Vagrant Story, Hardin/Sydney, following orders
Lea Monde never sleeps, not fully, it's halls whisper and echo with the dead and ever dying, the forgotten and barely imaginable. Such is the power of the Dark and it's gifts. Hardin knows this, has faced fiend and foe and fellow cultist in these caverns. Knowledge does not ease the weight of burden on the soul.
"Unbuckle my boots." Sydney whispers in his mind, lounging on a throne of aging ebony wood and dusty velvet. It's the only chair in the room, by necessity of size and a lack of care to evict it for something more comfortable. Comfort is for the Dead, Sydney espouses, always with that cat grin.
The boots are thick leather and heavy iron that never make a sound when Sydney walks, buckling high on his thighs. Removed, they are hollow and ugly, too sharply angled for anything but an Eight-man's cobbled armor. Hardin massages the ragged stumps revealed carefully, unbidden of his master's will, a simple offering of homage.
"Now the leathers John." Sydney's mind voice is as silky as his real one, curling deep in his heart with amusement. He knows how much Hardin wishes to worship, how secure the loyalty of this knight to his liege. Sydney's garments are simple and barely secure, falling away from bony hips almost too easily. There's a fluttering thought of having dinner brought up, of trying to coax the Prophet to eat something, but its swept aside by Sydney's orders.
"My arms, please." he hears, and stands from his place at Sydney's knees to reach for the thin silver wires. It pains him to remove the glittering silver claws, the master-craft alloy of silver-steel that is his lords most obvious defense. Without the armor, the rough, ugly patchwork of scar tissue gleams waxily in the candlelight. Beneath the shoulder Sydney has lost both limbs as though devoured in acid and these aches Hardin is not allowed to ease away. Not directly at least.
"You are the only one who sees the truth, why hide such from your view? Though it's only polite to return the favor, I do believe. I will see you." Sydney never mocks him, says nothing of the lattice work scars of Hardin's back or the cratering of his knuckles. Only watches with a basilisk gaze as John bares himself with a blush of shame for the hard coil of desire that's made his flesh rise.
"I would have you within me, above me. Prepare me as you can." Sydney's eyes take him in, and he's helpless but to listen, blood pounding hot in his veins. He handles Sydney gently, picking him up and carrying him to the aging mattress. There is vera root salve in his rooms, sword oil or potions in the armory, but here there is nothing, and he knows that Sydney will not be tempered to the patience to await his return from foraging. He uses his mouth instead, lifting the sharp hips to spread ivory globes and wet their interior. He has done this before, with razor claws pricking his spine and throaty hums encouraging each twisting thrust of his tongue, but now it is silent darkness around him. Memory and caution guide him.