LYRE
Finding survivors has become a bit of a rare event.
Bodies, though… we do find a lot of those.
Stepping back, my eyes rove over Thom's pallid face. His cheeks have a light flush in them now, though his overall skin tone seems to have become several shades paler—as if he's severely anemic.
Days of chronic arcana deprivation will do that to a person.
He returns my attention with glazed eyes, his pupils blown and lips still parted. He's always a little too excited for a kiss transfer, which is why I'd prefer something simpler, like hand-holding.
But this time, his magic needs were a little too high, his reserves almost running into the negative. He's a little too foolishly devoted, willingly working himself to the brink of death just to obey my commands.
A puppy, but a dangerous one in his own way, requiring more hands-on care than I generally prefer to give.
Thom leans forward, still dazed and yearning for more, despite the kiss being a mere press of our lips.
