Rotting_Ink
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Romance Options First Appearance
🕑 Added 2024-01-01 14:09:26 +0000 UTCWritten for if the player is bisexual. If the player chooses only female love interests, then all the RO's are all women. Same as for if the player chooses only male love interests.
Luther looked over the hall filled with members of his pack milling around the hall, eyes narrowed on a piece of paper slipped to him earlier that morning. His people chattered amongst themselves, sitting along the low tables, sharing food and drink. Fireplaces were lit. Cubs were playing with each other in little groups or nestled into their mothers’ sides. Harmony. He made this.
He rubs his calloused thumb against the ink, long since dried. He leaned back in his chair, catching the attention of his sister, Emilia. She seemed to bristle at his very movement and Luther folded the piece of paper with a low sigh.
“Em-”
“What?” She snapped, tugging at a lock of her dark hair.
Luther dragged his tongue over his teeth, eyes narrowing. Even the hall quieted as her outburst. She was getting too unruly for her position. Any day now she was going to make a mistake that he wouldn’t be able to save her from.
“Your little friend.” Luther said after a moment. “Is dead.”
Emilia froze up, turning around to stare at him with her lips slightly parted. Luther settled back into a comfortable position in his chair, turning away from her to let the piece of paper flutter from his palm, into the fireplace by his legs, being eaten up within seconds by the flames.
“... Luther.” Emilia whispered. “What did you do?”
Sienna reclined on her sofa as her guests gushed about her wonderful party, the entertainment, the food, all so wonderful! She just watched them, running her perfectly manicured thumb over the rim of her wine glass, swirling the dark red liquid around.
God, she was fucking bored.
She’s done it all before. Again and again. The parties, the games, the drinking, the sex, the spending. She was starting to feel old. And there was nothing Sienna Della Rovere hated more than feeling fucking old.
She watched her guests dance and gossip and coo. She watched them eat her food and enjoy her singers and whisper about how one of these days their host simply must marry one of the eligible bachelors constantly hanging around her.
They too, were fucking boring. Every day was so… Fucking… Oh?
One of her little assistants was stumbling over themselves to get to where she was languidly lounging, their little face pale with shock.
“Baroness Della Rovere! Baroness!” The little thing tottered to a stop in front of her, panting.
“Yes?” Sienna replied mildly, a perfect eyebrow raised.
“I… The… The Clerk… He’s been found dead.”
Sienna’s mouth parted in a perfect shocked expression but the edge of her lip twitched.
Finally, some fun.
Victor got home late. The best time to get home. Silence. Nothing but the fireplace crackling with a flame that was lit specially for him. It was hard to remember a time when he wasn’t living such a life. Not that he couldn’t remember, it was that it was a time that felt like a glowing ember to try and touch without hurting yourself.
So he didn’t. So he lived the good life, with a crystal glass of brandy held in his palm, a book open on his knee. So, he enjoyed his new life.
Then he heard them. His spouse. A few thumps upstairs and muffled movement. Victor stilled and glanced towards the ceiling, as if it would let him see through the wood, watching as they trotted around and bumped into things as they tried to pull on their evening robe. His lips thinned but as he heard their footsteps make their way down the grand staircase, he schooled his expression into something warmer. By the time the door to the study swung over, he looked downright loving.
“Victor.”
“My dear.” He reached out for his beloved spouse to rest their leathery hand in his. “You needn’t come down to greet me. You should be resting.”
Their cold eyes bored into him before they slowly parted their lips.
“Victor… That boy is dead.”
He blinked at them a few times.
“Luke. Luke is dead.”
His stomach tightened, the whiskey curdling in his gut. The glass slipped from his fingers and smashed on the floor.
Zaniyah was cold. So fucking cold. She was always cold these days, but it didn’t mean that she ever got used to it. That she’ll ever want to get used to it.
Her black skirt drags on the ground as she walks, leaves and dirt staining the hem. Hard to remember a time that she’d ever cared about what the hem of her frock looked like. There was once upon a time that she’d gain stares and whispers about the state she was in. Now she glides through crowds and groups and no one takes notice of her. No one yells at her for bumping them, no one grumbles when she steps on their foot, no one yelps when her umbrella smacks their face.
Bliss. If only she wasn’t so cold.
She glides past the elderly lady at the desk, squinting through her clouded spectacles. She descends the stairs, pausing a bit as the doctor ascends the stairs, rubbing his eyes wearily. Zaniyah admires his profile, tilting her head. When he’s out of sight, she continues her way, perfectly buckled, muddied shoes making neither a sound or a stain on the tiled floor.
Then she arrives. And there he is.
The body lying on the white slab, a slender, greying pinkie poking out from under the tarp.
“Hello, Mister Buckley.” She murmurs and slips her notebook free from her jacket.
