doesn't think she cares, either, and so he speeds a bit, thrusts turning slightly rougher when she clutches tighter at him in turn.

[unabatedly]

He wins a breathy gasp against his mouth, an answer to his own moan, and her hips move to meet his own. More and more, she craves the friction and the intensity of his desire just as surely as she knows her own has sparked in response. If she thinks this is wrong or strange, she doesn't show it; instead, she chases his pleasure while trying to stave off her own for just a little longer. If this moment is to experience, then it is one she wishes to only experience with him. She wants to know him and in what better way can she do so than to see him at what might be his most open?

The next wring of pleasure gets him a whimper, which she presses into the corner of his mouth as she loses focus over the kiss. Her fingers tighten just a moment in his hair and then release, realizing she might hurt him. But she clings just the same, holds onto him, and her next kiss is direct at his shoulder with a hint of teeth.

Maybe she's trying to mark him. Maybe she just needs the anchor. Whatever the case, her body presses to his as he thrusts, and she tightens, a certain sign that she no matter how she tries to hold the inevitable off, she is fighting a losing battle and enjoying every moment of it.

[notcharming]

The noise of pleasure he makes at the pull of her fingers in his hair is harsher, the one from her teeth richer, clear that the last thing she needs to worry about is hurting him. If anything, the little hurts make him twist in her arms a bit, redouble his efforts.

They are both seeking the same end and they are both doing it in the same way, a desire to both see this to it's conclusion and a desire to equally not have this end too soon, to savor what there is. Even so, they may be eternal but this moment is not, and they both do eventually start to build to the inevitable. At first, Ereuvir seems more concerned about chasing her pleasure, but as his own builds he turns more selfish, more hungry again, that same ravenous feel that he had had when his mouth had been on her.

He eventually grabs one of her wrists and pins it to the ground, finishes this with a bit more of the air it had started with, but it's only one he presses to the earth, and when he does finally come, it's to both of them moving in tandem with one another.

[unabatedly]

She breathes raggedly into his shoulder, loosening her grip on him as she tries to hold on that little bit longer. The tug of the tide, her pleasure and his, comes to a rolling wave that she might have better withstood until he presses her down and holds her wrist there against the ground. Her eyes go wide with renewed focus on him as he pursues his own pleasure ravenously. What else is she to do but follow? And follow she does, hand coming around his back to find some kind of purchase until the white-hot ricochet of orgasm rattles through her once again and leaves her shaking, grasping for an anchor.

Her hips quiver as she rides it out, keeps her body moving with his and pressed tightly, until she can't seem to stand it any longer. She drops back, breathless, fingers still resting against his side.

Once or twice, she closes her eyes, tries to gather herself. But that seems counterpoint to what she wants to do, which is to watch him, to stare up into his face unflinchingly. And perhaps, cheekily, once she catches her breath, he'll catch the glitter of triumph in her eye even before she reaches up to touch his face once more. Her thumb brushes the corner of his lower lip almost fondly.

[notcharming]

He ducks his head down, to the point where they're pressed more cheek to cheek, while he enjoys the moment. He doesn't exactly need to catch his breath, but even for gods there is a moment of recovery, of liminal space he wishes to revel in for a few minutes before moving on.

When he does move, it is just to ease back up on his arms, to be able to look down into her face. His expression is curved into the hint of a smile, just the barest suggestion on his face, missable, if she were not looking so closely. It's another moment where someone else might mistake him for expressionless, even after all of this, unreadable as the stories paint him, but she is learning, one moment at a time, that only someone who wasn't truly looking could think so.

He brings the wrist he had trapped a moment before up to his mouth, pressing a warm kiss against the inside of her wrist, but he says nothing, at least for the moment. He seems to not quite be ready to break the moment with speech.

[unabatedly]

The cool of his cheek is actually comforting, soothing even, and she lets the moment linger until he is ready to move. Neria's gaze sweeps over his face and remains there, looking on him as if she might capture his likeness in her memory for far longer than she might have this moment. It's the smile that captures her gaze just as surely as he has her wrist, and there's a puff of laughter when he kisses along the inside of it. Where he'd once warned her not to run and insisted on how dangerous he was, all she sees is beauty and warmth that he might insist isn't there.

It doesn't make him less dangerous. It does not strip him of teeth. But if he'd thought to continue to tell her that there is nothing to be found here, she knows he'd be lying. As silent as the grave, there is peace in that stillness, and something deeper to the dark glimmer of his eyes.

Neria rises up on her elbows once more to meet him partway, to kiss beside his mouth, and to wind her other arm around his shoulders to try to coax him down onto the cloak with her where it is warmer despite the cold snow on the ground beneath it.

☾ reunion.

[unabatedly]

From her return to Thedas, she's known something to be wrong. It isn't just the vague notion that something is missing when she takes the long walk home back to the Keep or even the lack of explanation she has as to her strange behaviors. There's an emptiness where the hum of Darkspawn once were, a quiet in her dreams where the lull of a song once was. There are markings on her back that she cannot explain away for any logical reason, even if they are otherworldly in nature but not connected to any magic she can discern. The pieces make no discernible sense to her or to the very few people she confides in. None of her contacts can give her clues.

Something has happened. What that is, she cannot guess, but the longer she entreats with her soldiers, the more and more she realizes the change is more than just what is in her skin or in her blood. The way she carries herself, her tone, her outlook-- She wouldn't call it good but she'd say it was better than her memories perceive, when she'd followed Morrigan into the wastes without a second thought and didn't care about herself. Some things have changed for the better...but this hole, this emptiness she cannot explain, drives her into something close to obsession.

The years pass with no answers, no clues. She resorts to looking into the Fade for answers and skirting too close to the dangers of blood magic and demons and looking into too dangerous places for the answers she seeks. Every lead comes up empty. She doesn't understand. But life goes on. Years pass fitfully, frustratingly. The Wardens have their troubles; she remains until they dismiss her, and it isn't long after when the Ferelden sect falls apart, scattered to the winds as others take their place. She keeps moving, chasing this nebulous goal, traveling the world and taking advantage of favors and connections she's collected - and is still collecting even now - to get what she wants.

That's before the mage rebellion and the splitting of the Templars from the Chantry. That's before the sky opens up and the one attempt at peace is destroyed.

She doesn't know much about any of that. Instead, far enough into the wilds of Orlais on her excursion she's hot on the trail of some Venatori bastards who are causing more than their fair share of trouble. Red lyrium being used to taint people, rifts bringing in demons... They take full advantage. In the frozen terrain of Emprise du Leon, she finally manages to catch up to them and their caravan of the kidnapped, their sacrifices to reap red lyrium and to let it grow.

If she'd been wiser, she would have sent a letter to the Inquisition. But she realizes when she gets closer to their expansive camp that it isn't just red lyrium they're harvesting: they're hoping to summon something, something worse. A Forbidden One.

She can't let that happen.

The firefight leaves part of the camp in flames. There are too many soldiers, she realizes, not just the mages slinging spells and trying to keep her away from the summoning circle. Armor isn't going to save her, even if she's held her ground so far. Above the din of battle, she screams, "Don't be fools! If you summon one of them, then you're going to doom everyone here!" And while she thinks she can stand something of a chance, she knows she won't be able to kill it alone.

A crack in the air marks the opening of the rift, the summoning circle pulsing with energy. She casts a shield to protect herself from the worst of the errant energy even as she flings a fireball directly into the summoning's center, hoping to at least sabotage part of it if not damage a few mages in the process.

Re: ☾ reunion.

[notcharming]

He has remembered everything from the start, used to existing in different versions of space and time, but remembering doesn't help him search any and he has a considerable head start before there's even a way to hone in on her soul. He also has duties, things to attend to now that he's back in his rightful place, a natural order of things that he very literally cannot deny. It had been interesting, having free will for a while, even with the different sorts of chains he had been yoked with, but he is no longer free to do as he pleases.

That said, there are leeways to be had and he is now restored to his full power. There is no reason to not search and, once found, no reason to not go. Her world, itself, resists him, however, counts him a demon and will not suffer to let him through. Until, finally, there's a summons, a call for something like him, and an inability to bind what will actually be answering the call.

So, too, there is no reason not to answer.

What he isn't expecting, though he should have been, is for her to be right there, so much so that even though he sees her, he does not comprehend her, right at first, stepping instead through the portal to a confused group of mages and a fireball that is easily waved away. From the look on the faces of the men and women around him, he is not the picture of what they were expecting. He's hardly monstrous looking, after all, though he's wearing the full armor that Neria has seen before, whether she remembers or not and his eyes glow faintly with power.

"What did you wish that you sent out so urgent a call?" he says, his voice soft and low, purring. He is a creature of patience. He can at least find out if these men are dangerous to this world and put an end to them while he also finds out if they know where Neria is.

(The good news, of course, is every single last one of them does, in fact, know where Neria is.)

[unabatedly]

The group of mages in their circle are wildly out of their league, most of their number looking wide-eyed and uncertain. Their leader, a man in whites and silvers, who must notice Ereuvir is every inch not what he was expecting, watches him with an air of scrutiny that just gently toes the line of respect. But he's afraid, just as the others are, despite their hubris. They think they've summoned a Forbidden One to their bidding, now to bind.

Neria does not recognize Ereuvir by name or by anything so certain but one look at him in all of his armor has jogged something in her thoughts. A dream, maybe, or a memory not unlike this one on a frozen lake. Surrounded now by snow and icy winds, the parallel is impossible to ignore.

To look upon him now, she thinks they've summoned something so much worse than they've hoped.

It will take too long, she realizes, to contemplate why she thinks any of this at all. The goal is still the same. She draws her sword as the head mage already begins to entreat the god, giving a flourish of a bow even in the cold, even as his soldiers realize now is not the time to stop fighting the woman who's come to interfere with their work. "We've called upon you, my great lord, for your aid. The time has come to usher in a new world order, with your power melded with our own--" And whatever platitudes he has to say are drowned out by the shout of a soldier as he rushes Neria, as her sword finds its place in his body. Without hesitation, she uses her magic to partially zip across the battlefield in a flurry of magic just to get closer to the circle and to stop whatever's about to happen, even if she's still too far away to interfere directly.

The head mage bristles, irritated, and turns back to Ereuvir. "Our most humble apologies." He holds his hand aloft, tying off the ritual magic. The other mages do the same. It's a binding spell, rudimentary to the likes of him and laughable in execution. It sloughs off of him like water. "We will deal with this in just a moment."

[notcharming]

He can feel their fear, but he turns his attention on the man who has the courage to speak to him.

"You ask for aid and offer fetters?" he says, feeling the binding spell, "You think to enslave me, rather than trade with me? That seem... unwise for you," he says, simply, "Perhaps you should reconsider?" There is a commotion on the battlefield, but he pays it no mind for those first moments, voice still carrying to Neria's ears, though he speak calm a low.

And then she finally magics her way close enough and he turns and sees her coming and while he doesn't wholly dare to hope that she will just remember, without any jostling of those memories, he still can't help his expression melting into something impossibly fond.

"It seems to me you're about to have to deal with it now," he teases the frightened men, though he doesn't take his eyes away from Neria.

[unabatedly]

"Trade?" the man asks, bewildered for a time, torn between dealing with the more immediate threat from the creature in front of him and the mage that is slowly making her way through what defenses he has. "What would you have, great lord? Any one of my students would give you a vessel if it is so required of you. We have sacrifices if that would satisfy you." He gestures. Far in the distance, there are cages stacked with red crystals, some still growing from the bodies of their victims. "And we have power if it would sate you." There's too much pride there, no real awareness of what he's pulled through - but even if Ereuvir was exactly what he thought he was, his hubris spills over too easily.

But to the others, who are well and truly frightened now, he's something unknown and otherworldly, and he's making no motion to actually help them with the problem they're facing. The leader gestures to a few of the others. "Take care of her. I don't care how."

Two of the apprentices bow, disappearing in what look to be pages of the books they carry, showing up far past Ereuvir and their master to try to intercept Neria. But she sets on one of them like a wolf, blade glittering with energy. He doesn't stand enough of a chance fighting her with brute force and, instead, just tries to hold her at bay while his compatriot summons a spell of necromancy, puppeting up the fallen soldiers to re-engage her and keep her distracted.

"What would you have?" the mage cajoles Ereuvir once more, not quite demanding but more impatient than he should be. "We will get it for you."

[notcharming]

His eyes haven't left Neria, now that he's seen her and he's struck suddenly with the set-up here he's been given, his lips curving into a different kind of smile,

"Her," he says, and does nothing to conceal the covetousness in his voice, the lust. "Her, whole and unharmed. Let her through."

He has made no promises of anything, he deliberately does not. He isn't sure if his word would bind him here like it would in his homeworld or not, but he's not taking that chance. The man has simply asked what he desires and he has answered honestly. If he then chooses to follow an order, well, that's no worry of Ereuvir's. Let them think what they will about what he wants and why.

Besides, he might yet spare them. It rather depends on both Neria and their reaction to Neria at this point.

[unabatedly]

There's skepticism written on the man's face, a moment's pause where he deliberates whether this isn't some strange ruse. But opportunity is opportunity and if the demon wants a sacrifice that just so happens to be the woman they're already trying to kill--

He turns, hand up. "Bring her here! Do not harm her."

Which, really, isn't the problem considering she's the one trying to murder his associates. There's a fleeting space where Neria turns her gaze to Ereuvir over the edge of her sword, her eyes on him alone for the span of seconds that she has. And then she pulls away from the shield she's been trying to bash down, holding the sword up defensively while the once-dead soldiers make their way towards her. On command, they stop. "Let her through...provided she cooperates."

Neria's eyes once again fall on Ereuvir and then, stepping lightly, she approaches the circle and those assembled with the apprentices in tow, each of them poised and ready to strike if needed. She doesn't sheathe the sword. Their leader smiles almost pleasantly, gesturing. "And here I thought you'd have fought more. Didn't you come here to stop all of this?" Whatever he says seems to, initially, fall on deaf ears; she isn't paying any attention to him at all, like the rest of the world doesn't exist for the moment. But when he goes to take her arm and drag her closer, she lifts the sword like she might still stab him.

Only once does she take her eyes off of Ereuvir to glower at the man. Then, she turns back to him, blade held fast in her grip. She asks the one thing none of the others have so far: "Who are you?"

[notcharming]

The look he's giving her as she approaches is causing concern in a few of the mages, the leader specifically, but might also be giving Neria some kind of pause as well. The possessiveness is clear, like it's only his iron control over himself preventing him from crossing the distance to her and sweeping her up, but he's also smirking slightly, not in arrogance but genuine pleasure, as though Neria is in on a joke only the two of them know.

"My name is Ereuvir Valbanise. I am the Lord of Hell," he says it so calmly, not with grandiose embellishment, but just a fact of the world. He isn't entirely sure what those words mean here, if anything, but he also doesn't care. "I have come here for what's mine."

He takes a step towards Neria, then another, almost as though daring her to attack him but, once he's in range all he does instead is drop to one knee in front of her, bowing his head until his hair slides over his shoulders, obscuring the look he raises up to her, sly and sensual. He's fairly sure she doesn't remember.

He's fairly sure right now, he doesn't care. Surely she won't begrudge him a little bit of a game, here, before they can properly talk about this.

[unabatedly]

The name is finally what jostles something out of her, the fogginess of a memory wiped away. She remembers what he'd worn before in a cold wasteland, how easily he'd brushed aside her sword and embraced her. Lord of Hell only solidifies it, something she remembers saying. It doesn't answer any of her questions besides confirming her gut instinct that she knows him, even if she can't properly understand the shape of that. The rake of his gaze, the possessiveness, is surprising and not at all; she still hasn't decided if he is a demon in nature and hasn't seen him in the shifting dreamscape of the Fade, waiting for an opportunity.

Now, after all, would be a very good opportunity for him to try to take control of her. So when he steps towards her, her fingers tighten over the hilt of her sword but little else, held there even as he takes a knee and gives her an expression that truly tips her world on its axis.

This... This is familiar. But why?

The other mages in attendance are more than baffled, their leader spinning on her furiously. "What is this? What kind of game are you playing? What have you done?"

Her gaze remains on Ereuvir's, assessing. Her free hand twitches, like she might reach out. But then, without turning her head, she addresses the magister outright: "I didn't do anything." Whatever he is, whatever this is, she's going to trust it. He wants her alive and she doesn't think he'll do anything to jeopardize tha, for now. She turns her head. "In fact, you did all the work for me." She almost manages a smile. "I suppose it didn't occur to you that you might've summoned something that wasn't meant for you." She's playing things a little too fast and loose to her liking, making assumptions only based on what Ereuvir has said, but she thinks she understands.

[notcharming]

Perhaps there is some part of her that remembers that he adores following her lead in these games, filling in behind her until they've deceived everyone else together. She can see it shine in his eyes for a moment, where only she can see him beneath his hair, pride and delight shining in them. He loves her, loves this, and he's just the right amount and kind of asshole to not care if she sees that in his expression, without understanding why.

There's probably some desire there, too, as she takes the reins of the story, equally odd to see on such a creature in this situation, without knowing why. It is all there and gone in a moment, shuttered at least partially away while he plays his part in all of this, let out now only when it serves his purpose. Their purpose.

"I doubt someone who thought to bind me against my will would understand," he's speaking to Neria, but he's well aware all the mages who tried to do so can hear him, "Some creatures can only be bound if they're willing. And if they want what's offered in exchange. I told you once my word was binding. It is true even if you do not remember it. And I came." He grins, slow, a cat in the cream,

"You always hated the thought of my servitude, but perhaps you might give me leave to follow your orders for a time, all the same? I do not understand the nuances of this situation and I would not resolve it in a way that... displeases you."

He wouldn't kill every last person here if she would be unhappy with the massacre, he means.

[unabatedly]

It feels very much like walking out over ice and hoping the next step won't send her under. Ereuvir seems to take it all in stride, seems even pleased by what she says, looks at her with an adoration that she can't even begin to understand. Maybe she isn't meant to. Trust is all she has to go on while she clings fast to memories that are barely tangible.

He isn't her enemy and he currently isn't harming innocents. She'll start there. The water is murky but it isn't the first time she's cast out and hoped for the best.

Neria holds fast to the words he tells her, little scraps to keep and use in the moment. Briefly, she looks to him and even offers a partial-shrug of her shoulders, like they're sharing some indolent quip back and forth. "It's a shame, then, that they didn't offer something better." The magister balks at her, starts to argue, but the rest of what Ereuvir says sinks in.

She turns back to the mages at hand. The magister pulls a knife, not meant for her but for his own arm. The prospect of using Ereuvir at all, demon or lord or something else entirely, twists her stomach. To ask him to kill them would be the same as making a pact with Pride, wouldn't it? But as the blade twists in the man's hand, when she knows she'll be outmaneuvered without an ally, she realizes it doesn't matter. She'll give her soul up if that's what it takes.

If what he says is any indication, maybe she already has.

"It wouldn't displease me," she says, just as he brandishes the blade. "They've done enough. I want them dead." With one hand, she pulls her sword up. With the other, she offers to help Ereuvir to his feet.

[notcharming]

He takes her hand, allows her to pull him to his feet, but even as chaos erupts around them at her words, he draws her hand up in a way that seems to take eons, like he's slowed time itself down around them, until he can press a warm kiss on the inside of her wrist, warm and intimate. He knows he's toying with her a bit, but he's just so delighted to see her again, that he can keep his hands off her at all is impressive enough. He gives her another intimate sort of look, before his lips curve into a grin,

"As you wish. It is hardly going to be a hardship, to be allowed to fight at your side again," he knows what he's saying there, phrasing chosen utterly deliberately, And then he turns and draws his sword.

It's notable, perhaps, that he waits for the blows to come, the battle to be joined, before he lashes out. If people are caught in the crossfire of battles already started, he doesn't particularly care, but unless Neria directly orders him to chase down someone fleeing, he only engages those who engage either him or her.

The outcome of each, however, is the same.

[unabatedly]

The very audacity of it distracts her momentarily from the realization that the scene around them seems stalled, all save for the two of them. Her gaze falls to his mouth, lifts to his eyes, and she forces herself not to ask the myriad of questions she wants to. Her eyes betray that want, though, that undeniable need to know and to understand.

It'll just have to wait.

Luckily - or not? - nearly all of the mages (and their freshly undead soldiers) engage them, not so frightened to challenge a supposed demon and his partner. Neria's capabilities on the battlefield have noticeably been refined, more powerful than she was even a few years prior. Even so, she seems more focused on controlling the field, keeping her eyes everywhere to watch his back, even if he doesn't need her to.

Two of the mages manage to run, in the end, and she doesn't give chase. Doesn't ask him to, either. When all is said and done and the necromancers have fallen, she finally allows herself to take stock of the scene, the bodies, the blood on the snow. Him. Her breath comes steady, cloudy in the air, as her gaze falls on him again without the weight of other pressing matters on her mind. And now, having seen him fight.

She does know him. She has to concede to that now.