soren
Even with the original chaos abounding around them, Soren had smirked through it. He was no stranger to tension, and part of him even thrived in it. But this was different. The air had changed as gods and men and magic and relics all clashed. soren
“Aith,” he said, voice low, sharp, cutting through the noise. His arm tightened around her waist--not gently, not playfully. Urgently. “We’re leaving.” He said, pulling her by the waist as he started to back up. His hand moved to lace into hers with the kind of grip that didn’t leave room for argument..
Then he turned, tail lashing and cocktail falling from his other hand. Soren ran, bare feet slipping and sliding in the sand. He tried his best to stay balanced while dragging Aithne behind him. Because losing Aithne to a fight she didn’t start, didn’t choose? That would destroy him. She wasn’t a relic, a weapon, or a casualty. She was fire, yes, but she was his—the part of him that still believed in something soft beneath the ash. If she fell here, among strangers, it would hollow him clean through. He couldn’t let that happen. Not ever.
--
Soren is LEAVING and dragging Aithne with him
We're spitting off the edge of the world out in the night
