Cerulean Cape temporal

the kiss trikova places upon his cheek is fleeting but her brief touch lingers upon his flesh, warming him, seeping into the marrow of his bones; like the touch of a saint upon an apostle's brow. a low noise of affection rumbles within his chest, quiet but present until it is tamed by the sound of her voice.

she details out her plans, and further, their hierarchical structure.

from the speakers — morgana's role — to a bit more of his own as the keeper. it suits him, he thinks; more than content with his role. to be her hidden blade, always at her side and ready to strike when she commanded was an honor to him.

ingram was not, however, entirely pleased to learn that, eventually, he would be sent away from her side but also, it does not inspire surprise within him either. it made sense and he soothes the worst of his urge to protest being sent away.

i can handle it, trikova. he offers hopefully as a form of reassurance to her solemn words that it would be harrowing. he would do as she commanded him and then he would return to her; always. as he had pledged he would.