A.N. Sær's name is pronounced say-air. The ash (the æ) is normally pronounced ey (as in hey.) At first glance it seems like it would be sayer, but you just cut a bit off each end. Ex; Sa (pronounce half of the A) then a drawn out air. So, Sa (short A) ayeir. Or, just say the first half of the name sarah slowly and drawn out. Sayair. As much as I know you would love more english lessons, you all seem to enjoy the story. so...

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A fortnight has passed since the lovers' arrival at Firelink Shrine, and their house is already coming along splendidly. Down the stairs by the bonfire, they had leveled the ground, laying down a stone foundation. The pair were torn on wether to use stone or wood, and in the end they settled on a mixture of both. Stone corners, window and door frames, and half the floors, with wood for the rest. Many of the walls and windows were partially in place; such was the benefit of building in a ruin.

Truthfully, Priscilla had done the bulk of the construction, since her immense size allowed her to build it with ease. Their new home had to be quite large, as well, to house Priscilla. Sær spent most of his time gathering supplies; nails, mortar, rope, fur and leather for furniture, barrels of luxurious food for Priscilla, and books taken from Seath's archives. He even found a regal silk ribbon with large pale blue diamonds at each end, likely misplaced by a wealthy family fleeing the city. Priscilla had squealed in delight upon receiving it, commenting on how the diamonds looked like icicles. Indeed, that was what had drawn Sær to it.

Already they had built most of the first floor, as well as a bed of feathers and fur. Though, the bed is really only for Priscilla; Sær already has his bed. A large, sexy, fluffy bed with a dragon-tail blanket.

Sær walks into their unfinished home, back from his hunting trip. He sets down a pack of honey, rabbits, pheasant and berries before running up to Priscilla, jumping up and hugging her tail.

"EEP!" She cries, a shiver of pleasure running up her tail from where he touches it. "Goodness! Don't scare me so, darling!"

Sær chuckles, clambering up to her shoulders and burying his face into the nape of her neck, kissing it fiercely. Priscilla purrs, her tail twitching.

"If you keep spoiling me, then we shall never get any work done." Sær groans in protest, continuing to lick and nip at her neck and ears. "Stoooo~p," Priscilla whines, twitching. He does no such thing, instead kissing her neck while stroking her ears with both hands.

Another wave of pleasure shoots through Her, and she involuntarily bucks, sending Sær flying onto Priscilla's giant bed, bouncing around it. She shivers, and her legs give out from underneath her. Stumbling back, her calves hit the bed, and she falls towards it.

For the second time, the last thing Sær sees before dying is a beautiful fluffy tail.

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Thankfully, the bonfire is a stone's throw from Sær and Priscilla's new home (a quarter of a stone's throw if thrown by Priscilla.) Sær walks in to the familiar sight of Priscilla in tears, knees together and legs apart. Sær walks up to her quietly, no longer wearing his armor. His leggings are naught but shorts and tattered strips of cloth wrapped around his legs, bits of his muscular lower legs showing through. He is fond of the look; Priscilla hates it. She says it makes him look like a dirty vagabond. "A sexy vagabond," Sær would reply, to which Priscilla would scoff and turn away to hide the blush on her cheeks.

His shirt is long sleeved, with the hems tapering to a long triangle, currently pinned up to his shoulders. His manchettes are made of fresh bandages, wrapped around his forearms and the back of his hands, hooking it between thumb and forefinger. They are intended to be used on minor wounds, so as not to waste estus.

His only head ornament is several strands of Priscilla's long silver hair, woven with his own to form a pale ponytail.

Sær had been overjoyed upon receiving it, placed in the middle of their favorite book, The Night's Regalia. Once he reached the middle of the story, the hair fluttered out, held together by a silver-blue ribbon (Sær's favorite color!) He looked to Priscilla, and she gave him a brilliant smile. He had sprinted to her, springboarding off of a wooden crate and onto her stomach, where he remained until morning; They had cuddled all night long.

Sær walks up to the crying crossbreed, patting her leg. She looks up and grabs him, hugging him tightly. Sær figures that he, more than anyone, knows what it's like to be a stuffed animal. Fortunately, she doesn't hug him tight enough to break anything, so at least she's learning.

"I-I can't d-do anything riiiiiiiiight!" She wails, curling up into a ball around Sær.

To his great suprise, she envelopes him completely, blocking out all light and sound. The only sound to be heard was her breathing and her muffled sobs. Sær could certainly understand her distress; if their situations were reversed and she perished under him, he would never forgive himself. But, as much as he hates seeing Priscilla cry, he has to admit that she is excruciatingly adorable when she does.

Sær shifts awkwardly, wrapping his arms around her and squeezing. "It's okay. It's to be expected, after all, given our size."

Priscilla sniffles. "That doesn't help."

"Alright, then. How about..." He wriggles up, popping out between her drawn-up knees and her chin. "This." He kisses her cheek, slowly stroking the scales on her neck with the tips of his fingers. She curls up more, her tail squeezing Sær's shoulder. He smiles, moving his lips down to hers, both of them smiling now. Priscilla giggles, pulling away.

"Well," she whispers. "Now I know I shan't get any work done." She runs her longue tongue along his face, humming all the while. She quickly returns to his lips, their tongues dancing a waltz. Priscilla moans periodically as Sær kisses her, the sound telling him what feels best.

Priscilla slowly pulls away once more. "I cannot believe this," she whispers.

"How so?"

She smiles. "I am free of Ariamis. I have a lovely, if unfinished, home. And I have my darling." She beams, hugging him tightly.

"I had given up all hope of even seeing another person, let alone..." She blushes.

"A pretty boy." Sær scratches his head awkwardly. "Oh, I'm sorry! Is that the wrong word? I meant... Um, H-H-H-Handsome." Her face is practically steaming now. Sær chuckles. He loves the rather childish diction she uses sometimes, but it did raise a question.

"Priscilla," he asks. "How old are you?"

She tilts her head, pondering. "I do not know if time works the same in Ariamis, as the days did seem shorter; perhaps due to the everlasting winter. However, if I had to guess, then mayhaps nine-and-ten?"

"Nineteen!?" Sær gasps, startled. She does have a youthful face, but her figure and mannerisms suggest someone twenty-five, at least.

"Yes," Priscilla says. "Is that... Too old...?" She taps her index fingers together nervously.

"No!" He replies quickly. "It's just... You're so pretty, and you act so mature. I figured you would be older."

She smiles shyly. "How about you?"

"I remember little of my life before I became undead, save for that I have yet to pass my thirtieth year. I am likely twenty-three, or thereabouts."

Priscilla smiles. "T-thats good... That means that in Lordran, we are old enough to do... Naughty things..." Her face turns red once more.

Sær does a double take. "N-n-naughty things!?"

Priscilla looks at him shyly. "W-when the time is right, of course. Do you... Not want to?"

"YES! I mean, no! I-I-I mean, I want to more than anything! I mean, not anything, that makes it seem as if that is all I care about... I, no, I would like to, yes, but-"

His blathering is interrupted by Priscilla squeezing the breath out of him. "Thank goodness. I thought you might be put off by... well, by my size."

"Never."

She snuggles up to him. "Yay," she exclaims quietly. "But, darling?"

"Yes?"

"Let us finish the house first."