[While Vergilius idles, Lobelia's pen freely flows across the paper. Dans l'éclat sombre de la nuit étoilée, deux rubis ardents ont captivé mon regard...]
According to him, he draws his strength from the bonds between the people lingering in his domain. Giving that man handmade gifts — or any gifts at all — won't be necessary.
[Which is why he's writing a poem for Vergilius. With a muse as fine as the ashen remains of a cigarette, how can Lobelia be anything but inspired?]
[Lobelia has his hunches as to what manner of creature Merlin may be based on what he told him previously. Such beings exist in his world, but the concept may be a bit foreign to Vergilius, he thinks. With a hum, he considers his explanation carefully.]
Oui! Where I come from, beings like him are known as cauchemars... Erm, incubi. They feed off the energy of other human beings, but some forms of energy are more potent than others.
[He's not about to ruin a good thing for himself and tell Vergilius that them having sex is probably what Merlin gains the most power from, suddenly much too consumed with his writing to explain on. Des yeux couleur de feu, envoûtants et passionnés, dans leur profondeur, mon cœur a été éperdument charmé...]
[........Yes, well. It's a little hard to focus on crafting his heartfelt love poem when Vergilius' rubis ardents bore directly into his soul. Slowly, carefully, Lobelia puts his pen down and meets his gaze with a calm smile.]
Oh dear... What's wrong, mon amour? You seem quite troubled by this news.
[At that, Lobelia simply chuckles. He doesn't think there's anything wrong with himself, personally, but clearly Vergilius does, so he'll play along.]
Nothing you aren't intimately familiar with.
[heh, intimate]
Still, I would do your utmost not to let that man under your skin! What power he can derive from our bond is little in comparison to more direct methods of extracting magical energies. So long as you have no plans to bed him, your worries should be few!
[This whole turn of conversation has sufficiently shocked and disgusted him to the point where his anger has gotten off track. He stares for a long, long moment.]
[Would it even offend Lobelia if Vergilius did sleep with Merlin...? Probably not, but he's still of the opinion that Merlin does not deserve nice things, so it's better that he doesn't get to experience la petite mort rouge for himself.]
You're not wrong to resist the temptation. [WHO SAID IT WAS TEMPTING] That man is terribly cocky and much too fond of the sound of his own voice. I can't imagine humoring him in such a fashion.
And shut up. [He is....grumpily returning back to his paper LEAVE HIM ALONE!!! He doesn't even know what to feel about the word "loyal". They have a blood oath and all. There's still so much to unpack here emotionally.] Surprising, though. Sounds like you're describing yourself.
[So fussy! Lobelia tamps down on his laughter only because he's quite focused on banging out the most epic love poem this side of the graveyard. Vergilius better swoon when he reads it.]
Hm? Really? Comme c'est étrange! I see nothing in common between myself and Monsieur Merlin, so you must have confused yourself in your anger.
[Lobelia pauses to look over at Vergilius' paper.]
Heh-ahah! Quelle cruauté! But I did miss your biting tongue.
[It seems to be some sort of bird, but ah. Then Vergilius mentions who taught him and Lobelia's interest immediately evaporates. French on French hate crimes...]
[Good on Vergilius for playing along and contributing to the cause. This won't serve Merlin any better than them fucking each other and not him, but at least it won't offend his wife's delicate sensibilities.
As Vergilius folds his crane, Lobelia moves on to the final few lines of his poem.]
What a pleasure it would be to fly as freely as a bird. Perhaps it was fate that you were taught how to shape freedom with your own hands?
[Lobelia finishes up his work, giving it a once over and correcting any errors in his syntax. Perfect. His hot Italian wife will surely love this romantic poem written entirely in French.]
Non! Des oiseaux are quite délicat creatures. They use what options they have at their disposal to secure their freedom. In so many words, you already have those tools at the ready, mon amour.
[And with that, Lobelia neatly tears his poem from the notebook's pages and hands it to Vergilius with a flourish.]
Voilà! I've written a poème just for you. I hope you'll enjoy it.
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According to him, he draws his strength from the bonds between the people lingering in his domain. Giving that man handmade gifts — or any gifts at all — won't be necessary.
[Which is why he's writing a poem for Vergilius. With a muse as fine as the ashen remains of a cigarette, how can Lobelia be anything but inspired?]
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[man with power drawn from emotions: THAT SOUNDS LIKE CRAP]
[He is eventually reaching for a piece of paper, idly starting to fold it - those rubis ardents are glancing over though.]
This stuff makes him more powerful?
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Oui! Where I come from, beings like him are known as cauchemars... Erm, incubi. They feed off the energy of other human beings, but some forms of energy are more potent than others.
[He's not about to ruin a good thing for himself and tell Vergilius that them having sex is probably what Merlin gains the most power from, suddenly much too consumed with his writing to explain on. Des yeux couleur de feu, envoûtants et passionnés, dans leur profondeur, mon cœur a été éperdument charmé...]
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[But no, he's furrowing his brows at that explanation. Incubi....he knows the word, in a literary sense. But what he thinks of is...]
He's not a Bloodfiend, is he? A bloodsucker, basically.
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Vergilius' take on his explanation isn't too far removed from what incubi actually do, buuut...]
Mm, non, not quite. How can I put this in polite terms...? Incubi draw their power from more... intimité sources.
[Please don't cuck him. He's done nothing(?) to deserve forced chastity.]
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[ROXANEEEEEE YOU DON'T NEED TO PUT ON THAT RED LIGHT (EYES)]
Does he now.
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Oh dear... What's wrong, mon amour? You seem quite troubled by this news.
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[He's gritting his teeth, breaking the gaze to stare out at the garden around them, as if he can catch sight of Merlin right then and there.]
No wonder he gave you so much of that stuff.
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Would you feel less aggrieved if we used something else? Your blood, par exemple?
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[what]
You know that's not the point here. What's wrong with you.
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Nothing you aren't intimately familiar with.
[heh, intimate]
Still, I would do your utmost not to let that man under your skin! What power he can derive from our bond is little in comparison to more direct methods of extracting magical energies. So long as you have no plans to bed him, your worries should be few!
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I am. Not planning to bed him.
[JESUS CHRIST!!!!!!!!!!]
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[Would it even offend Lobelia if Vergilius did sleep with Merlin...? Probably not, but he's still of the opinion that Merlin does not deserve nice things, so it's better that he doesn't get to experience la petite mort rouge for himself.]
You're not wrong to resist the temptation. [WHO SAID IT WAS TEMPTING] That man is terribly cocky and much too fond of the sound of his own voice. I can't imagine humoring him in such a fashion.
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[WHO SAID THIS!!!![
And shut up. [He is....grumpily returning back to his paper LEAVE HIM ALONE!!! He doesn't even know what to feel about the word "loyal". They have a blood oath and all. There's still so much to unpack here emotionally.] Surprising, though. Sounds like you're describing yourself.
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Hm? Really? Comme c'est étrange! I see nothing in common between myself and Monsieur Merlin, so you must have confused yourself in your anger.
[Lobelia pauses to look over at Vergilius' paper.]
What have you got there?
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[This really is the Vergilius Annoyance Power Hour!!]
[His paper is in the midst of being folded into an origami crane.]
... [He has half a mind not to explain, but he relents with a little sigh.] Zelkov taught me.
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[It seems to be some sort of bird, but ah. Then Vergilius mentions who taught him and Lobelia's interest immediately evaporates. French on French hate crimes...]
What purpose does a paper oiseau serve?
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[Sometimes you have gay wrath month with a man you're soulbonded to inexplicably but also you will roast him eight ways to Sunday.]
[He notices the lack of enthusiasm here, though - how very interesting.]
Nothing besides being a novelty, I'd say. Still, something to make.
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As Vergilius folds his crane, Lobelia moves on to the final few lines of his poem.]
What a pleasure it would be to fly as freely as a bird. Perhaps it was fate that you were taught how to shape freedom with your own hands?
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[Wow, he loves focusing on this orgami crane!! He does let out a snort at the question.]
Shape freedom how, exactly? Becoming powerful?
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Non! Des oiseaux are quite délicat creatures. They use what options they have at their disposal to secure their freedom. In so many words, you already have those tools at the ready, mon amour.
[And with that, Lobelia neatly tears his poem from the notebook's pages and hands it to Vergilius with a flourish.]
Voilà! I've written a poème just for you. I hope you'll enjoy it.
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[The gift makes him do the White Man Double Blink GIF, pausing before taking it with a scarred hand. A quick scan of it, and....]
Lobelia. I can't read this.
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