January Q&Q — All ROs

• Hadrian massages Romanus soothingly to ease the tension from their passionate lovemaking.

Strong, broad hands press down on your shoulder blades. You let out a sigh from your sore throat, but it hitches when the hands travel down all along your spine and sweep over your buttocks. There, they stop and softly massage the plump flesh.

You crack one eye open. "I'm not sore there."

You feel more than hear the answering chuckle. It reverberates from his chest down to his hands. "Are you sure?" Hadrian asks, increasing the pressure. Your eye rolls closed again as you fight a groan from slipping out. It does feel so very good.

"I’m sure," you croak.

Hadrian bends, and stubble brushes your lower back before soft lips kiss the slick skin. "The message is for you," he murmurs. His voice sounds like rolling thunder, coarse and rich. "But this." He kneads your butt. "It’s for me."

You laugh, the sound broken and faint because you have little energy for more. "You dog," you say, reaching back to swat him lightly on the arm. Hadrian answers by kissing you again, on the dip of your spine this time. "Why, Hadrian, I barely recognize you!"

Hadrian kisses you a last time before he straightens up, legs firm on either side of yours, and you feel him sitting on the back of your knees. "Close your eyes, love," he says. His hands gather in the crook of your right leg, and slowly, with just the right amount of pressure, they start sliding down your thigh.

You bite your lips to keep from moaning wantonly. Hadrian uses his strength to his advantage, his hands in complete control. He insists on doing this every time you make love now — at least, every time you have time to relax afterward — so he knows your body like the back of his hand. He knows where to press harder or where to ease, knead, or rub, and it always ends with you turning puddy in his hands.

As if you weren't already.

Now, he does the same on your left leg, massaging the thigh, gliding down to your knee, and then your calf. You lose track of time as you lay under his comforting weight. A warm, lethargic wave rises in you, tingling from the crown of your head to the ends of your outstretched toes. Behind your closed eyes, you're swimming in darkness, but the darkness hugs you in a motherly warmth.

You barely register Hadrian stetting himself higher on your body, his darling pressure on the back of your thighs now, as his hands slide upwards your spine. He stretches you whole, each vertebra of your spine extending in a relieving bliss.

You do groan now, openly, pressing your forehead into the mattress. "Goood, Hadrian."

He doesn't answer. Expert hands gather on your nape and gently but firmly knead the knocks there. You think you're moaning, but you're past the point of caring.

He works your neck until your head almost falls off, and then your shoulders, your upper arms, and lastly, Hadrian takes your naked hand and massages the palm, his thumb pressing at the center of it. Here, you snap to attention, slowly hiding your gloved hand under you, but when Hadrian finishes that hand, he doesn't reach for your second.

Instead, he taps your nape. "Can you turn around?" he asks but doesn't wait for an answer. His hands guide your shoulders, half lifting you and helping you turn on your back.

You blink dreamily and see his face hovering over yours. It smiles a handsome, heart-wrenching smile. If only you had the strength to raise yourself and kiss him.

"Good?" Hadrian asks, his hand softly cupping your jaw.

You turn your head and kiss his palm. "Better than good. I'm in Heaven."

Hadrian chuckles and moves so he can lie next to you. You snuggle into his shoulder, sighing happily when his arm loops around you. "So am I," comes his soft murmur.

And oh, how you wish you could open your heavy-lidded eyes and look at his face when he says it. But you cannot. So, you bury your nose in his chest, warp yourself around his side, and drift off to sleep, warm and safe and happy.

• Romanus observes a stranger flirting with Alessa. Overwhelmed with jealousy, they boldly interrupt the conversation with a possessive display of affection.

You sit on the counter, a drink in hand, but your eyes are glued to the corner left table. There's tension on your lips, on your jaw, and on the fingers gripping the mug until the fingernails turn white.

There's tension in every part of you.

Now, your eyes narrow, for the turd has the gall to drag his chair close to Alessa's and lean into her side, speaking near her face. Your mark flares, and it tells you to get yourself over there.

But Alessa asked you not to.

Your lips curl backward, revealing your teeth, and, with a snap of your head, you look away from them. "Bloody hell," you croak, taking a forceful swing of your drink. "I'm not an animal."

"Sure, you aren't." A voice makes you look up, and you see the bar wench propping herself on her elbow before you. "You look fine to me. Refined. Better than the lot who drinks themselves stupid around here."

Your mark flares at the words. If only she knew. "Is that so?" you indulge her, only half-listening. You can see the table from the corner of your right eye. Is Alessa... reaching into her bag? So, she's bribing now. The negotiations aren't working.

"Very much so," the wench says. You force your attention on her, using the conversation to distract you from Alessa and that fuckin—

"Are you hoping you'll get a coin for your compliments?" you ask.

She laughs. "No. I'm hoping to prevent a brawl, lad/lassie. They're costly, y'know?"

"What?"

She points a finger at you. "Leave my furniture out of it, will you? Or I'll hunt you down for pay."

You stare at her, so she juts her chin over your shoulder. "And try not to kill Lorry. The man's a regular."

Slowly, you turn around and set your eyes on the table. And you see it then. Your legs work on their own account, the drink falls from your fingers, and your mark is hotter than a flame.

The bastard has his arm over the back of Alessa's chair and speaks to her; no, he whispers in her ear.

With large, heavy strides, you approach the table. Alessa looks over her shoulder, and beautiful blue eyes land on you. Her face changes from stony contempt to alarm, but the idiot next to her doesn't notice.

"How about we forget business for a while, uh? I'm more interested in you, sweetheart. Where..."

Alessa calls your name. "Do not—"

You grab his shoulder and yank him away from her.

"Augh!"

He tumbles to the side, the chair falls, and his feet kick the table. He goes down ungracefully, like a sack of potatoes. You raise your leg to kick his ribs, but Alessa grabs your arm and pulls you back, her fingers digging into your shirt.

You don't tear your eyes off the scum, who's rising to his feet, and rounds on you, eyes flashing in fury. "The hell you did that for?" he yells, his hand going for his scabbard. Oh, please, do it. Try me. "I'm gonna cut you—"

He shuts, mouth clattering shut when you grab his chin and squeeze.

He must see the madness in your pupils because suddenly, the man freezes, much to your disappointment. "When I let go," you say very slowly, "you're going to turn around and walk out of here. If you don't." You crush his jaw harder, the tendons creaking under your grip. "I'll rip your spine out of your asshole."

When you let him go, he does just that.

You watch him leave with his head held high, trying to cling to the last of his dignity before you turn to Alessa. She sits on her chair, her eyebrows knitted together and arms folded. "Do you feel invigorated?" she asks coldly. "Is your ego satisfied?"

You bend down and crash your mouth against hers. Alessa inhales in surprise, and then you feel her melt when you cup her cheek and roll your lips against hers. You kiss her passionately but don't linger, pulling back just as quickly. "Now it is."

Alessa opens her eyes, and you see them slightly dazed. Your lips curl at the sight, even more when she looks at the other staring patrons, and a faint red invades her cheeks. "You are a brute," she says, voice clipped but breathless.

"I don't mind that."

“Will you brand me next? Claim your ownership?”

“If you let me.”

Alessa’s eyes narrow. "We needed the guard. How are we to pass, now?"

You hold her hand and pull her to her feet. "Alessa, we'll pass," you say. "One way or another, we'll get in that house."

You head for the exit, arm around Alessa's back. "My way was more adequate," Alessa is whispering. You look from her to the bar, where you find the barkeep with her eyes fixed on yours.

She mouths a "thank you," and you nod in return.

"Now, we shall need to use force."

You turn your head and kiss Alessa's temple. "I don't mind that either."

Alessa scoffs but presses closer.

(I just realized you wanted a more smooth-kind of interruption, but I subconsciously wrote a slightly Corrupt Romanus, and this happened 😭 Next jealousy snippets will feature a smoother, less violence-prone Romanus ♡)

• Injured/sick ROs. Are they good or bad patients? Do they like being taken care of when they’re ill? Do they still push through a terrible fever despite being told they need rest?

The room is dark and stuffy, with a low fire burning and the shutters closed on the big windows. Sweat, herbs, and poultry mix in a fragrance that reeks of illness.

You crease your nose as you softly step close to the bed and see Alain lying on a rustled mattress. His torso is bare, and you see his chest heaving faintly up and down, the ragged breaths laborious. He's flung the cover off, and the purple sheet wraps around one arm like he's been struggling against it.

He sleeps, but you can see his eyes shifting madly behind closed eyelids. He's dreaming, you reckon. Or having a nightmare, more like.

Making as little noise as possible, you pick up the water basin beside the bed and put a clean rag in it. Then, you sit on the edge of the noble's bed and softly rest your hand on his sweaty forehead.

You snap it away.

He's burning like you’ve never felt anyone burn before.

Before you can replace your hand with the rag, Alain cracks one fevered eye open. It's bloodshot and hazy, as if he is looking from amidst a cloud of delirium. His eye wanders lost for a moment, staring at the ceiling, before he finds your face. "Ysabella?" Alain croaks so faintly that your heart bleeds in your chest.

You softly grab his hand. It feels so feeble in yours. "I've sent for her. She's coming, Alain," you whisper soothingly. Your other hand brushes back the wet curls on his forehead. "She'll be here by nightfall."

He groans faintly, but you see the immense effort to return to sanity. His eyes focus, clinging onto your face. "Sparrow," he says, and you smile, feeling your eyes water.

"That's me," you say. Slowly, you drape the wet rag on his forehead, and Alain closes his eyes in relief.

"This is most unflattering," he says.

Your smile widens. "Just a little bit."

Alain Theer falls silent. You think he may have gone back to sleep, but after a while, he forces his eyes open. "Where is the chemist?" he rasps.

"He has done all he can," you remind him gently. "We must wait for the potion to work and your body to fight."

Alain rolls his head to the side. "I don't have much fight in me, Bella."

Your hand falters. He thinks you're Ysabella again. "Yes, you do," you answer all the same. You bend down and kiss his cheek. "Don't speak like that. You're not allowed to."

"She rubbed an oil on my chest," Alain says as if he's not listening. Perhaps he isn't. So close, you can see his eyes are watered as well, but his tears are of fever. "It helped."

"Who's she?" you ask him.

"Mother."

There's a knot in your throat. "Alain, your mother isn't here." You put a hand on his chest. "Go to sleep, alright?"

He suddenly grabs your hand, fingers tight around your wrist. "Then where is she?" Alain asks, his eyes open wide.

"I don't know."

You've never seen Alain like this. He's been angry before, but never at you, and never with such... contempt. His face contorts, and he spits out in a terrible voice. "Then what good are you for?"

You jerk back, shocked. The blood surging through your temples sounds like blows from a hammer. Alain stares into and past you, and you release a breath. He's not himself. He probably doesn't even know who he's speaking with.

With great gentleness, you slip your hand away from his and go to rise—

"No!"

Alain grabs your hand again. This time, his face was contorted with sorrow. "No, sparrow, forgive me. Forgive me. Don't leave me."

"It's alright."

He doesn't listen. "Don't leave me to die alone." His hand is clammy and feverish and holds onto you like a lifeline. "God, how pathetic that'd be."

You cup his cheek, holding his gaze. You can see he's fully here, but you don't know how long you have, so you speak quickly. "Alain, it's a fever, and you're a strong, grown man. You will beat it. I promise."

"My mother was taken by a fever."

Silence.

Your tears finally flow as you stare down at him. Alain falls back on the pillow, his eyes drifting close, paler than ever. "She was a grown, strong woman."

Neither he nor Ysabella ever speak of their parents. You start to understand why.

Your throat works, but finally, you find your voice. "Hush," you say, free hand cupping his cheek. "I'll stay here. I'm not going anywhere."

Alain holds your wrist still, putting it flat against his chest. "I didn't mean it," he says, "I didn't."

"I know," you assure him. "Now, sleep, Alain."

He does, slipping into feverish dreams with your name on his lips and an apology. "I didn't mean it."

You say by his side as Ysabella comes flying in, and you both set up vigil on either side of the bed until the sun eventually rises. She praying incessantly while you threaten her God in your thoughts.

Alain beats the fever two days later. You don't speak of what was revealed, nor does he— you don't know if he remembers it. But, after, the noble is never the same with you.

His eyes gaze differently, his kisses feel different, and he addresses you with a different tone of voice. Were he someone else, you might think him in love.

• How do the ROs feel about hickeys?

Your mouth latches on the curve of a gracious neck. First, you sweep your tongue over the golden skin and hear Ysabella's giggles brush against your ears. Your own lips quirk with mischief, but you patiently roll your tongue again, then pepper the area with sweet, butterfly kisses until Bella is shaking in your arms.

"Stop!" she begs, turning her head to the side, trying to wiggle away from you, but you tighten your arms and keep her in place. Her full breasts pressure against your chest, and you make a mental note to get to them later. You're nowhere near done with her.

"Be still," you say before your mouth descends on her once more. This time, you part your lips and suckle her neck right below the ear.

Ysabella freezes.

Your teeth graze her skin when you open your mouth wider and go to bite—

"You cannot!" Her voice isn't giggling any longer but urgent.

You stop.

Ysabella buries her head in the pillow to look you in the eye. "Dearest, you can't."

It's hard not to show your disappointment. "Oh," you say, arms slacking around her. "I apologize. I didn't mean to— I didn't know you disliked it."

Ysabella puts a slender finger on your lips. "Don't make those puppy darling eyes," she says. She loops her legs around one of yours and brings your lower back flush to her once more. You're entangled in bed, under the sheet, and her hair spreads on the mattress like a long, fluffy pillow. "It'll make me weep."

She's nowhere close to weeping, however. You've never seen a more beautiful smile.

"I'm not making puppy eyes."

Bella laughs, the sound lyrical, then her finger lowers, and she pinches your chin, lifting your head to kiss your lips. "I do adore your love bites," she says against your mouth. "But you cannot mark me anywhere visible."

You blink, processing the words. And then, your eyes twinkle. Ysabella giggles again, knowing you caught her meaning. "Well," you say, kissing her plush lips, then her jaw, and down to her neck. "Whatever my lady decrees," you continue, kissing her collarbones now and snaking your body lower and lower so your head rests on her bosom.

Ysabella sighs as you continue to kiss her gently, down the valley of her breasts, and stop, mouth on the curve of her left breast. "Here?"

"Lower."

You kiss the flesh, very lightly nibbling, and go lower still. To her stomach, her bellybutton. Ysabella giggles, ticklish again. "Higher."

You hum, putting your nose against the bottom of her breast. Ysabella's natural scent invades your nostrils, and you're drunk on her. You're spent from your previous lovemaking, but you feel a new spark in your loins. "Here?"

Bella sighs again, deeper this time, and another smell comes to your nose. Her excitement, too. "Yes," she whispers.

You raise her boob with one hand and latch your mouth right under it. The skin is thinner there, and delicate, and it doesn't take long to coach a pretty red bruise from it.

With a satisfied smile, you turn your head to the other and bite into the skin. Ysabella trembles beneath you, fingers sinking into your hair, pushing your head down where she needs you. But she'll have to wait. You intend to mark her whole, wherever she lets you.

• How do the ROs feel about hickeys?

Lips roam the back of your neck. You shivered delightedly when his fingers parted your hair to the side, and a soft, silky beard brushed against your nape before two lips latched onto the skin.

You were drifting off to sleep, in the limbo between slumber and awake, where you half think and half dream, but your lover's ministrations plucked you away. Slowly, you rouse awake and feel his scarred, weathered hands, rough with salt and burned by rope, soothingly stroking your sides, fingers gliding over your ribs as if they play the keys to a chapel's organ.

The Pirate's gentle kisses descend from your hairline to the low end of your nape. Sometimes, he darts his tongue to taste you, the sensation sending jolts to your nipples and the pit of your stomach. "Hmmm," you mumble, arms lifting to clutch onto your pillow. You think you know where this is going. Your fingers dig in anticipation.

His lips curve between your shoulder blades. "Awake, princess?"

"Hmm."

The Pirate continues down, kissing along the curve of your spine. His hands fall as well, hugging now the curve of your waist, his thumb and half thumb pressing on the dips of your lower back. "Here, I thought I was being gentle."

"You are," you speak, feeling your voice raspy against the walls of your throat. "Very much so."

He smiles again and moves his thumbs so he can kiss each dip, licking the skin. Your legs tighten involuntarily, and his smile turns smug. "Wet already?" he asks, his voice sickeningly self-satisfied.

You bury your face in the pillow. "I don't need to look down to know how you are."

He laughs, breath ghosting your skin, and you shiver again. Instead of answering, however, the Pirate simply kisses a path to your right buttcheek. You hug the pillow, waiting. He'll turn you around any moment now...

The Pirate opens his mouth and bites.

You yelp and would have leaped if his arms hadn't suddenly closed around you like iron chains. "Ow!" you protest, looking back at him. You're halfway between shocked and betrayed.

But the Pirate lifts his head to smirk at you. "Don't be a milksop. I didn't even break the skin."

Indignation has you sputtering. "You will not break my skin!"

The bite didn't sting much, but even so, it's the principle of it all.

He lowers his head, and you're about to kick him when, instead of another bite, the Pirate kisses the spot and uses his tongue to smooth the skin. The tongue goes round, round... and lips latch again and start to suck.

You grit your teeth; the sensation is odd. You can't see him properly, so you try to roll over, but he uses his body weight to keep you in place. You reach back and tap on the crown of his head. "What in the world are you doing, you madman?"

You don't keep the annoyance out of your tone. The whole mood is ruined, and you're cranky now. "Leave my butt alone."

He parts his mouth and bites softly again. You expected it this time, so you don't jump, and the slight pain radiating is... warm, sending little tendrils down to your core. Your eyes lower, and you try again. "Hey," you say, calling his name. It sits heavy on your tongue. "If you don't answer, I will kick you."

It’s an empty threat, and he knows it. He keeps at it, either biting or sucking, until, at last, the Pirate lifts his head to admire his work. "Beautiful," he murmurs.

You crane your neck and see the beginning of a red bruise on your right buttcheek. You drag your eyes to his and see him looking back. There is an indescribable smugness on his face. You look from him to it, then back to him. "... are you a youngster, touching a woman for the first time?"

He chuckles and pats the bruise. Your ass jiggles and his eyes track the movement. "This is for others to know, peach."

"Others?"

"Hypothetical others."

You give up on that. "Know what?"

"This is my booty."

You roll your eyes so hard that you flop back on the pillow.

• Injured/sick ROs. Are they good or bad patients? Do they like being taken care of when they’re ill? Do they still push through a terrible fever despite being told they need rest?

You stop beside the door, hand on its handle, because you hear a voice from the other side. Frowning, you put your ear to the wood, and, feebly, words drift towards you.

"Keep me safe in your bosom, Lord," it says, the whispers mingling in a string of fevered prayers. "Look down from Heaven and pity those who are sick."

Your frown deepens. Is she awake already? She shouldn’t be. The healer’s elixir was strong enough to put a horse to sleep.

Turning the handle, you step into the room and are met with a kneeling specter.

"Neia!" you cry, rushing to her side. She's half-naked, only wearing a thin tunic that leaves her arms, shoulders, and legs exposed. Her hair falls all around her angular face, like a curtain of white snow, and her shoulders slump in meekness, her hands barely held up together. "What are you doing?!"

You grab her arm and put a stabilizing hand on her back, but Neia snarls and jerks away from you. "Praying," she says, all meekness gone from the tone. But, as much as she tries to, her voice isn't half as intimidating as usual. It sounds tired and feeble, even in her righteous anger. "The hell does it look like?"

You click your tongue and put your hand on her back again. You know the anger isn't directed at you, and even if it was... well, she can't do much right now. "It looks like a stubborn woman is doing what she isn't supposed to."

Neia turns her chin so that her eyes blaze at you. "I'm supposed to be rotting, is that it?"

"You're supposed to be resting," you say, "you haven't kept anything in your stomach for the last two days. The midwife says—"

"I’m done with the midwife," Neia interrupts, rising to her feet. She falters momentarily as if the blood rushes to her head, but when you reach for her, she slaps your hand away. "If God wants me dead, I'll go on my feet."

"You're weak."

Her lips twist, but she ignores you, walking to her pile of folded clothes. You sigh behind her scarred back, watching her hands tremble as she dresses. To say it's been a trial to keep Neia in bed is an overstatement, but you've been able to reason with her so far.

The time for reason, it seems, is over. She pulls the pants in one leg, then goes for the other—

And falls back, slamming against the wall. You jump to action immediately, holding her forearm so she doesn't fall.

"Fuck," Neia grunts, leaning her body against the wall. She has her eyes closed, and her face is ashen white. You know the look.

"Stay here," you command, and rush to grab the bucket near the bed. It's been freshly washed, but not for long because Neia grips it urgently and vomits what little breakfast she could force down. You keep a comforting hand on her back, moving in soothing circles as she heaves, rocking her whole body.

It's hard to see her like this. Neia, the Dawnseeker, brought to her knees by an earthly sickness. Even the divine touched aren't immune to their mortal body.

Finally, she puts the bucket down and slinks down the wall, crumbling on the floor. You go down with her, never stopping soothing her back. "Come here," you say gently, wiping her mouth with a cloth. Perspiration broke in her forehead, and she shivered in your arms. You pull her closer to you. "Neia..."

She rests her head on your chest. "It's going in circles," she wheezes. "The room."

You tuck her white behind her ear. "Close your eyes."

She does.

You stay like this for a while; you holding her tight, and her hands wrapped around you. Her breath ghosts your neck, fast at first, but gradually, slower and slower. "I can walk," Neia says at last.

You get up and help her to her feet. You can't carry her to bed, so you keep her up while she tumbles to it. When Neia lays down, you remove her pants from her leg and prod the coat away from her shoulders before covering her with the blanket. One yellow eye tracks your movement, pale and lifeless.

When you sit beside her, Neia cracks her lips open. "Can you get me water?"

You bring a cup to her lips, and she drinks eagerly before resting her head in exhaustion.

Silence falls. You'd think she was asleep if she wasn't staring at you.

Finally: "Thank you, sweetling."

You smile and grab her hand in both of yours. "You're welcome."

• How do the ROs feel about hickeys?

You sit on his lap, legs wrapped around him, and braid a narrow strand of his blue hair. You start it from his forehead, near his hairline, so that the braid, when concluded, falls beside his eye.

Lance lets you work with benevolent patience. "You do not plan on braiding my entire hair, do you?"

Your fingers work quickly, interlacing with each other. "Would you let me?" you ask.

Lance's fingers dance across your hips, restless. "There's very little I could deny you, mercenary."

Your lips curve, and you take your eyes off the braid to peer into his grey eyes. They're light and dark, mixing in an amused light. "Could or would?" you ask, lowering your chin to send him a sultry look.

Lance's beautiful gold tooth flashes. "Both."

You hum, satisfied, and give him a quick kiss. Lance chases your mouth when you part, but you have a braid to finish. You set to work, his sigh bathing your neck. "If I wanted your entire hair, I'd make a big braid at the back," you tell him. "That wouldn't be a bad idea, actually..." you muse.

Lance tickles your stomach to distract you, long, lanky hands sneaking beneath your shirt. "I'd need longer hair."

"True," you grant him that. The braid is shortly done, and you lean away to admire it. It hits his cheekbone, making his eye flinch. You smile at the sigh. "All done."

Lance doesn't seem very interested in it. His hands roam your stomach, kneading the softer flesh. "Masterfully so, no doubt."

"Of course not." You rest your hands on his chest in the opening of his vest. Truth is, you don't want to leave his lap. It's so comfortable here and warm, and Lance is at the tip of your fingertips, just where you want him.

You purse your lips, considering him.

"Oh, no. I know that light in your eyes," Lance says, but there's already resignation in his voice. "You are devising something, are you not, amata/amatus?"

"When you said you could deny me nothing...."

Lance flops his head on the crook of your neck. "Yes?"

You chuckle, lightly massaging his nape. "Did you mean it?"

Lance's hands spread on your hips. He traces the bone with his thumbs as his lips move against your neck. "Yes."

You smile, victorious. "Then prove it."

Lance lifts his head. "How?"

"Lift your chin."

Lance does it.

Slowly, you bring your mouth to his Adam's apple. "Stay very still," you tell him and kiss it. Lance works his throat, the apple moving up and down against your lips, but stays in place. You roam your nose down, grazing against the skin until you stop at the side of his neck.

Another kiss. His hands hold you tighter.

Then, finally, you part your lips and suckle the skin. Lance's exhale is prolonged, but he stays quiet and holds firm as you tease the skin with lips and teeth until, at last, a faint reddish bruise materializes. You lean away, satisfied. It's delicate-looking and fits him perfectly.

Lance brings a finger to it. "Really?" he says, a blue eyebrows arch.

"I'm not done," you tell him.

"If your goal is to bruise my entire throat—"

You tap a finger to your throat, in the same spot as his. "Your turn."

Lance blinks, watching you intensely. "Is this a claim?" he asks, his silvery voice sizzling, and then, perhaps unconsciously, he slips into Latin. "I have been owned already, my beloved; I am not keen on repeating it."

You see the fragility in his eyes and the sorrow he tries to hide in his voice. Your heart clenches. "Never," you respond in kind. "I want us to match, not to possess."

His eyes hold yours for what feels like an eternity, and then, he slowly tilts your chin and brings his mouth to your throat. "Tell me what to do," Lance whispers, kissing you softly.

"Suckle and bite," you say, your chest rising and falling heavily. "Don't worry about hurting me, you won't."

Lance obliges.

You hold the back of his neck and bite your lower lip, eyelids fluttering as his soft lips work on you. Your legs squeeze him, and Lance pulls you towards him, flushing your bodies together. He gets more demanding, biting harder and sucking deeper. Oh, but his touch lifts you to the clouds. His tongue mixes in, and you grab a handful of his hair as pleasure builds in your stomach.

But, too soon, Lance parts, breathing labored. "There," he says, thumb gently touching your heated skin.

You grab his hand and bring his thumb to your lips. A kiss, then you put it in your mouth. Lance's eyes widen, and like a cat, his pupils grow until they swallow the grey. He stares intently as you suck, his finger heavy on your tongue. He calls your name, his voice dark in a warning. A promise.

You tease your tongue over his knuckle and suck lightly.

Memories of scars, chains, and bruises are forgotten as Lance bends his body over yours.

• Romanus chases Vallen in the woods just for the thrill of seeing if she can be caught.

You can hear her.

Her feet are light, lighter than almost everyone you've ever met, but even Vallen isn't flimsier than a squirrel. And you've hunted dozens of those when there wasn't bigger game to be had.

Up ahead, past an impressive ant hill, leaves scrunch under two feet, revealing your prey's location. You quickly follow, moving across the foliage as if you were born in it. Perhaps you were. Mother never told you how she birthed you, but it's undeniable you've never felt more at home than in the wild, hunting bow in hand and a knife in your boots.

You go low on the ground and turn just in time to see a flash of grey disappearing into the woods beyond. The call for blood beats in your chest, narrowing your eyes into two perfect slits. You track her footsteps, stepping where she did with cat-like grace so you don't step on herbage yourself.

The tree tops plunge the world into gloom, but it only makes her more visible. Vallen slinks between two trunks, clumsier now, in her run. She's making enough noise that a bagger could follow, and you realize she's desperate.

A sharp, merciless smile rises to your lips.

You take the hunting knife from your boot and scurry forward, the thrill of the hunt pulsing in your eardrums, making your mouth water. You don't need to see her; you can feel her, can almost hear her heart beating wildly, can—

She's ten paces away from you. You see her plainly. Her grey half cape, the black pants and shirt, and the long blond hair braided past her back. She's looking past the trunk, clutching the wood in alarm, but Vallen's looking the wrong way. She doesn't see you, crouched amid a low bush.

You break into a sprint.

She startles, swinging her head, and her amber eyes widen to all whites when she sees you.

She turns quickly, a sharp, panicked yell tumbling from her lips, and runs away, but it's too little too late. Your strides increase until you're not running but leaping like a gazelle, and now she's a few paces away. Six, five.

You raise your knife hand, nostrils flaring, mark burning.

Four, three—

Vallen turns, putting her hands up, but you dive low and avoid them. Sneaking an arm between hers, you grasp her right shoulder while your other hand goes over her head and slams against her neck.

You pull her to you. Her back flushes on your chest, locking her in your grip, and it's oh so easy, then, to softly bring the knife's blade to her throat, like a lover's caress. You feel her shudder when the cold metal probes her skin, and you smell the sweat on her.

You put your ear to her pulse point and delight in the sound of her heartbeat, beating like a prisoner against his cage. "Got you," you rumble, turning your head to inhale her deeply. Vallen shivers against you, her fear intoxicating. You could lap her up. Slowly, you do, licking a strip from her jaw to her cheek.

Vallen inhales, chest heaving up and down...

And giggles.

You let the knife fall. "Don't ruin it."

Vallen turns in your arms, smiling freely. Her cheeks are flushed deep, and the light in her eyes is close to manic, euphoric. "Look," she says and presses your hand to her chest. "Look how fast it beats."

Like a hummingbird's wings.

"You did this," Vallen continues, her nails sinking into your hand. Her other hand rises up your neck and tangles in your hair. She pulls, and your mark sings in tandem.

"And this," Vallen says, lowering your hand until it's flush against her breast. She tightens her fingers and makes yours squeeze her breast. You can feel her erect nipple against your palm.

Lowering your head, you look into her eyes. "This arouses you?" you ask, half surprised and half amused. "Being chased?"

Vallen pulls your head closer and catches your bottom lip with her teeth. She bites, and you growl from your throat. "Doesn't chasing arouse you?"

You smile, lip caught between hers. "Depends on the prey."

Vallen laughs again, her voice raspier. She moves your hand once more, down past her stomach, her navel, to the dip between her legs. "You did this too," she whispers into your mouth.

You hoist her up, her legs snaking around your hips, and press her against a tree trunk. You've never done this in the woods. But, as with most things in life, there's always a first time.

• Injured/sick ROs. Are they good or bad patients? Do they like being taken care of when they’re ill? Do they still push through a terrible fever despite being told they need rest?

You fluff up the pillow behind him, then add one more for good measure. "How's this?" you ask, carefully helping him sit back against them.

You see him grimacing at the effort, but shortly after, he's propped up against the headboard. "Devil's balls," Rafael curses under his breath, but despite the language, you feel the muscles relax under your palms.

You sneak your hand out of his back to prop his leg over a pile of blankets. You're as gentle as you can, but even still, you hear his intake of breath when you lift it and settle it. "Is the angle too steep?" you ask as you sit beside him.

Rafael shakes his head. "No, this is good," he says, grimacing again in his effort to pat your hand. "You— you're good."

You turn your hand so you can hold his. "And you will be, too," you say, masking the apprehension out of your voice. Truth is, you don't know that. He had an ugly fall out of his horse, and when he yelled — a blood-curling scream that'll be seared into your memory — you thought he had broken his back.

He hasn't. You're sure he only broke his leg, but it pains him to move anywhere, even his arms. You have a ball of fear in the pit of your stomach that something else is wrong. "The physician is coming, and he'll sort you out."

Rafael clenches his fingers, almost managing to hold yours, and gives you a tight smile. "Don't sound s' worried."

"I'm not," you lie.

"I've survived worse," Rafael says, and that ball of dread grows because you know he isn't lying.

A wave of emotion hits you, and you can't speak unless your voice breaks, so you simply lean forward and kiss his cheek, your free hand softly cupping his jaw. If only you could take some of his pain into yourself, then you could bear it together.

When you lean away, Rafael stares at you like he's never seen a more perfect being. You flush, embarrassed at your outburst, and look away, but his voice — pained, as if talking hurts him as well — calls your name. "Ya missed it," Rafael says and plucks his lips.

You laugh, blinking away tears, and do as he asks, pressing your mouth softly against his. Rafael inhales and rolls his lips, and you close your eyes for a moment, wanting to freeze time so you can stand here, not knowing, for a while more.

But you part, and you remember what you should be doing. "I'll be back, alright?" you ask, and Rafael only nods, still looking intently at you. It's like he can't stop watching your face. Feeling another blush, you leave the room and quickly fetch the tray from the kitchen.

Walking back inside, you claim your seat on the bed and rest the tray over your lap. Rafael quirks an eyebrow. "I can't eat it there, sweetheart."

"As if you're in any state to eat by yourself," you say, picking up the spoon and plunging it into the broth. "You can barely lift your arms."

Rafael's cheeks darken. "You're not feeding me," he protests, but his voice isn't particularly heated. You suppose he's too weak for his usual passion.

"You don't have a choice."

He frowns, but contrary to his expression, he leans closer as if already anticipating. You oblige, bringing the spoon to his mouth.

Silence falls between you. The only sounds are the spoon clanking against the tableware and Rafael's eating. With each spoonful, the color returns to his face, and you let yourself hope that all will be well.

As Rafael eats, his eyes never leave you. Not once does he look at his food, the spoon, or his poor broken leg; they're stuck to your face as if it's made of gold. They carry an adoration in them, a devotion that makes it hard to face. You look at the tray, his mouth, at everything but those brown eyes.

The broth is done, so you sweep a piece of bread in the bowl and bring it to his lips...

The tray dangles dangerously. You shoot your hand to grab it, but it's too late. It tilts, and you flinch at the coming crash—

Rafael's hand shoots out with impossible speed and captures it in midair. He leans out of the bed to catch it, so before he falls, he straightens up and lays the tray safely in his lap.

You stare at him. He freezes. A rapid fire of emotions curses through you. Elation, relief, pure happiness... then, realization, anger, fury, embarrassment.

The silence that falls now is oppressive.

"I got better," Rafael interrupts it.

You want to wring his neck. "You liar."

Rafael recoils. "I ain't."

"I thought there was something wrong with you!"

"It is!" Rafael points at his leg. "I fuckin' broke my leg."

You get up, shaking. "Not your leg, you dunce! I thought— I thought something on your back— and you wouldn't walk again and be in pain forever, and I'd have to see you wither away in that awful bed and—"

Rafael reaches for you, grabbing your hands and pulling you back to him. You go, half numb. His fingers hold yours tight, and part of you is so glad he can. "I'm sorry," he says, and to his credit, he does seem it. "I was in pain. I am. My whole body hurt, that was a bitch of a fall. I wasn't lying, softie, I swear."

He urges you to sit, and you do.

"But... I did get better. In the arms and back. Now it's only sore."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

It's his turn to be embarrassed. "Cause... you were all... fussing and tender and attentive..." Rafael’s neck is red as a tomato. "I was gonna tell ya my back was better after supper. I didn't want... to interrupt you."

There must be something wrong with you because, suddenly, all your anger softens to endearment. "Rafael," you say, trying and failing to keep your voice hard. "If you wanted to be pampered, you needed only to ask."

He can't face you. "Asking's bloody embarrassing."

"So is lying."

He shrugs.

You can't help it. You cup his cheeks, staring into his darling eyes. "So, you're well? Only your leg gravely hurts?"

Rafael nods.

You feel your chest fly with relief. "You— you precious, precious man," you say and kiss him, squeezing him into your chest, forgiving him already because life is too short and too fragile to resent those you love.

• What are the RO’s first instincts when imminent danger is present?

Hadrian: Reach for his sword.

Alessa: Reach for her knives.

Alain: Look for his guard.

Ysabella: Hide behind Alain.

The Pirate King: Cocky smile.

Neia: Feral smile.

Lance: Seek for high ground, identify possible exits and likely allies.

Vallen: Reach for her scimitar.

Rafael: Release a string of curses.  

• I'd love to see more glimpses of Romanus with each of their Origin friends, Henry and Eliza, Piki and Benz, and Benji and Mai.

This gave me a wonderful idea! But it merits its own post. ♡

• Will Romanus and RO have the option of having a happy ending if they choose?

Romanus has 3 big, defining, vastly different endings, and then, inside each of those three, you have many sub-endings depending on past decisions, allies or enemies, and, of course, your RO (and the choices you make about and with that RO).

So, there will be a myriad of different endings, some of them happier, of course! Just not pure everything-is-right-in-the-world kind of happy. 😋

• How would various RO's have handled it if they'd developed a mark like/instead of Romanus's? How different would they have been as characters by the time they hit Book 1?

Oh, it's very difficult for me to imagine the characters with the mark. They'd all be vastly different people. Some of them wouldn't get to Book One, not where they are now, at least.

Of the whole group, only the Pirate would be somewhat the same. He would still be a pirate, a captain, and an admiral, just a lot darker and more ruthless than he already is. His sense of humor and weakness for pretty women would be gone.

As for the others, I can tell you what they'd do if they were confronted with Neia (or, in Neia's case, the Inquisition) hunting them:

Would surrender themselves: Hadrian, Neia.

Would run, as Romanus did: Alessa, Rafael, Lance.

Could do nothing, for their names are known, and the Inquisition would get them at night, tearing them out of their beds: Alain, Ysabella, and Vallen.

Would laugh in their faces: The Pirate King.

• What gesture would each of the ROs consider most romantic, and how specifically would they react?

Most of them have no or minimal experience with being in a committed relationship, so they don't know what kind of romantic gesture they prefer. It's one thing to imagine it but another to live it — and develop preferences.

Still, generally:

Cooking for Hadrian. Or washing his clothes while he sleeps, putting his boots by the hearth so they're warm. Small acts that show that you care for him and try to make his life just the slightest bit easier.

Hadrian is usually the one who cooks for the group when you travel and has always been used to taking care of himself on his own — growing up in the monastery and then forging himself in the Templar Order, he had to. Otherwise, he would have been one of the many little boys and young men who didn't survive.

So, Hadrian doesn't expect or ask this of you. If you do it, though, he will never be able to articulate the depths of his gratitude.

Getting up and finding you beside his tent, a bowl of warm broth in hand and a smile to greet him. Why, Hadrian's eyes would moisten, and he'd struggle with the tightness around his throat, lest his voice break when he says, "Thank you, love."

As soon as you'd turn your back, he'd hastily wipe his eyes, swallow the knot, and swear a blasphemy to himself. For, at this moment, Hadrian is more devoted to you than even to God.

- - -

For Alessa, holding her hand. She does not understand why the gesture has... such a calming effect on her person. 'Tis nonsensical that every time, she feels a little jolt and then complete serenity. It is more intimate than a kiss — Alessa has kissed a few before you, but she has never walked hand in hand with another. It is closer than a hug, more intentional than an endearment on the tip of your darling tongue.

She knows not how you read her, but when Alessa is tense about something or other, you reach out and take her hand. She cannot look at you then because she would bare her whole soul through her eyes — and Alessa cannot, is not, ready for it.

So, she simply squeezes you (her darling one never complains of the pain) and steals the heat from your fingers into hers. The more your relationship progresses, the more Alessa seeks you on her own, tentative fingers brushing your wrist, your palm, before wrapping tight around your hand.

- - -

Alain doesn't believe in romantic gestures. There are the things you do to woo someone — usually, a look will do, for he is a Theer, but if that doesn't work, he can pay for drinks, a dinner, a kiss on your knuckles, a few empty words of flattery, and, if all else fails, a plain proposition.

Romance is but a game for an end, and Alain will happily play it when the mood strikes.

So, what a shock it is when, in the morning after one of your fun nights, he's watching you get dressed while he lounges in bed, with a lazy smile on his lips and shameless eyes roaming your body. Alain has half a mind to call you to bed again, but just when he opens his mouth, you turn around, smile, then bend and kiss his cheek. "So long, nobleman," you whisper and leave the inn room.

His mouth remains open for a while more, and he stares at the door, blinking. Quickly, Alain shakes his head and puts it out of his mind, but alas, it keeps coming back throughout the day. Your little chaste, innocent kiss on his cheek. He can feel it burning his skin as if your lips are still there, and once or twice, he catches himself touching the spot.

It's not romantic, but now, whenever you're together, Alain expects you to kiss his cheek when you part — and sinks into a sullen mood when you don't.

- - -

Oh, Ysabella is all about the grand, dramatic, romantic gestures! She read about them in books, heard of them in minstrel songs, and acted as the damsel in a made-up play in her bedroom.

A rescue by a daring knight, a lavish banquet with all kinds of flowers, diamonds, and promises of everlasting devotion. She wanted someone who’d cross oceans, brave mountains, and fight a dragon for her...

And then, she grew.

And all those silly dreams are nothing but a child's fantasy. What Ysabella wants, what she finds the most romantic, and what conquers that heart aren't grand gestures or fealties of undying love but the act — not the words, for words are pretty, but they are worthless — of standing by her.

In a world of cloak and shadow and masked intentions where speaking her real mind could mean death or something worse, Ysabella wants you to be on her side. Openly, bravely, and unmistakably.

"You have me, Bella."

Dare she believe it?

When she does, you will have her, too, body, mind, and soul.

- - -

The Pirate King can't do much with romance, but you like it, so he indulges. Honestly, he just wants to keep you around. The Pirate likes good food and drink, so he shares them with you. You said you like the stary night, so he orders the table to be made outside. What a bonus it is when you put your little head on his shoulder once you're fed and quietly watch the stars while he smokes.

What a perk it is when it somehow becomes a ritual for you two.

He's never been one to cuddle, nor is he a fan of people clinging to him, but he can't deny how warm it is when you're draped over him, your leg over his thigh, and your arm around his chest. He counts your heartbeat, drumming next to his, and it lulls him to sleep easier than booze or even sex ever did. And if your soft breasts flush against his side, and the skin of your lower back is smooth under his rough fingerpads, the Pirate counts it as a bonus.

But, one night, when he was pouring over the report of his scouts, you came in and plucked the page out of his hand. He looked up, instinctually scowling, but you just pressed a finger between his brows and said, "You're squinting."

He realized he'd been reading without his spectacles. He turned around to fetch them, but you grabbed his arms and softly pulled him back to his chair. "Sit," you ordered, so he did.

You began reading him the reports, your soft voice rising in his cabin like the call of sirens. He sat there, entranced, as you read one report after the other, not even registering the words. And how pathetic it was, the Pirate thought, that this was the most intimate moment of his life.

He gently brushed your legs as you leaned on the desk before him and listened, vowing to always conveniently forget his glasses from now on.

- - -

Neia usually reacts to all sorts of 'romance' with a mocking smile and a sneer in her voice. There is one great love in her life, and that is God. She serves no one else, not even herself, devotes to none else, and sacrifices for nothing else.

Romance has as much value as a drunk's promises.

And yet... when you grab the comb from her hands and softly — gently, with more gentleness than Neia has ever felt in her whole life — start brushing her hair, Neia can do nothing but stand still, like a mouse under a cat's gaze. You wash the caked blood on her skin, soap her hair, and comb it, always slowly, always gently, always... warmly.

Neia can't understand the tingle that runs from her nape to the ends of her toes, spreading like poison across her body. She stays in complete stillness and silence, not knowing what to say or how to act. She doesn't want you to stop, but if she speaks, Neia knows she would order you to. So, she clenches her jaw and fights the urge to close her eyes in bliss.

All her life, contact has meant pain. No one ever touched her for no other reason than to inflict it. When she grew and rose the ranks, Neia sought women for pleasure, but even then, all the touches were rough, fleeting, distant. This is...

Neia doesn't know what this is. She won't call it romantic; the word isn't in her dictionary, but she can call it intimate. How odd it is to feel close to anyone besides the Lord.

- - -

Writing for Lance. The spy will not admit it, but he loves getting your letters. You will slip them in his hand and walk away, and Lance can safely smile a secret smitten smile as he carefully hides the letter in his jacket.

They're something tangible, something real, that he can re-read when he wants and store in his breast pocket, where no one can reach. He has an appreciation for the... preservation of the written word, something that stayed with Lance from his days as a monk. He's prone to overthinking, to doubt what he has seen, what has been said, the way it was said.

It makes him a good spy, for he reads micro-expressions and voice changes better than most, but it can bring some strain on his personal life. Did you mean what you've said? Did you, in turn, believe him?

Your letters and the secret words you exchange with each other help ease his doubts. Lance believes them — the words are put in a way that one can only do when alone and not facing the gaze of the person one fancies. He's freer when he writes, more sincere, and in turn, he's prone to be more receptive to your own words.

But what strikes him as the most romantic gesture you've ever made is when you picked up a quill and a blank paper and sat beside him while he played his lyre. Lance will often sing improvised lyrics, poems made on the spot, and he's complained once or twice about how, afterwards, he can't remember the exact words.

But now, you sit beside him, and Lance almost falters when he sees you writing down all he sings: the good, the bad, and the ugly. The bard doesn't stop playing, for he considers himself a master, but was he a lesser performer, he would have put his lyre aside, grabbed your hands, and kissed you until your lips were swollen, your breath ragged, and he had your naked skin beneath his palms.

- - -

Vallen has never been romantic but has had romance thrust upon her.

Men and women alike have tried to court her, both on the guard and in the Theer's household. Vallen had flowers given to her, jewels, and, once, a poetry book. She had smiled innocently and jumped in elation, promising that their friendship would be forever strengthened — and her lips curled in a cruel, secret smile at the look of dejection on their faces.

Their dejection is really the only thing she likes about the whole thing. Everything else disgusts her. She discards the flowers, throws them in the fireplace, and watches the petals burn. She tosses the jewel into the streets, hoping a brawl breaks out over it, and never opens the poetry book.

No, her life has not been painted with the rose-colored brush of romance. If you were to ask her, Vallen would tell you that the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for her was when you fought at the top of the Devil's Bridge. You bit her nose, and Vallen saw, then, her blood dripping down your chin.

You had looked into her eyes and, holding them, brought a finger to your mouth and licked it. Her blood.

Vallen's pupils blow every time she recalls the moment. You drank her. Is this what they call romance?

- - -

Oh, Rafael. Anything, really. Any affection, any tenderness, any show of love, even in its most basic expression. He'll take anything and give you his all.

But what Rafael loves most, of all you can do for him, is be hugged. The first time you came up to him and laced your arms around him, resting your head on his shoulder, Rafael felt like his heart was about to burst inside his chest. He was dumbfounded for a while, and then his throat worked because, bloody hell, he doesn't want you to see him wail like a baby right now.

So, he hugged you back and held you tightly — so tightly, you almost couldn't breathe, but you didn't protest. You stayed like this for a long time, and when you finally parted, Rafael seemed to have lost a decade of grief.

Since then, hugs have been a special moment between you. He pulls you to himself in bed before drifting to sleep. He hugs you from behind when you're cooking or looking out the window, flushing his body to yours. But it's when you hug him that Rafael Borja's head gets lighter, and the words "I love you" rise to the tip of his tongue before he can swallow them down before he ruins the best thing that's ever happened to him.

• Are you familiar with the book series His Dark Materials by Phillip Pullman or the concept of daemons? If so, I am very interested to know what daemons the main cast and Romanus would have!

I LOVED those books as a kid!!! 😭 Lyra and Pantalaimon are iconic characters; I love them so much! The first book made me want to go study at Oxford 😆.

And oh, the daemon question is so fun!!!!

Romanus' daemon would depend on their origin. Hunter would have a grizzly bear, the Scribe a phoenix, and the Merchant would have a ferret for a daemon.

Hadrian's would be a stag.

Alessa's a crow.

Alain's a sparrow.

Ysabella's a chameleon.

The Pirate's a leopard seal.

Neia's a grey wolf.

Lance's a moth.

Vallen's a bat.

Rafael's a hare.

• Ana, do you find it difficult to write so many different characters? Do you have a favorite to write?

It's challenging to write so many characters on things like Patreon posts or Tumblr when I have to do them all in a row and try to make each text unique and true to their character while also being entertaining. In that sense, sometimes it is hard work, but it is not necessarily hard to do if that makes sense?

Some characters like Romanus, Alessa, Hadrian, and now Lance, I could almost write with my eyes closed. It's more about ensuring the posts are worth making and that you, as the reader, find something new about them.

For the game? Absolutely not. I love it. It's why I added Lance and Rafael as ROs — and why I have a large supportive cast outside of the ROS. I loved writing Mist, Cynthia, and Vaughn, that little bastard. Father Brown, Salina, the Mountain, etc. In the game, the characters don't have to show you anything, they can be as they want. In this last chapter, Rafael is wounded, angry, terrified, and in constant pain, and your meeting reflects that.

It was a blast to write.

My favorite character has always been, and shall always be, Romanus. I chose them as the MC for a reason. I want to tell their tale. Not Hadrian's, Alessa's, Neia's, the Pirate's, or any of the others. I want Romanus. And they're the ones I can have the most fun with. 😊

• Where does each RO draw the line morally? How close are they willing to get to it, what could compel them to cross it?

The latter part of the question is a big spoiler for some characters, so I’ll tactfully avoid it 😋.

But everyone’s lines are, in general,

Hadrian: No harming of innocents, no matter the circumstance.

Alessa: I can’t think of a line she wouldn’t cross – some lines would need absolutely dire circumstances to be crossed, but I can see Alessa justifying the need for them to herself. I think that makes her one of the more dangerous ROs in the game. You’ll see this in this book.

Alain: There are two answers for Alain. How far he would go by his hand, and how far he would command or allow. By his hand, Alain couldn’t hurt an innocent (and he would have a very tough time harming a woman). By order, he could go extremely dark, especially if he’s acting in retaliation.

Ysabella: No harming of innocents like Hadrian, but unlike Hadrian, she believes the good of the many justifies the sacrifices of the few.

The Pirate King: He plunders, conquers, murders, and kidnaps. He would never force himself on anyone, but everything else is fair game.

Neia: Very rigid, very defined moral lines. Her morality is the Church's, so she acts with self-righteous confidence. She will go as far as God needs her to go and all the while with a clear conscience.

Lance: He doesn't mind the occasional stealing, spying, and overall breach of your privacy, but he doesn't like violence, and he despises abusing others for personal gains (but to surpass an opponent? Lance is game). Very grey morality in which he doesn't believe in a right and wrong system — the world is grey, and we all play in it. Unlike Alessa, however, he doesn't justify anything to himself. All he does, he does it with his eyes wide open.

Vallen: Practically no lines she won’t cross. She does what's required of her.

Rafael: Despite stealing to make a living, he's one of the most benevolent of the bunch. Doesn't like to harm anyone, doesn't double cross who he considers friends and allies, and refuses to kill unless he absolutely needs to — in part because he fears Hell, but honestly, Rafael wouldn't be able to live with himself if he did it.

He is motivated greatly by vengeance and his heart is poisoned with hatred, however. And that can push anyone to the brim.

• For Lance, I'd be curious to know what it was like to sing in the monastery versus what it's like to sing now?

He smiles, yet his voice couldn't be darker. "Oh, I wasn't allowed to join the Gregorian choir. I applied but was told I took too many liberties, which I did not. I think, even back then, they only wanted to punish any originality within me."

Lance's smile dies, and there's only bitterness left now. "More fools them, putting me translating texts." He clicks his tongue and rids of memories. "No, I learned to sing and play with Master Terry, not the monks. Sometimes, I wish I did, nonetheless. Not even Terry could hit some of those lower notes. The singing... It was beautiful, was it not? Enough to convince you of a God."

(I also loved the singing monk in Pentiment! ♡ The first time I entered the church, I stopped and sat there listening to him singing for a minute or two.)

• For Alessa: “Anyone touches you, says anything to you, so much as looks at you the wrong way- you come get me, and I’ll set them straight. understand?”

It's not exactly the same prompt, but there's one with a similar vibe for Alessa here! ♡