faithlikeaseed | [IC/OOC] Fade Rift Inbox & Contact

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[IC/OOC] Fade Rift Inbox & Contact

(( Need to get a hold of Myr? Drop him a line. Notes, in-person visits, sending crystals, spooky Fade dream shenanigans, you name it. Just specify the type of contact in the first comment of the thread and away we go.

Need to get a hold of the player? Plagueheart#0051 @ Discord or a DW PM is the easiest! ))

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Right. [From the context, it's what he'd guessed at, for all he hadn't heard the conversation.]

I'd meant to speak to you about it anyhow. But--I imagine now's not the time, with your emotions in a muddle.

[A beat of a pause, then, softly,] I can only guess.

[There is a long stretch of silence as Anders mentally debates what to say or do here. On one hand, he knows he's not fooling anyone with how much this works him up, and he also doesn't think Myrobalan is the type to use Karl against him. On the other hand, the elf is a Loyalist and if a Templar wanted a way to get at Anders...

When Anders finally speaks, the words are slow.]

Can you promise me that anything I say on this topic will never be repeated?

[He is silent a long time in reply, thinking that over very carefully.

His tone is very gentle when he finally replies.]

If it's solely concerning what was between you and y-- and Karl, I won't say a word of it.

If it's something that might be used to forward a cure for Tranquility-- Better that you not tell me. [The temptation on Casimir's behalf would be too great. And he's carrying too many secrets around all ready that he's guilty for.]

[It's a very honest answer. Sharing a little also means a little more of Karl is out there in the world, too. A little less gone. And, it occurs to him, Myr sworn to secrecy on what he's been told also protects from educated guesses being told to the wrong people.

His voice is little more than a whisper.]

He was... He was a Senior Enchanter in Kinloch Hold, when I met him. One of my teachers. And the kindest person I'd ever met. He had a rule against sleeping with his students. But I've never been one for following the rules. I seduced him.

And then we broke the biggest rule of being mages. We fell in love.

[That alone will answer a lot, he feels, but it leaves out the cruelties visited upon Karl and therefore it's not enough.]

For a long time we managed to keep things hidden. But the Templars found out. And they took him. Here. To here, the Gallows.

[He pauses, taking a breath. It's time to skim a lot, because he's not going to go into Justice and leaving the Wardens and all of that mess. It isn't needed for the story to be clear.]

Years later, when I was conscripted, we started exchanging smuggled letters. But there were, there were a lot of Templars who were angry that I hadn't died for my seventh escape. Who were angry that the Templars who had captured me were dead and blamed me for it despite their deaths clearly being at Darkspawn hands.

They intercepted a letter. Or found it. I don't know which. It doesn't matter. They set a trap for me, helped me seem to plan with him a way to get him out and into the relative freedom I enjoyed.

[And now anger starts to enter his voice, and he gets a little louder.]

Only when I went to get him he was Tranquil. They destroyed him, the sweet, patient man he was, the man who had obeyed his entire life in those horrible places, to get revenge for the survival of a nobody, as if it was some personal affront that I made it out.

[He's furious by the time he wraps up there, and takes a few seconds to catch his breath before he offers up the other part of an answer he gave Myrobalan ages ago:]

He breathed his last in the Chantry.

"Simon?" There's notes of relief and chagrin alike in the name; of all the people Myr'd do that in front of, naturally it's the one he most wants to impress. He sinks down in the tub, probing the injury with his fingers and wallowing a little longer in embarrassment and warm water. Even if the latter's the instrument of his betrayal, it's damn cold out there. "It's--ow, shit--fine; brained myself and soaked all my fuckin' things but I can fix both--"

From someone else there might be a faint note of accusation behind the words; from Myr, they're simply a rueful statement of the facts. A mumbled diagnostic spell reveals the tub-edge has left him with no more than a spectacular swelling bruise, thank the Maker; if he'd cracked his skull there'd be no easily mending it. He starts in on the healing spell straightway, laboriously cajoling the Fade into putting his blood back where it belonged.

Weary, dazed, and distracted as Myr is, Simon's footsteps don't register. It doesn't occur to him to give warning or ask his friend to stop a moment, please, until he can get the blindfold back on--

Edited 2018-01-11 07:46 (UTC)

And it does not occur to Simon, either, even if it probably ought to, because he's not the one who's nearly concussed himself here--but neither does he realize the gravity of the matter, the lengths Myr goes to in order to ensure that nobody sees what lies under the blindfold, and Simon up near the top of the list of those he would rather hide it from.

It is not that Simon hasn't given the matter any thought before. On the contrary, he would like to believe he's prepared for this moment. He's imagined it before, held the image in his mind, tried to extrapolate from the scars that border the blindfold and envision the worst-case scenario possible--but it's difficult, when he can't bring himself to think hollowness or emptiness would be so terrible he couldn't be all right with it, nor ragged scar tissue covering the sockets over, nor anything in between. He tells himself that if Myr ever wants to show him the wounds, he'll respond without judgment or hesitation or fear.

But this, as he learns too late, is a vow premised on the notion that he'll have time to steel himself first. In all his imaginings, the one common factor has always been the idea that Myr will be taking the blindfold off deliberately, that he'll know what's coming. None of it has involved the prospect of walking around the corner of a screen, all concern and solicitousness, and catching the flash of a yawning, red-edged void in the face he's so admired before.

He halts, turns his head away as if slapped, averts his eyes. It doesn't erase the glimpse he's caught--but it had, after all, been only a glimpse.

He doesn't know how it hadn't occurred to him that Myr wouldn't wear the blindfold in the bath.

"As long as you can heal it up," he says, his voice ever so slightly strained.

With the unraveling bruise goes the bird’s-egg knot of pain, the insistent complaining of a bashed skull that makes it so hard to focus. (Drill enough in a spell, though, and you can cast it around the discomfort—Maker be praised, for all the times he’s needed it.) “Just,” Myr replies, ruefully. “It’s no slashed throat; I’ve lots of practice with bruises.” And there’s no way he could botch this one with a forgotten bit of cloth.

It’s not a long process for all his own difficulties with healing magic make a struggle of it. With the last of the damaged tissue well on the mend, Myr looses his hold on the Fade and sits sloshily upright. “That should do—“

His voice trails off into silence as he realizes—much too late—from whence and how close Simon’s voice came. Jabbering instinct wells suddenly up, urging he hide or flee or cover himself, hands drawn of their own accord not down to his lap but up toward his face. How much did you see? he wants to ask—to demand, anguished and scandalized, displacing the bulk of fault onto Simon.

But he doesn’t: That’s unfair. Much as his gut roils and heart sinks (at least it would be a convenient solution for their wonderful, awful mutual attraction; at least if only one of them were still desperately interested in the physical aspect of the relationship, it would be easier to hold out—how great and terrible Your ways, o Maker!), Myr leashes his tongue, sets his hands to searching out where he thinks he left the damned blindfold draped over the edge of the tub in easy reach.

And doesn’t find it, not for tracing the whole perimeter of the tub with his hands. Of course; because there weren’t any more ways to make this worse— He breathes out slowly and clambers from the bath, peripherally aware he could be doing this in full sight of Simon and acting as casual and confident as he can. The rough-spun towel at least is exactly where he left it tossed over the screen.

“Did you happen to see,” the words are level but a note of strain still leaks through his feigned calm, “where my blindfold got to?”

(Piled folded on the rest of his now-damp clothing; a choice divergent from his usual habit, just this once.)

"I--"

The pause drags on a second too long. Say something, Simon, you useless fool--

"No, I haven't--I didn't see much of anything; I wasn't looking really--" It's a boldfaced lie in every sense of the word, and this is not the kind of situation in which Simon can be a convincing liar. He's only making it all the worse. Or is he? He's never been very expert at reading anyone else's tone; Myr's wry and easy cheer before he'd realized where Simon was had made an impression, and his calm now is feigned skillfully enough to smooth over some of Simon's guilty doubt.

It doesn't have to mean anything. It isn't anything. It's nothing at all.

"I'll find it, though," he offers, leaping boldly into that silence before his mind can talk him out of it. "No need to worry. It can't have got far."

If you'd just-- Just what? Use his hands to cover his eyes, to make sure Simon doesn't have to see those gaping holes in the meantime? Shame sloshes through him like dirty lukewarm bathwater. Who is he to think of such a request? If he's such a delicate little infant that he can't bear to look at it, let it be incumbent on him to keep his eyes averted. Let him summon the willpower he'd never have if Myr were still safely blindfolded and still walking about naked as a jaybird.

(He still doesn't have that willpower. He glances upward anyway, lets his eyes travel as far as Myr's chest, and swallows.)

"I've got it," he says, after a moment. "It's a bit damp, though...more than a bit damp, I'm afraid."

[It's something he's had a very long time to think about. Having Vandelin around to articulate the rebel side of things cogently and without malice had helped them both formulate their arguments.]

It could last. It might even last a long while, if you're careful about who's given power and who's kept from it, and raise your mages aright. How would you plan to do that?

And how will you deal with abominations, or blood magic, or mages who choose to prey on their neighbors?

He distracts himself with drying off, the better not to hear the way that pause goes on, the uncertainty in Simon's tone. (Not adroit in listening for falsehood, Myr can nevertheless pin that for a lie and forgive it as a loving one. It hurts less to know it's gently meant.)

"Thanks. Don't think it would've washed away, but there's no telling." One learns, over the years, how to be brisk and efficient with a towel. He's dry enough to dress in short order, the cloth hung about his shoulders--though he'd considered briefly making an unsightly veil of it. Better for both of them, perhaps, though it would be a confession of shame he couldn't bear to make in front of Simon.

Yet when his friend speaks up--"I've got it,"--Myr holds his hand out with his face politely averted. "Damp I can fix Missing completely's a little harder. Where was it?" 'More than a bit damp' is putting it lightly; it's soaked, and Myr heaves a silent sigh of dismay before rolling it up and wringing it out. The quiet plash of water isn't enough to hide his next words, quiet as they are (out of habit, out of anyone could be listening,): "You're welcome to look, if you want."

At more than just his face, is the undertone; though it feels futile and foolish to imply as much, he can't keep from saying it. (He won't want to. Not after this, and that's as well. What point was there in continuing to offer?)

He knows what Myr could mean by that, and what he does mean. Both of them send the same kind of writhing sensation through his gut, one he can't interpret or place but for the understanding that it is a mixed bag indeed.

(He steels himself again to look up at Myr's face, holding that image in his inner vision and reminding himself that he's thought about it plenty before. His mind, in return, supplies embellishments that aren't there, sketching in a torn and rotted cheek with teeth showing through under the empty socket. He loses his nerve.)

But Myr's voice is the same as it ever was, quiet strain notwithstanding, his movements still conducted with that familiar athletic grace, the lines of his body smooth and clean and beautiful. You're welcome to look, if you want, because he knows how Simon will have been yearning to look, because he knows Simon can.

He knows Myr too well now to think that his starry-eyed conception of his friend as a man of infinite and unshakable confidence is true. There's nobody for whom it ever could be. He knows why that offer is barely audible, even when they're alone in the room.

He looks up, from where he kneels on the ground by Myr's sodden clothing; he drinks Myr in from the floor upward, every inch of fascinatingly smooth skin, every muscle he already knows by feel, everything else he's imagined at great and detailed length when he should never have allowed his mind to touch on it. He swallows, tremulous, and it's no easier now to keep his fingertips to himself than ever it's been before.

"I'm glad for the permission," he says, his voice every bit as conspiratorially soft. "I've got to confess that I didn't quite wait for it."

Edited 2018-01-13 11:41 (UTC)

Let's take the relative easier one first, abominations, blood magic, and predatory mages.

For abominations whose bodies have been twisted, I don't believe there is anything left. I'd like to see if we could dispell and ensnare one long enough to make sure of it, but until and unless that happens, twisted-body abominations would have to be treated like demons. Those who are simply... merged would be monitored. If they and their spirit manage to work together in a harmony that does not hurt people, which I know one has accomplished, then they're allowed to continue on with the option of the ritual that freed me. If there is harm in their merging, then they are put through that ritual.

[Justice would have fought it, he would have been furious for a time, but the truth of the matter is that they needed to be separated.]

Blood mages will be taken on a similar case-by-case basis. I've met plenty who do harm with it... and I know of two who use it for a greater good. It took me a very long time to come to terms with it, but they're not all demon-cavorting malevolent manipulators as we were taught. Not to mention the Circles used blood magic on all of us while condemning it. No. It's based on whether or not they're a predator, not what school of magic they use.

And predatory mages will be treated like the criminals they are, as if they weren't mages. The crimes that would get a non-mage executed will be the crimes that get a mage executed. The crimes that would lead to imprisonment for a non-mage, etc. They should get fair trials first, and then equivalent punishments.

[No more Tranquility. There's a short pause, and then a chuckle.]

And those were the easier ones. For the other... I think we have to acknowledge that someone who wants power for malevolent reasons will stop at nothing to get it, and the best laid plans will not last forever, not for any institution. With those in mind, precise roles with balances should be drawn up, with a few people weighing in so that weaknesses are found. It would need to be an odd number of leaders, and there shouldn't be perks that come along with leadership. Rooms the same size as any other full mage, pay just the same, meals the same, and so on, so that those are not the driving force behind seeking the position too.

...Have I put you to sleep yet?

Why d'you think I'd fall asleep over this? [The words are mild, amused. It's good they're not speaking in person, good that Anders won't have seen the flinch at the mention of phylacteries--because right now Myr's better at keeping his tone level than his emotions off his face.] It's too important to be boring.

Setting aside the additional risks blood magic poses--much as I'd be interested in hearing its benign uses, [sort of]--and... I suppose the handling of abominations isn't so different from what the Avvar do, much as I personally dislike the idea--who d'you imagine will be judging mages in these situations? [He suspects an answer, but he'd rather not leap to conclusions.] And what of crimes that only mages might commit--if you find one of those otherwise-benevolent blood mages, say, using her magic to cheat people of money or property? That's clearly worse than simple fraud and can't be judged the same.

[A considering pause, then more softly,] No, the best laid plans don't--nor would your code for mages, without a lot of care. Look at what's been done to the plain text of the Chant. [There's a note of pain there, well-concealed.] I worry that you seem intent on setting it up outside all other worldly authority--not just because I've a bias toward the Chantry, but that what you propose hasn't got any roots and is liable to dry up and blow away.

Every society that hasn't got Circles as we have them has a well-defined place for its mages, whether it's on top or at the bottom, and they make it a matter not just of law but of culture and religion. What meaning will you give your mages?

Edited 2018-01-15 06:37 (UTC)

[It's a little bit of a relief to know that Myrobalan isn't annoyed by the flood of words. The topic is important, and it's very, very complicated. There's a little huff of agreeing laughter after the question and statement of it being important, then he dives in.]

Service, as for meaning. The Grey Wardens exist outside of nations, and I'm envisioning the mages as being available to serve without the conscription or requirements of support. We'd need treaties to protect ourselves after all. Service still ties into the Chant, and while I know it won't set everyone's minds at ease, if that is in the code it will at least set a good starting note. Service is fulfilling, and there are so many varieties of it that mages shouldn't wind up feeling trapped in any one specific role unless they want to specialize in it.

For judgement, mages would handle it entirely if the crime is against another mage. If the crime is against a non-mage, then the non-mage authority that would handle such matters among the non-mages, [that's clunky, they really need a better term,] would have an equal voice on the matter.

[The protest would likely be too great on either side if it wasn't an equal voice.]

And as far as unique crimes, I don't have an answer for that just yet. I'm certain that those more involved with laws and carrying them out would have ideas; I need to contact Aveline and see what she'd say on it, but I'm open to opinions.

And what about mages who don't feel their birthright should bind them to a life of service? What will you do with them?

[Were he discussing this with Van, he'd bring in a comparison to the Circles here--but he hasn't the familiarity with Anders to know what might touch off unproductive bickering instead of a worthwhile discussion.

And they've had far too much of that for one lifetime, he thinks.]

Speaking with someone more versed in the law's sensible enough, though. I can't begin to think what might be appropriate for some of these--coercing someone's free will away from her is awful enough to me to warrant a death sentence, though I s'pose it should depend on how much damage the coercion did.

They can go as they will. This is to provide a place for education, training, and an offering of stability as well as protection. There may be some sort of compulsory training time for mages included in the treaty, whether by the community or by another fully trained mage that wants to take in an apprentice, just for the sake of safety, but the basics a mage needs to know could be covered within two years.

I realize giving the option to go one's own way will weaken the standing of the group. But freedom and options are of paramount importance. Without them, things absolutely will go downhill.

And I... would not disagree regarding a death sentence for such an act. But the line will have to be set at which doing that earns it because the law attempts to make black and white things that can sometimes be grey. Mind control for personal gain should be punished severely. But what if a blood mage mind controls a slaver to set slaves free?

It's freezing.

It's a bit beyond freezing, really, but if you crack enough ice from the harbour you can get at the real frigid shit beneath. That's where the money is — forget snow, you can only dump so much of that on folks off the ramparts before you've got to go and branch out. Variety's the spice of life, and all that.

So when she spots Myr, it's not powder fluff that goes swinging his direction, but a bucket full of seawater.

"Look out!" She yells, like a dick.

...Oh.

There is no mistaking the sweet sincerity in Simon's voice for anything merely polite--"I'm glad for the permission"--and a small foolish smile steals onto Myr's face to hear it. "I should have warned you," he replies, voice warm as the glow that confession kindles in his chest. "Instead of lying around in wait to tempt your eyes past bearing." Of course that's not what he means by warned but it's easier to make a joke of it, to make no reference to that painful idea--you are a thing that people ought to be warned about, not for his magic but for his scars. Yet he'd so much rather to not have surprised Simon, if he had to be so completely naked before his friend. But of everything he'd feared for that eventual revelation--this is the best way it could have worked out, he thinks.

Still, he keeps his face politely averted, as if looking at the warming glyph he's tracing out on the screen. It is small and simple, a matter of seconds before it flicks to gentle life and he can drape the blindfold to hang over it to dry out. (The first real time he's tried such a use since Petrana suggested it might be done; hopefully, it works on a reasonable timescale.) "But it's forgiven," he continues, "though maybe I shouldn't go so easy on you now that you're one up on me; I don't even know your face yet."

He could find out; it wouldn't be so hard to reach out and-- But don't think so hard on what Simon must be doing that his voice should be so near the floor. Don't dwell on that, or this situation will rapidly become embarrassing again for an entirely other reason.

It would never be too hard to reach out. They're always finding themselves in situations where nothing but the sheerest veil of willpower keeps them apart, and perhaps Myr's soft, purring little joke there deserves to be taken in earnest after all--perhaps it would have been better to ward Simon off in advance, ask him if he really does want to tempt his own weak will like this, remind him that he's never been any good at holding himself back from a mistake this mutually desired. (But Myr doesn't know how sorry his record of self-control really is. He wants desperately for his friend to think better of him than that, even now.)

It would be too easy to reach, to lean, to curve his hand around the back of one strong calf and stroke at the back of Myr's knee, to kiss soft and slowly upward from there, to lean him back against the tub and--

Don't dwell on it. Don't imagine it, for the Maker's love. He swallows, fearful in the sudden silence that his breath has audibly hitched, and gets to his feet again. He can't decide if Myr's words constitute a reprieve or not.

"No, you don't," he says, but his sheepishness at that is at least slightly more of the teasing variety than the deadly earnest his own shame had been a moment ago. "But perhaps that's a blessing in disguise. I can't tell if it'd be better or worse if you had me down in your imagination as more handsome than I really am."

It would be worse, he thinks. He can't articulate why, and no more does he want to try to, but it would be far worse to disappoint Myr even in the hypothetical.

Edited 2018-01-17 08:39 (UTC)

"May" seems a weak word when an untrained mage is as much risk to herself as to others. But what about those who refuse even that--how d'you plan to make learning truly compulsory with the recalcitrant? And if they should take all their training and turn around and harm others, for gain or for spite, will the mages of your school be obligated to bring them to justice?

[A brief noise that's almost a laugh follows.] That's what the law's for--making things black and white. It's up to righteous judges to bring the gray back in where it's warranted.

What if she does? Did she have other options to free the slaves? Stripping someone of her volition, her Maker-given free will, even if it's only temporary--it's evil. Maybe not evil beyond excuse, maybe it's evil the same as killing is evil, sometimes excusable-- But this is why I'm not a judge. [Among many other reasons.]

One didn't get Myr's reputation in a Circle by being a paragon of virtue and rule-following self-restraint. Fear of transfer kept him discreet but not chaste; a keen awareness of the Maker's disappointment led him to confession but never away from temptation in the moment.

It's an awful irony that the two of them together are better at it than either of them ever was alone. (Isn't that what love is for?)

Fear of another sort lodges briefly in his throat when that silence stretches out; from nearly the day they've met he's edged on the wrong side of propriety with Simon--and this time it might have been a little too far for both their sakes. This time, surely, he's said something that requires a reconsideration and return to proper decorum--

Or not. He breathes out in a laugh, half-relieved. "Maker as my witness, I tried to get an accurate description. How'm I to do that when the best expert on the subject won't talk?" The words are teasing but gently so.

"But maybe it is a blessing I've nothing to distract me from your voice. It would be a shame to miss a word."

Even if his own fantasies have played the role of that distraction often enough, but let it stand-- He ought not be entertaining them anyway.

"You and the voice." As if he isn't delighted by every one of those compliments, as if he doesn't remember each one word-for-word and still keep it close--as if he isn't using it to his advantage this very second, dropping it down into its lowest and richest and most vibrating register as he teases, letting the accent drip because he's heard Myr praise it before as well.

Perhaps they are both better at this when their willpower is combined, it's true--but nevertheless, that still isn't saying a great deal. He ventures closer, just a step, just a little, as Myr keeps his not-gaze fixed on the screen and the glyph.

"I don't know as I am the best expert on the subject. How're you supposed to be objective about your own face? You don't want to sell yourself short, of course, but if you don't, and someone else disagrees, then you've got yourself a reputation for lying and immodesty." He folds his arms, thinking on this at some length.

"Dog Lady says I'm a seven. Which I thought was a bit unfair; I thought maybe I'd merit a seven and a half at least, but humility is a virtue before the Maker, so I'll...take her word for it."

That isn’t fair—

Though Maker knows it’s suitable turnabout for him conducting this whole conversation in the nude. Something he’ll have cause to regret (but oh, never really, never for this) if Simon goes on like that at any length, that voice like warm dark velvet against his skin, like a welcome touch at the base of his spine. It catches in his awareness, drags him to rapt and prayerful attention, suggests the sort of worship best conducted on one’s knees—

He takes the towel from off his shoulders, knotting it at his hips and not quite managing to make the whole thing look casual and unhurried. It won’t do much for his modesty if this goes any further. They should stop.

They should stop, but he isn’t ready to stop yet. “No one else has any more reason to be objective,” he replies with a grin. “We’re always seeing in other people what we find most or least attractive about them anyhow, and telling ourselves why we’re right or not to do it. Barring someone in the Inquisition knowing precisely what I like, I’d rather someone inclined kindly toward your good looks.”

Or Melys. There’s always Melys, and Simon’s remark on her assessment gets a laugh out of Myr, because: How exactly like the Fereldan—never let anyone get too comfortable. “Knowing her, that may as well be a seven and a half.”

He pauses then, reaches out to check how dry his blindfold’s gotten. Not quite enough. More softly, he goes on: “Though if you’re not opposed, I’d like to—to find out for myself.” Hands held up in illustration of just how he’d do that—and still he keeps his face turned away.

Edited 2018-01-19 19:01 (UTC)

[It would not ever occur to Myr to take someone's private sorrow as an opportunity to cause further hurt--to share it around maliciously, no matter how much at odds they might be otherwise. (To take it to someone else out of loving concern for the injured party--

That's different. And has ended nearly as badly as malice, once before.)

He listens without comment to the full story, laying aside judgment for when he's had time to think more about what he's been given. Even without that opportunity, though--this offers insight and understanding; serves as a reminder, too, that no man--even the host of a Spirit of Justice--is a creature of unfeeling principle. (Nor should he be; else the Maker would not have given them emotions.)

Everyone has wounds. Everyone has reasons.

Myr breathes out a low, pained sigh.]

I am truly sorry. It doesn't change a thing to say that, I know, but--I am sorry for your loss. That evil men would do that to someone you loved so dearly--

[He catches back his own anger, swallows it.]

I'm sorry. I'll not be so casual with what I know of him, in the future. He deserves better.

No, Myr can't quite pass that towel-wrapping off as a breezy meaningless thing he was going to do anyway. Anyone else easily could; Simon would be paying far less attention, wouldn't be outright trying to make him flush with needy warmth like that, but he can't bring himself to hold back now, and he's deeply grateful--unfair though he knows it is--that Myr can't see him in turn, that he won't need to worry about concealing anything.

"I don't know precisely what you like," he points out, the warmth of it still shot through with a hint of shyness. Nobody's ever all that reserved about complimenting his body, Myr included, but he's always had less reason for confidence about the face, and for all he truly knows, everything about it could be exactly the opposite of what Myr prefers, even if it is a decent enough face by general standards.

He swallows, as Myr raises his hands; watches them as if studying them, almost wary of what they might do. Perhaps he's spoken too soon about having no need to worry about his own reaction to any of this. He didn't anticipate being close enough for touch, let alone inviting it, but Maker help him, he wants--

"I'm never opposed," he says softly. "I couldn't be."

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[IC/OOC] Fade Rift Inbox & Contact

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backdated to snow times

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I need a proper shy icon.

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