Will she? [ Loren frowns; a tip of her head makes it so that his lips meet her jaw. It's not worry that drives her hand to the back of his head, the tip of her pinky ghosting the nape of his neck just above that red scar of a brand. Touching it, overtly, is the kind of intrusion that nobody overlooks, not even an Amyranthian — there are rules and then there are rules. For as long as she's been Radharc she'll live and breathe them so the extent of her touch is this, tiny sparks of her magic like flecks through turquoise, circling the door of his veins but not asking for entry either.
In the end, she drops it. (Eamonn is one of few she has any interest in reading, cataloguing the line of his mouth or strength in his hands — there's a reason hide and seek works so well.) Loren kisses him, adds in weight and heat and licks a rune into his mouth; hagalaz for transformation, for the death of something and the birth of another.
Then, the smallest of draw-backs, parting just enough for her to say, quietly: ] Don't fuck it up, old man.
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In the end, she drops it. (Eamonn is one of few she has any interest in reading, cataloguing the line of his mouth or strength in his hands — there's a reason hide and seek works so well.) Loren kisses him, adds in weight and heat and licks a rune into his mouth; hagalaz for transformation, for the death of something and the birth of another.
Then, the smallest of draw-backs, parting just enough for her to say, quietly: ] Don't fuck it up, old man.