The sight of Vivec and Voryn conversing cordially with one another was a rare sight to behold, especially as observed through the eyes of Nerevar, who, in the span of the decade he'd been gracing the royal court, hadn't seen a single happenstance of friendly interaction between his junior advisor and the elusive member of House Dagoth. The Hortator, whose crown had claimed his head only a handful of years ago, hadn't been raised by royal blood, but rather by his lowly kin and the caravan he had considered his home for as long as he could remember; he wasn't at all familiar with political intrigue, and had yet to learn about the different frontages one would show inside and outside of the court. To this attested his confusion of seeing his young friend and Voryn Dagoth weaving together an enigmatic but a playful harmony that, between several intermittent arpeggios and undulated flats and vibratos, nurtured happy, seemingly nonchalant tunes whose sounds were oftentimes lost to the winds – they had been outside for some time now, after all, and had been dedicating their day to playing through the blistering midday heat and through strong, invisible currents. Though Nerevar supposed that, were the clouds to lend their ears to the fantastical composition the two mer shaped with the sounds of their finely-tuned strings, they would surely weep, to which occurrence could only be met with a stop to their impromptu duet lest the materials of their instruments lost their magical touch to heavy and spoiling rain. Their strings hadn't the effects of illusion magic, contrary to popular belief.
Nerevar had been walking Mournhold's halls when a peculiar harmony he had never heard gracing the grounds of Deshaan before breached the silence of the deserted pathway. Overcome with the need to investigate he looked through the now opened latticework that hid the embrasures lining the garden's perimeter walls, barely concealing him from the garden's hypostyle rotunda where Vivec and Voryn sat in the midst of it, leaning against the central tree, the both of them unaware of Nerevar's watchful eyes. There, Nerevar saw surrounding the construction a kaleidoscopic panoply of flowers, of soft-looking copse and of other exotic flora sprouting from fertile soil that bent their stalks and their fragrant petals to the winds, whose breezes whistles inwards and circulated through the pillars, around the central tree. With the latter's green foliage functioning as the rotunda's roof that cast a cool emerald haze on the two mer. It was a warm evening still, with few clouds brushed on the sky that traversed the blues, the oranges, and through a vast range of pinks and purples in an untroubled pace; the evening was one of peace and tranquillity after all, and, in accordance with this particular fact, so swayed the clouds and the shadows they cast below onto the garden, gently flirting with dusk.
A movement caught, passing between the shadow's dance and the travelling of the waning sun, just in time to confirm to Nerevar that, indeed, it was his two acquaintances inside of the rotunda that composed the lovely tunes. It was their hands – Voryn's nimble fingers gliding across the strings of the clockwork harp and Vivec's strong, wordless whispers blown into the hollow of a contraption – that beckoned the tunes from the instruments, from the soft, deep rasps of the Yokudan flute Vivec had brandished in front of his face, to the warm vibrations Voryn plucked from solid, glittering strings.
He let the observation in harbour without intervening – he did enjoy seeing them act without poise, without the restraint they often, if not always, had to bare to the public eye. And he now understood, after a relatively long time at Ayem's side, that there was no room to relax and play a simple carefree tune, no time to hum a single note; not with the current political strife that threatened to sunder their Holy Land. Perhaps the notion Nerevar reluctantly entertained the more time in deliberation passed was tinged with a certain sadness, as he, suddenly and irrationally overwhelmed with fear and uncertainty, felt the need to watch the scene unfold, like one would study a flower blossoming between the cracks of a decrepit castle. Vivec and Voryn continued to play, unseeing of the eyes that watched their every move.
House Dagoth was, although surprising to some, a house of music rather than that of subterfuge and mystery, and, with a forefront ever so political, it referred to itself as secular, though many representatives of the other Houses would call their beliefs simply heretical and faithless. The Grandmaster of the house, an older looking mer with the likeliness of Voryn – his father, Nerevar had come to know very quickly – had subtly suggested the idea of a public play of music during one of the council meetings. Though that idea had been weighed and considered many a time, as there, culminating within the political spheres of all great Chimeri houses, existed a certain scorn towards the Sixth House and everything it symbolised.
Thankfully, Nerevar, as a neutral party, yet leaning more towards the reverence of the three good Daedra, saw a centerpoint all Houses, and the Dwemer, too, seemed to share – namely their willingness to indefinitely cast out the Nedic invasions that ravaged Resdayn, if only to have its outcome meet their own ends. However, where the Sixth House would share Nerevar's strategy of keeping potential allies and dangerous enemies close – as seen by the mercantile ties with the Dwemer – the traditional Houses would then try and overthrow this particular motion and use their vast opposition in favour of casting down the many supposing threats to Chimeri society and to the Velothi spirit, with one of them being Dwemeri influence.
Granted, such opposition remained meek, for Nerevar had long since acquired an allegiance with the Dwarfking, despite the objections from various nobles ranging from the Hlaalu councillors to the Telvanni mages. The friendship between Dumac and the Hortator had forged the First Council, and with it came his ever so faithful advisors: his queen, Almalexia; his teacher, Sotha Sil and his young but good friend Vivec, the youngest general, in fact. It was this accordance between them all that had vowed to bring every great House and Clan together and drive the Nordic mongrels from their Holy Lands. Though its progression was still in its swaddles, the peace between the Dwemer and the Chimer seemed none too fragile. Yet, as if watching through less-than-intricate enchantments, Nerevar did see secrets yet to be revealed into reality, and it was this observation, or more accurately perhaps; after years of tedious political involvement, on which Nerevar concluded that perhaps his position in the matter, having been lent the title of Hortator after years of courtly minglings and after the war with the Nedes, wasn't as easy or as glorious as he had previously thought.
Nerevar, his introspection dissipating, had left the hallway and now walked the stone path leading towards the rotunda, mindful of the strength he put into his step so as to not startle the other two engrossed in the play they had been relaying to no one but to silent flowers and to even more silent stones. The Hortator's eyes never strayed too far away from the mer with black hair spilling over narrow shoulders and past moving elbows, the long tresses catching aflame not with fire, but with the brilliance of the sunlight travelling through the colonnades of the structure that engulfed the scene. The monochrome combination; of hair black as coal and of the rays of the sun shimmering between the locks of their white glimmer, took the shape of an ash storm, and let billow the strands in a soft rustle, even though they were collected in a bejewelled headdress. Nerevar smiled at the thought; as if an ash storm could ever have the trek of a light breeze, carrying music notes on its passage.
Reflecting like water, their armoured robes cast the beams, in their many shapes, in their many different intensities, on the flooring Vivec and Voryn had been occupying, making the particles dance with their movements between the carvings of the Dwemermetal ground; an animated glissando here, a throat relaxing and drawing breath once more there, just to translate their airborne notes to the sound of music. Accompanied by shadows, they wove a path through bright colours; through the green haze the tree let cascade down, through the traditional Mournhold colours and past the solemn combination of Dagoth red and black, and fabricated a dynamic picture sent through a second in time, as if hidden from normally quick and surveying eyes, the intention now lost to Nerevar's entrance. The Hortator must have blacked out, although silently, still standing on both feet, as it appeared he had stagnated his every thought by the sight of it. Now no longer beheld from afar, hiding behind the wide corbels, he watched on with a poorly concealed excitement, like a child on evening prayer: a delicate smile had appeared on his face, his eyes wide and bright when he watched Voryn's face, his muscles held in place in a moment of unrestrained awe he couldn't normally express.
Voryn had not the resemblance of a common mer from the capital: his skin was darker and his hair was blacker and thicker than most; his nose, held up high and poised, angled straight down and was, just like the rest of his facial structure, rather bony, but not enough so that the sharpness it bore cut through the effects of the warm, easy sun. Even without the ounce of fat filling his long, angular features, he was beautiful, more beautiful than any other mer Nerevar had ever seen – and Nerevar had always known where to look, especially where beauty was concerned. Between the shadowed creases did soft shapes mar the smooth, unblemished surface, fighting harsh ridges with silky slopes, where full lips and even fuller cheekbones were painted between them, high and regal. Adding to the yellow of the sun lay his slanting amber eyes that dawned sun's end on the bejewelled bells Voryn had put around his long fingers. And as his long fingers swept apart a wave of strings and conjured music from his hands; a crisp chime here; a tremolo there, a conversation arose. The bells spoke a question, and, resonating within the garden, they reverberated their peal as they made their passage around the chimes above them, an answer would be given, coming through wind and whisper. The melody multiplied, an echo extended beyond the reaches of two instruments, and suddenly, the illusion of a ghostly ensemble, riding along the breezes, ruffling every leaf, stilling every creature, drowned the courtyard, rendering everything deaf to all but the song.
Grandmaster Dagoth often spoke highly of his children, mostly about his eldest sons, and obviously favoured the youngest of the three where political matters were concerned, unlike the other two older brothers, who would often shirk their duties for the love of their blades and their fifes. Voryn had shown an interest in societal affairs at a very young age and had, more often than not, spoken out against the traditionalists that would, and he would say exactly: 'saturate the council meetings'. He was the idealistic sort, a scholar in the ways of politics, and it was this peculiarity that made Voryn a more amenable choice for the position of future Grandmaster of his House. Though, this was as far as Nerevar's knowledge on the mer went; Voryn had always been elusive to him, especially now: all open with his emotions and the most relaxed Nerevar had ever seen him, as contrary to his aloof mannerisms he had so often exhibited in company of other council members. Though, even those moments were scarce recently; Voryn had been studying magic in private after all, and so a lack of truth concerning his disappearance from the public eye gave motion to a clash of lies and truths.
Nerevar had heard a rumour not too long ago, cloaked in a whisper as it passed between two servants rushing their conversations in between the whims of their masters. Apparently Voryn had been caught up in the teachings of necromancy and had caused problems with some Telvanni councillors. It was only afterwards that Nerevar had taken notice of this particular occurrence and discovered, having partaken in many council meetings because of it, that the Dagoth member did not fancy that particular tree of magic at all after a handful of lessons, and so had dropped his studies altogether to focus on other magical schools. Nerevar hadn't had the chance to delve into it himself, and to summon Voryn had seemed too straightforward then, but he assumed, because Voryn's supposed heresy had been conveniently obscured between several half-truths, that Ayem, along with Voryn's father had taken care of it as soon as it began to spread.
Yet, Nerevar wasn't swayed; for all his minimal knowledge on the mer, he knew that it was just like Voryn to stir trouble inside all that was tolerated within Chimeri norms and ideals. He knew that Voryn was aware that necromancy was a school most frowned upon, especially amongst the non-magical Houses. Voryn, Nerevar thought with slight amusement, was simply gauging their reaction. But, on the other hand, Nerevar expected, keeping in mind House Dagoth's fairly reputable position in terms of war stratagems and deadly spies, but not so much for their core ideologies, that Voryn's father was likely the least bit satisfied with his son's behaviour. Though that was not why Voryn had embraced the discipline of his House's symbolical instrument, as it would seem like a fitting punishment to most – the clockwork harp was indeed a difficult instrument to master, and few had the passion and determination for it, one of which was Voryn, apparently. In fact, it sounded like Voryn had been practising since early youth, what with his skilful artistry he managed to convey.
Seeing Voryn in a picture of utmost elegance: his hands asway, busy with what seemed like a puppeteer's work, was a striking contradiction to what had conspired mere months ago. That Voryn himself had taken up the clockwork harp was only fitting, with his elegant hands the conjurers of both magic and music.
Now, in the evening sun, and along the shadows on Voryn's defined face, ran the last golden markings that spoke of the dusking hour, revealing to Nerevar that time had passed more quickly than he had anticipated. And, after he had regained his composure – the sight before him so clouded his mind that he had to reel back his sensibility so he wouldn't trip and make a terrible mess – he hid himself better behind the fungalwood pillars, but it was to no avail; he must have moved or otherwise made a telling sound.
"Voryn, look, I believe we've an admirer," came Vivec's voice.
Voryn, his hands amidst a solemn chord of several lower strings, didn't look up until he had finished, and when he did, and noticed that the sky had gone dark and the air had grown cold, he looked up at a pointing Vivec, just a few seconds before he followed the younger's extended finger and threw his gaze towards the direction of Nerevar, who stood motionless at being caught. His thick brows, previously furrowed in concentration, slackened and his face adopted a surprised look when he noticed that Nerevar had been watching, but not so much that Nerevar could tell at all whether Voryn was actually pleased to see him. Nerevar hoped he was, though this, he would never say aloud.
But Voryn smiled slightly after considering him, the smallest of tugs almost lost on Nerevar when Voryn moved behind the shoulder of the harp to set it aside, and, with a few adjustments to the pegs, made to move away from the instrument, blind to the way Nerevar's skin turned aglow when he stood up and stretched his hands, his neck, his shoulders, and discreetly shook the kinks from his legs. In his full height he towered over both Vivec and Nerevar, his stature a testament to the many advantages of living near a volcano. According to the alchemists and healers it was to be expected from one living under hot conditions: that, due to a relatively extreme heat, blood may flow faster and more efficiently towards the bones, of whose limbs they constructed would likely exceed the average length. The Hortator thought it magic at first when he heard it from two Telvanni understudies, but Almalexia had understood its every meaning, some less savory than the other – which prompted many a recurring and inappropriate joke between Ayem and himself. Nerevar didn't mind at all; the difference in height; he had made peace with the fact that he was shorter than the average mer. In fact, his lack of height made him find Voryn, in all his tall glory, all the more attractive.
The awning was no longer illuminated by the dwindling sun, so a few jarred torchbugs instead, fastened to a line of sturdy rope – the only light aside from the fire of the torches within Mournhold's castle – clinked against the intricately carved fungalwood support beams. That long line of rope, tinkling its burdens whenever the breeze gave way to movement and brushed one lantern along another, enveloped the circle of the rotunda with an enchanting light, colouring it ever so slightly; the ropes had been donned with flowers. Swaying, though they never broke or fell from the creases in which they were woven. Must have been magic.
Nerevar hadn't a reason to ever enter the gardens aside from Ayem's occasional wish for him to join her for a walk in the evenings after supper. That day was not today however; only sweet whispers, rasps blown into the workings of both wood and Dwemermetal had been filling the otherwise quiet conservatory. The Hortator, gladdened by his decision to have patrolled the ramparts that lined the outer garden wards earlier – he had never quite abandoned his warden-like mannerisms; he had been a caravan guard after all – now stood petrified by the beauty of it all. That was, until Voryn spoke up and shook him out of his reverie once more, or, just maybe, beckoned him deeper into it. Voryn might as well have been considered the same virile beauty as one would describe Mournhold's conservatory: enchanting and eerily beautiful, especially awashed in dusk's flood.
"Lord Nerevar," Voryn said. An acknowledgement then, nothing more. Vivec cheekily parroted him and Nerevar resumed his role as Hortator.
"Voryn. Vivec," he nodded slightly. "I do hope you two have been . . . playing nice," he added a little awkwardly, only a little lost for words when he looked at Voryn, whose smile, in turn, grew the littlest bit wider before he swiftly averted his eyes and looked around and past the pillars of the rotunda, searching. Wherefor Nerevar did not know, but he guessed it regarded the enormous harp – it would be unwise to leave it out in the open for the night, even if protected under tree wings. The servants were nowhere near unfortunately, and the sun had long since laid itself down to rest, so unless Voryn had other plans to entertain, he had to move the clockwork harp elsewhere with no one but the other two mer accompanying him.
Vivec's grin widened tenfold at hearing the pun. "We have, we have!" He crowed and brandished his flute. He seemed pleased with Nerevar's entrance, more so with his acknowledgement.
The junior councillor was a generation younger than both Voryn and himself and was more childlike than the next mer his age, even though he had passed adolescence a long time ago. Though his smile often revealed naivete in its honesty, his thoughts would wander, had them reflect like a prism onto the corners of his obscure mind, and so went his poetry: ironic and nihilistic, but beautiful all the same, pushing thoughtink to paper. On the field of battle he was a powerful asset, and had quickly surprised The Hortator with his impressive spear-wielding during the first war with the Nedes, so much that when Nerevar noticed him dance around the bloated Nord, he stood motionless at the sight of both skill and speed, and at the blood that spilled from swift slashes. Vivec had only offered a wide, toothy grin and a tall tale when Nerevar asked Vivec where he had learned such impressive steps, shaking both his hands with a firm grip and an even firmer camaraderie. In the background the many Redoran platoons sang and danced around the bonfire, drunkenly, if Nerevar recalled correctly; it had been a decade after all. Though Nerevar could easily recall the rush that came with enjoying the spoils on the plains of victory. The same evening the junior councillor wrote that which made the First Council coin him as the warrior-poet amongst their lot, and Vivec, pleased with this accomplishment, continued to write his stories and his poetry on accounts of all their victories, past and present.
Vivec was indeed the peculiar sort: being naturally poetic in both his poetry and his speech made him the odd egg out indeed, but the Council had taken a liking to him well enough, nonetheless. Granted, Almalexia and Sotha Sil and Vivec, as well as Voryn, had all known each other before Nerevar had declared himself Azura's champion before Almalexia's very throne, and so, even after ten years – which, in retrospect, was not a long time – Nerevar knew not of the intricacies of their personal natures; remained unaware still why, even though it seemed that they shared a mutual distaste for one another in public, Vivec and Voryn had carried out the idea of a duet during a balmy day. Though, perhaps in ignorance he pondered it; perhaps the both of them had in fact been playing together in private more often than Nerevar would have believed.
The younger's smile had not wavered a bit; not a rush in mind while he leaned against one of the feet of the columns, most likely enjoying the breezes by the way he had his eyes closed and his lips turned upwards a bit. Voryn, however, as Nerevar's eye caught a ruffling of satin robes, was shivering a bit, stilling every few seconds just to do it again, as if he was subtly trying to suppress the trembles that travelled through thin material he wore. Why, as the taller continued to ignore the cold, The Hortator did not know, but he himself was feeling quite chilly too.
It was no surprise that the mer was feeling cold; through inspection it dawned on Nerevar that Voryn was not wearing anything else underneath the swell of his armoured robes and under the thin scarlet tunic that flowed right under the open sections – his only additions to his garb, which not so surprisingly, did nothing to still the cold permeating through them. Though it fit him well, and had Nerevar looking a bit too long at the way the soft material wrapped their tightened strings around his shoulders and around the slender slide of his waist, functionality, rather than fashion, was a little more important to him – it was his job to care for his fellow councillors, so he had every reason to think such a thought. Voryn hailed from the volcanoes, from the Ashlands that bursted their boils from the earth and released hot gas into already hot air, so he was hardly familiar with the temperate climate wherein Mournhold stood.
Well, Nerevar would not have him cold any longer.
"I would inquire about your efforts, and come morning I will, as I'm curious as to whatever you two have been doing, but I believe Kagrenac wishes to call for a meeting at dawn. Better to not linger here."
"Very well," Voryn said at once, as if he had been waiting for Nerevar to say it.
It was a stroke of magic that had his eyes seeing lightning-like flashes still, even after they had vanished from the area in which Voryn had them assembled, leaving wisps of white, brushing grey and black, billowing like smoke as traces above it. Their effects lingered; the taste on his tongue strangely vegetal; through his nose the combination of both water and flame. Voryn had cast magic, an illusion spell presumably, and had pulled magic – in the quick second where he had turned towards the harp – from his veins and onto the harp that was now veiled behind the fringes of an invisibility spell. Or so went Nerevar's belief; his birth had never given him the disposition towards magical talent, and he had always been considerably more proficient with swordsmanship.
"A cloak? Will it stop the rain from harming the metal?" Nerevar had to ask, to sate his curiosity.
Voryn looked at him, surprised by the question, as if he hadn't expected it, but through his surprise shone a blink of appreciation before he looked away and explained that, indeed, in its concealment lay a protective ward that would, and he had explained the details for quite some time, fend off the spoils of the elements. And that had been it.
Mournhold's upper hallways were barely darkened by the night; the torches that set alight the sections of normally bright-coloured hallways held alive all throughout dusk and dawn. The image inspired Nerevar, and had him humming idly as he walked beside Voryn in a calm pace – though he could not speak on behalf of his heart; beating erratically every once in a while as it did, when Voryn would carefully brush his hand along Nerevar's. Purposely done or not, it affected The Hortator greatly. Nonetheless, he found himself lessened in anxiety by the softness in which he sang his tune. Voryn had his head turned towards him when Nerevar had begun doing so, taking pleasure in the way The Hortator sang like he and Vivec had played not long ago, when they brushed the air and paced the strings along the wind. The Hortator's voice, much to Voryn's surprise, had a pleasant lilt around the edges; around the tenors and brought through the lower brass that was not at all nasally, and its melody, to which Voryn began to grow attached, let asway his head for just a few seconds and made him close his eyes and enjoy the simplicity of the moment. This went on until they had reached one of the guest wings.
The thought that Nerevar was loath to go their separate ways as soon as Voryn would set foot inside the set of rooms his House was assigned to came as a surprise to the Hortator, like all his conclusions about Voryn ever did. Voryn, to him, wore a different face, a different duality around everyone, and even though its honesty had yet to come forth every time – he had noticed a long time ago that Voryn liked to play around and play with possibilities, around councillors and even around the First Council members, just to taste the surface and act how he thought was best – he was different with Nerevar somehow; tentative, thoughtful, but less guarded in a strange way. Now, as he stood there clad in his robes that fit him much too well, Nerevar was at a loss for words, engaged in thoughts he'd never want the other mer to hear. And when they stood before Voryn's still locked door, Voryn turned to him again, now fully and without side glances. His head was tilted, as if to catch a silent whisper Nerevar had left trailing at his mute observation that he likely hadn't meant for Voryn to pick up on. He hadn't said anything, or so he thought, though he may as well have muttered something, and Voryn, ever so astute, answered him accordingly. If Nerevar was surprised, he did not show it, let alone comment on it; not having in him the courage to do so, and Voryn spoke again.
"Would you like to come in, Nerevar?" Voryn asked with a pause until he had said his name, passing an honest note, a selfish want, buried beneath formality.
And as Voryn waited; patiently, expecting, Nerevar stood – moving the entirety of his weight from one leg to the other and trying to look Voryn in the eye instead of anywhere else, instead of around his mouth – while bearing in mind that he would hate to pass up on the opportunity to do, well, whatever way the covers were wrapped and would unfold as the evening progressed. It might also just end simply with a drink, nothing more, but Nerevar bore the tiniest of hopes that, assuming he had picked up on Voryn's clues correctly, that there was something more going on, something past the boundaries as that of courtly acquaintances. But the more he thought about it, the more anxious he became, and even more so when Voryn's intense eyes bore into his. Voryn was likely unaware of it. Of this, Nerevar was sure, as he'd seen it many times, during many different occasions; after all, Voryn never seemed to lose the severe glints in the corners of his eyes.
"It's 'Lord Nerevar'," Nerevar said with authority. But his complexion was lit up a bright red and his speech he had stammered out clumsily, fussing over words he had meant to say instead of pulling rank, and he regretted it immediately; Voryn's face was steeled again, changed into the facade he wore during court, and Nerevar hated it, more so because he feared nothing else could beckon back the vulnerability Voryn had shown just a few seconds ago. Nerevar had been nervous, in his defence, but Voryn knew not of it, and if he did, he'd believe it would not be his place to address it. He would think he'd acted out of line, even thought in insincerity.
"My apologies, Lord Nerevar. It will not happen again," Voryn said, bowing his head slightly before Nerevar.
He stepped onto the threshold and into the room, holding the door open, but not enough so that it felt welcome anymore to the other still standing outside. Regret gnawed at Nerevar, but he was sure to cover it up so that any discomfort remaining in the air would vanish.
Well, he did just that, but he also made quick work of closing in on Voryn just moments before he aimed to place, very quickly, one hand on his chest; feeling around and eventually gripping the metal end of the golden pauldron – he had to hold onto something; he would definitely fall all tipped on his toes if he didn't – with his other caressing Voryn's sharp and jutty looking jaw. The kiss was rough, its start was, having pulled Voryn's face down to his none too gently, but Voryn didn't seem to mind. In fact, plump but slightly cracked lips met Nerevar's advances eagerly and made the clash all the more aggressive, only for it to end abruptly, because Nerevar pulled away after he had swiftly made up his mind – bright and early they had to get up, and it wouldn't do to be fatigued in the morning, so it was a clash and nothing more, and no hands had roamed astray. Nerevar found it hard to lose the sensation of lips moving and bending around his own, but his resolve had won out; aside from needing to get up early, the both of them couldn't afford for intimate rumours to spread around, not with Nerevar's political marriage just shy a few years back, even though The Hortator knew Almalexia wouldn't mind at all; she had Vehk and Seht, and her many female companions she had to entertain her during the nights.
Nerevar stepped away from Voryn, leaving him for the lights to illuminate the left side of his face, revealing to the other a gentle smile, fit only for this occasion it seemed, as he'd barely seen it before. Nerevar reciprocated the gesture when he found the courage again to look up from the ground, with a fleeting panic that translated into the fiddling of his hands, to smile back at him.
"Sleep well, Nerevar," Voryn had said with a purposely sultry voice that had Nerevar lingering outside for a while longer after Voryn had vanished behind a closed door.