I've written some snippets of Bhnaan's character progression in-between RP events. These stories serve as insight of turmoil, showing where his arc is going. Also, I hope this is something enjoyable to read, haha.
Glossary of Terms
Crimson Razor: A secret society. ✥
Posted Jul 22, 18
· Last edited Aug 3, 18
After a heavy battle with some strange-looking daedra plotting yet another Nirn-breaking shenanigan, involving two giant explosions and a lot of fire, Bhnaan limped the entire way to the infirmary at the Crimson Razor's headquarters. Some 300 agonizing steps, he counted.
Merely lying down on the soft linen-covered flat surface hurt his entire body. He burned, fell, rolled and bathed in a Vermai's blood, and -- Oh, sweet serpents, was that a piece of gut wriggling against his sensitive maormeri tongue? -- all in a skirmish with who knows what army of which plane and with what daedric warlord. All he got from it was a bittersweet taste of his poor performance. Weak, his mind echoed a silky voice mimicking his Grandmother, weak, foolish tadpole.
He was cleaned all over, but the bandages wrapped over his back and limb's burning wounds didn't soothe the fiery sensation. If he were still at Pyandonea, a series of whimpers would have escaped him probably whining at his Grandmother's disappointment yet secretly knowing she would fix him up quickly. Bhnaan was just a gem to be polished and used, wasn't he? Thinking about the past wasn't exactly a painkiller effect; somewhere deep down in the corners of his memory he remembered, every so often, some useful information taught by his Grandmother and her entourage. Maormeri sensitive skin, cauterizing was paramount, special circumstances, a pond. Water.
His new destination was simple: any pond or body of water would do. A cavern he had found while running from an Altmer guard occupied his mind as if trying to make him forget the burning sensation. He thirsted for water. Finally he found the innocuous pond he'd seen, dived right into it trusting his senses revealing the true depth of the tunnel beneath the water. Swimming came natural to him, swift as a shark, crossing the underwater tunnel further inside the cavern. Burns under the wraps sizzled, but felt so much better. And at the other end, within the dark cave, he rested on his back floating on the cool still waters. His skin slowly absorbed the water back to his charred, dried wounds breaking away the dead skin like an Adder who's shedding. His scaled freckles, raw under flaked skin, glistened in the new shine of the healing layer. Bhnaan felt the heat of the burns radiate into the still waters, replaced with a coolness lulling him in his tiredness.
When his silver eyes reopened, the dark of the cave welcomed Bhnaan to a dance of reflected waves on its walls in beautiful greens. He sensed around his body, his skin mellowed and his body colder. Floating flakes on the water danced with the waves and bounced the shine of greens in unison with this spectacle the cavern displayed. He could never really get over that--kind of gross--bodily response to trauma, but he had to admit the beauty of it.
Swimming back outside, the starry night blessed his path with light back somewhere he didn't know. He had no home to go back to. What he had to figure out now was obtaining two new axes. Perhaps someone in Crimson Razor could help him achieve just that?
Musings in a Bottle: Matters of Heart
[excerpt of a journal]
"I'm not sure when it started, but that first hunting session made it obvious to me. However one views matters of heart, for better or worse, that moment gave me an anchor I could use to remove my sister from my mind. The anchor being him —his smell, touch, deep soothing voice— all of him! It was freeing to have my thoughts removed to pay attention to my surroundings, the beat of my heart thumping, the breeze on my cheeks, the color of his glowing eyes. Yes. I can safely report I've killed the target, a poor innocent, big-eyed doe, without remorse. All because my mind and heart were filled with fluttering, hopeful butterflies. We hugged, standing on the puddle of its blood. Then we skinned it together.
Our house, little cottage somewhere in Glenumbra, is cozy and stuck with the smell of him. He's rather primal in his aesthetic choices, given the skinning habit and all the mundanity of hunting, skinning and selling the mats. I almost forgot we were sworn to the Crimson Razor. I almost forgot I had a purpose in running from Pyandonea. And now, there's a new purpose. Thinking back on the many encounters we've shared, I can see how I began to fall for him. And now I sigh in delight. O, Grandmother, if you were here, I'd ask you so many questions! But I had her no more, and it's up to me to find the answers to this mysterious feeling called... love?
In the style of tradition and proper courting, or at least I assumed I knew any of that garbage, I gave gifts to him in shiny motifs: hand-picked pearls, opalescent crystals, bijou shells, strange runes. But nothing got through as I went in blindly. I needed a strategy, an angle! Someone who knew the workings of love... Vakama ended up being the one who would answer my questions with seriousness, the kind of bluntness I need. A mentor of sorts. Well, that if I didn't manage to irritate him.
It got harder to sneak about asking questions, hiding my true intentions and continue acting like he was just another peer all for the sake of preserving this closeness. And, oh, did I fail at doing any of that. Starting with myself, unable to contain my heartbeats and emotions at the sight of him and his careless demeanor. Jealousy, yearning, but pushing away.
Many opportunities presented themselves as casual social gatherings. At one, I tried putting on a robe to impress the man I want at a tavern only to embarrass myself. At another, a voluptuous lady came in between in that one private moment I'd yearned to have with him. At the next one, my shame of prudence made me unable to flaunt my physical features like all the others at the bathhouse; he stood there in all his nakedness and I had to push away. At one after, I was under inspection by my peers who already caught wind of my poor attempts to remain coy with my feelings. A game of truths and dares — the truth is the game was rigged from the start. I shared my first kiss with him in a dare, a cold one of detached feelings, a one sided genuine connection. It destroyed me to see how easy he would kiss anyone with a dare. In every one of them I walked away with a venomous, flaming heart ready to sink its fangs and paralyze that which hurt.
I had enough.
After running around in pitiful circles, I bit my tongue and approached my love mentor with decision in my silver eyes. Only one task in my mind: to get a gift Ephidel would understand. Alcohol. It took patience, prying and dole to get the perfect brandy. Cyrodillic Brandy, strong, rambunctious like the Breton I love.
And to be perfectly honest, all it took was a moment with him. To catch him alone.
If you could hear my heartbeat right now, it'd hit like a rattlesnake's sleighbell tail.
Because he said 'yes'. Not in that exact word, but it felt like a 'yes'. That's a tale on its own."
[to mark the page, there's a blue embroidered ribbon.]