The Kingblade
male | 6 years | 40 inches | 165 pounds | casanova | lone wolf
He is excited to find her out, to have discovered her right in his path as he had done in the first place. He does miss her adventuresome ways, how she made him feel responsible, but free. It was sad to leave her behind, he thinks. Sad to leave her, though she would not have been terribly happy to know that he also thinks it was sad to leave Pan, Peregrine, Roza, Gaia, Coquette.
Something about that pains him, though, the idea that anyone would let themselves care for what he felt. What did he matter in the grand scheme of the world? Being responsible in the matter of another’s heart was hardly likely to be any less of a burden than being the leader of a pack. He was possessed by a fiercely resistant heart to anything permanent, these days. Perhaps the mountains had sapped him clear of any designations of staying so very still.
Sand eroded rock with ease, just as strong in it’s own right. Stones sunk and suffocated in desert sands, after all, but sands moved, wandered, flew on breezes that passed them by. He had grown up beside a great one, a massive desert that lined his birthplace in the badlands. He dared anyone say that the deserts, badlands, and plateaus were any weaker than the mountains though. By all of Moladion’s accounting, they were the greatest in espionage of the assassin’s kind.
He looks at Morrigan now, however, ruffled by their miniature wrestling match. “Always the charmer, Roman.” she had said before, but now she seems more serious, “I'm afraid to say it has done little for me save keep me fed. I miss you, Roman, and I miss the gypsies. Tithe offered me a position as head thief and I promised it to him, but I'm having second thoughts.” His hackles rise for a moment, thinking of broken promises and being loathe to tell her to abide by them when now she was so near -- and the season was upon them both.
“He is a fair one, your new master. Hardly one to gripe if you must travel for a while before becoming of use....” He rolls a shoulder and looks back at the almost-forgotten boar, “but then, he is also friend of Taika, who leads the free people. Perhaps he won’t mind losing a head thief to the Gypsies. It would be mighty fine to have you to keep me company in my travels again.” His tone means more than the words say, but there is a fire that contends with thoughts of permanence and it is perhaps the Casanova’s glow that makes him look so healthy as he seems now.
He is radiant with virility and prowess, forgotten were the days where he healed from his battle with Daenerys. He was no invalid convalescing on some stony throne won from the jaws of a wolf who thought themself far above him. There is no ache, not of heart or mind or pride. He exudes his wealth of grandiose attributes, letting his aura of self-assurance press out as if to win some questioning battle between himself and this female he both desires and yet deems he cannot desire.
He was no loving husband. He did not know if it was in him to ever be. He did not know if perhaps it would only be this way, this rushing pulse of blood in his ears, between him and whatever woman would take him into her den. What he did know, was Morrigan was nearer to him than a sister and beautiful in the newly winter crispness - painted as she was with the same blood that had wetted his throat against the skin.
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