4th of Saun, Arc 716
His eyes fluttered open, the man gauging his surroundings slowly as he 'awoke', though not to the real world. Rather he had come unknowingly to the false world of dreams. The bed was recognizable - this was his room in the castle of Sabaissant, in the grand palace that House Venora had built to display their emenence. His blanket was comprised of silken patterns; roses, swords, hearts and minds. Somehow though all seemed somewhat distorted in its own way . . . faint. Shadowed. Like everything had been set aside and his focal viewpoint was the only thing that maintained clarity. In the corner of his eye though was a blur that distinguished itself from others. It was the smiling face of a man, one he held dear to his heart.
"Damien," he called him. The Bishop of Yaralon, Priest of Ymiden. He'd called himself the 'Forgiver,' and even the 'Redeemer' in life. And how he'd redeemed Alistair, forgiven him, and allotted him with the chance to live a suitable life where he needn't feel shame. Shame for enjoying the morbidity of Necromancy, nor for lacking in basic human empathy, nor for lusting for those who shared his sex. Damien had redeemed him indeed, and in their time together he'd climbed from a miserable and angry runt to someone who understood - for the first time - the concept of humanity, of love. And for some reason he was here, in his room, watching him from the corner. Leaning against his closet - ironically where Alistair kept his minions.
"Hello, Lord Venora," he replied. The man took a seat on the bed, and Alistair rose from his sheets. He wore trousers despite the night, as they were thin and thus comfortable. He always possessed relative modesty, not much the type to sleep nudely like his brother or a certain cousin of his.
"What are you doing here?" The nobleman asked, rubbing his eyes. He felt oddly nervous; uncomfortable. Something about Damien felt different. Different how? He did not know. "I am here to see you, clearly," the man said. He retained his beginner level sarcasm. "Oh," Alistair replied. "Well uh, hello. Nice to see you, I think. Not sure of the legality of invading my room in the night and prowling my bedside, but I suppose there's lots that you and I do that are not quite legal." He smirked, and Damien could only laugh. "True indeed," he replied to Alistair. "True indeed."
Alistair removed himself of his blanket, seating himself on the bed beside the Lich. He glanced at him and exhaled. "Your breath smells when you wake," he told him. Alistair nodded. "So does everyone's."
There was silence. All was awkward. He didn't really quite understand what was going on, why he was here, why anything was happening. He figured if he waited long enough, silently enough, Damien would give him the answer he needed.
His eyes fluttered open, the man gauging his surroundings slowly as he 'awoke', though not to the real world. Rather he had come unknowingly to the false world of dreams. The bed was recognizable - this was his room in the castle of Sabaissant, in the grand palace that House Venora had built to display their emenence. His blanket was comprised of silken patterns; roses, swords, hearts and minds. Somehow though all seemed somewhat distorted in its own way . . . faint. Shadowed. Like everything had been set aside and his focal viewpoint was the only thing that maintained clarity. In the corner of his eye though was a blur that distinguished itself from others. It was the smiling face of a man, one he held dear to his heart.
"Damien," he called him. The Bishop of Yaralon, Priest of Ymiden. He'd called himself the 'Forgiver,' and even the 'Redeemer' in life. And how he'd redeemed Alistair, forgiven him, and allotted him with the chance to live a suitable life where he needn't feel shame. Shame for enjoying the morbidity of Necromancy, nor for lacking in basic human empathy, nor for lusting for those who shared his sex. Damien had redeemed him indeed, and in their time together he'd climbed from a miserable and angry runt to someone who understood - for the first time - the concept of humanity, of love. And for some reason he was here, in his room, watching him from the corner. Leaning against his closet - ironically where Alistair kept his minions.
"Hello, Lord Venora," he replied. The man took a seat on the bed, and Alistair rose from his sheets. He wore trousers despite the night, as they were thin and thus comfortable. He always possessed relative modesty, not much the type to sleep nudely like his brother or a certain cousin of his.
"What are you doing here?" The nobleman asked, rubbing his eyes. He felt oddly nervous; uncomfortable. Something about Damien felt different. Different how? He did not know. "I am here to see you, clearly," the man said. He retained his beginner level sarcasm. "Oh," Alistair replied. "Well uh, hello. Nice to see you, I think. Not sure of the legality of invading my room in the night and prowling my bedside, but I suppose there's lots that you and I do that are not quite legal." He smirked, and Damien could only laugh. "True indeed," he replied to Alistair. "True indeed."
Alistair removed himself of his blanket, seating himself on the bed beside the Lich. He glanced at him and exhaled. "Your breath smells when you wake," he told him. Alistair nodded. "So does everyone's."
There was silence. All was awkward. He didn't really quite understand what was going on, why he was here, why anything was happening. He figured if he waited long enough, silently enough, Damien would give him the answer he needed.
