Post
Region: Barbaria
IC: Vasco watched Aloara with a glint of both surprise and amusement in his eyes. Her commanding tone, her sharp words—this was a side of her he hadn’t quite anticipated. He leaned back, a slight smirk playing on his lips as he took in her intensity, appreciating the ambition and fire she so carefully masked beneath her composed exterior.
“A son, hmm?” Vasco replied, swirling his tea as he watched her. “I suppose I could help with that,” he said with a playful glint, though there was a hint of seriousness in his tone.
He took a slow sip, his eyes meeting hers. “But Princess, if you’re willing to leave your life here in Velkisa and come with me to Hedra and actually help me, I suppose I could do my part… as a father. When the time is right, our son will leave Hedra and come here to take your brother’s place and become the next King. That would also mean that we would have to have another heir to rule in Hedra after me as my Mother would never agree to a shared monarch in order to preserve independence.” He met her gaze more steadily, allowing a trace of sincerity to pass through his usual playfulness.
As she returned to her more serene, delicate manner, pouring the tea with the elegance and restraint she was known for, Vasco watched her in silence. He admired her composure, the way she had composed herself, stepping from one persona to another so seamlessly.
“If you agree to do your part or the deal, I’ll do mine.” Vasco says, slowly removing his right glove to a handshake revealing his fingers ravaged by dermatophagia, bearing the eerie signs of relentless gnawing. The skin around the nails scarred and ragged, a network of crisscrossing white and pink lines etched deep from repeated bites. Swollen and discolored, the edges are rough, with raw patches where fresh teeth marks have torn through, leaving bruised purplish hues fading into sickly yellow. The nail beds are uneven, some split and broken, others warped from scar tissue encroaching over the growth lines. Skin around the cuticles is hard, calloused in parts, and sensitive in others where healing is an elusive promise. But perhaps the thing that stands out the most on this scarred hand is a striking jewel signet ring, bold and defiant against the marred skin. The band, thick and polished to a mirror sheen, contrasting sharply with the rough, uneven texture of the surrounding fingers. At its center, a deep violet gemstone—rich, dark, almost like a drop of spilled ink—catches the light, flickering with cold, inner fire. The stone is encased in intricate golden prongs that wind around it like delicate vines, echoing a refinement that seems almost out of place on the worn hand, as if it belongs to a past life untouched by the raw marks of compulsion.