He rests his hand on Mary Anne's scalloped, downy back, listening to the slow shallow breaths she makes, the occasional sussurations. She has her hand on his hip, her face angled down into the pillow, and sweat is glistening under her fingers ( Read more... )

Roger is seated in his room. He is reading something large and yellowed; his palms are hot and his head jangles.

Roger steps out of the bath and slips on a towel. His gaze is slightly unfocused, and he runs a hand through his hair before closing them. He can feel things coming together. He can feel his veins throbbing in his shoulders. He begins counting out the Greek alphabet in his head to calm himself, then shrugs and slaps his palms on his bare chest and ( Read more... )

Roger walks into the bar, twirling a long-stemmed iron flower between his index finger and thumb. He is humming, offhandedly.

*Roger is humming, a melancholy aria.*

All this feels like another reminder of ( Read more... )

[OOC: Post-Milliways Entry]

-- this is more than a symbol, this bedding. This is an allegiance. This is a sacrifice. This is a lost soul. This is a lost soul found. This is a pawn ( Read more... )

Roger doesn't swagger into the bar; a duke of Conte never swaggers. Instead, he strolls to the bar, with a manner that suggests supreme self-satisfaction. He spies Alanna and tips his head downward, in an exaggerated gesture of politeness, and winks.

His eyes wild, normally neat clothes in disarray and a gaping hole in his tunic just above the stomach, Roger appears in the doorway. He is gripping a bloody silver sword tightly in his right hand. As he surveys the room, still panting slightly, the wild light slowly goes out of his eyes.

Well, he thinks. This is an interesting sort of afterlife.