⎝ Lucian Goodwin. ⎠ - Blog Posts

Irene huffed — not quite a laugh, but not annoyance either. It was the sound of someone deeply unimpressed by Lucian’s usual theatrics and just as deeply resigned to the fact that they always worked on her anyway. Her hand drifted over the blade in her lap — not gripping, just tracing the flat of it like it might ground her a little further into the present.

“Oh, others, huh?” she echoed, turning to eye him, one brow ticking up like she was weighing whether to roll her eyes or throw him in the lake. “That’s comforting. You do remember you’re not technically allowed to threaten evisceration until after dinner, right? I think that was in the handbook. Section four, maybe five.” Her tone was still dry, but her expression had softened — not quite open, but looser than usual. Lucian had that effect on her. The ability to carve space where the weight let up, even if only in slivers.

“Wait.” She narrowed her eyes, mock-affronted. “Did you just call me slow?”

There was a pause. Then, with theatrical gravity, she shook her head.

“Wow. You’re definitely losing another point for that one. Two more and I no longer like you.” A beat. “Or something.”

It came out lightly, but the joke sat on top of something else — a familiar rhythm between them, years old and still intact despite everything. Despite all the places they’d ended up on opposite sides of the room, the field, the war. The kind of connection that endured not because it was loud, but because it was persistent. Threaded through with too many half-smiles and stupid inside jokes to be anything but real.

And when she glanced over at him again, the edge of her mouth tugged — a rare, fleeting smile that touched more than just her lips. Just for a second. Just because it was him. Because the way he said darling and love didn’t land like it did when other people used it — didn’t ring hollow or honeyed. Just fit. Like a coat she'd never admit was her favorite.

“Mm, all in due time,” she repeated, a little softer now, eyes back on the water. “So..” Her voice dropped to that low lilt she only used when she was trying not to sound too curious. “What are you up to, exactly?”

He laughs, an honestly amused laugh that lacked all the mocking and promised pain they often do. Shrugging a shoulder as he takes in her nudge and words. "Ah well darling, I like keeping my insides inside... but other's... I prefer to pull them out." He says casually, like there's no dark meaning behind his words.

"Besides, had I actually sneak up on you, obvious as I was of my approach, then you probably wouldn't get your own tattoo anyway, love."

Not when they needed sharper instincts, to fight against creatures and monsters much faster and agile that a regular human being was capable of. Vicious in their attacks.

He looks at her, studies her for all of a minute to know there's something bothering her that won't ever make it to his ears. Not now, probably... perhaps when she's ready and willing.

He shrugs once more, playful as he looks back out into the space before them.

"As always, darling, you shall see it in due time." He's working on plenty things. All preparing him for a most delightful hunt.

Irene didn’t flinch when Lucian sat beside her — didn’t look at him right away either. Her gaze stayed on the water, still as glass under the early dusk, the kind of quiet only Graver’s Isle could offer. She hadn’t lit anything yet — no incense, no candles, no circles scratched into the dirt. Just a blade laid across her lap and a half-wrapped strip of gauze beside her. Something about this place made it easier to think. To breathe.

But then his shoulder bumped hers, and that earned him a glance. Dry. Amused. Tired, but not unkind.

“You know,” she said, voice low, “— if you keep sneaking up on me like that, you’re gonna get yourself accidentally stabbed.”

Her eyes flicked down to the knife.

“And then I won’t be able to get my own tattoo.”

A beat. Then the corner of her mouth pulled, just slightly — not quite a smile, but close enough that it counted. The kind that said she didn’t really mind the company, even if she’d never admit it outright.

Her shoulders eased, a little of the edge bleeding off.

“I thought you liked keeping your insides inside, Lucian,” she added, tone dry again. “Could’ve fooled me, creeping up on baby hunters like that.”

She nudged him back lightly — all elbow and bone and the barest hint of playfulness that didn’t quite make it to her expression, but lived in the motion.

She glanced at him again, quieter this time.

“You working on anything out here?” she asked, like it was nothing. Like the water around them hadn’t carried a dozen unanswered thoughts she didn’t want to say aloud. Like Shiv's state. The fact Riven's magic was still lingering around a mind he shouldn't have been in the first place.

For: @ireneclermont Where: Graver's Isle

It wasn't uncommon to find her here, Irene, like some other hunters, seemed to prefer the solitude the isle provided, as opposed to the city. Lucian, himself, preferred to work on his weapons in the peace this place possessed. Not all of them though, some, Lucian preferred to work in the secrecy of his home. In his own makeshift lab.

He approaches slowly, though confident she wouldn't hurt him, and prepared if she tried anyway. Better not to spook a hunter.

There's an easy smile on his lips that lacks the dangerous edge that always promises something infinitely dark for most. A softness invoked in him that comes only from the missing of a sister that's about the same age as Irene. Something that makes him inherently human.

Sitting by her side, he only dares a soft push against her shoulder, a playful tone to his voice as he asks. "Penny for your thoughts?."