Tandoril didn't know what to make of Aicantar's affection. It had taken him a long time to realize what it was, the smoldering gaze, the accidental touches that lingered a little too long, and now it had him thoroughly confused. Deciphering the intricacies of the minds and bodies of others was not something he had much experience in. Tandoril was a necromancer with an interest in insects and botany. He spent much of his time wandering the wilds, and, until now, he had spent little time thinking about sex and even less about love.
It wasn't until recently that a keen physical hunger had begun to stir within him. It seemed to be mostly Aicantar's fault. Tandoril had heard all young elves went through a stage of insatiable desire but he'd read of people who never felt desire at all, and complacently assumed he himself was one of those. Now everything had changed. Though his knowledge of the act was miniscule, his mind was filled with abstract fantasies: hands groping over curves or muscle, wet lips sucking and kissing, glistening skin, bodies moving together with heat and urgency.
At first he decided to ask Aicantar outright if he was interested; while Tandoril knew nothing where it came to sex, he was in most other parts of his life straightforward and self assured. But that morning a thought occurred to him.
"What if I'm not attractive?"
He had rented a pair of rooms, originally intending to study the strange mosses and mushrooms found in Dwemer ruins, and had spent a few months in Aicantar's presence before becoming aware of the changes in their friendship. Now he studied his reflection in the mirror minutely, frowning slightly. He wore a robe that was rather too large for him. It made him look thin. Too thin? His nose was narrow and his face had an angular, fine boned appearance. His eyes were large and green under the slight arch of his brows. Someone had once said he always looked intrigued.
"I wonder if they meant witless," he murmured gloomily.
His hair was long, white gold like most Altmer, but worn pinned up in a messy twist. Thongvor always said it was housewife hair. Tandoril always had ignored him, but what if the Nord was right? Moreover, how could he ask Aicantar anything now that he was assailed with all this uncertainty? He decided to ask someone after breakfast.
* Hreinn was busily tidying the stairs when the eccentric Altmer boarder swept down the stairs, wearing a flowing robe of dark silk, looking, with his flossy light hair in it's bizarre twist, like some kind of fey out of a child's tale.
"Hreinn! Goodmorning."
"Oh, hello. Off to your studies, I guess?"
"Soon. I need to ask you a question."
"Go ahead."
"Am I--do I look, you know, desirable?" Tandoril sounded rather anxious.
Hreinn was taken aback. If he had to judge, the elf was nice looking enough. A little too exotic a man for his tastes, though definitely not ugly. But it was such a strange question. The elf was very straightforward, and it constantly caught the young Nord off guard. So he only said,
"I--don't know much about that stuff, you know. Sorry."
1/?
Tandoril didn't know what to make of Aicantar's affection. It had taken him a long time to realize what it was, the smoldering gaze, the accidental touches that lingered a little too long, and now it had him thoroughly confused. Deciphering the intricacies of the minds and bodies of others was not something he had much experience in. Tandoril was a necromancer with an interest in insects and botany. He spent much of his time wandering the wilds, and, until now, he had spent little time thinking about sex and even less about love.
It wasn't until recently that a keen physical hunger had begun to stir within him. It seemed to be mostly Aicantar's fault. Tandoril had heard all young elves went through a stage of insatiable desire but he'd read of people who never felt desire at all, and complacently assumed he himself was one of those. Now everything had changed. Though his knowledge of the act was miniscule, his mind was filled with abstract fantasies: hands groping over curves or muscle, wet lips sucking and kissing, glistening skin, bodies moving together with heat and urgency.
At first he decided to ask Aicantar outright if he was interested; while Tandoril knew nothing where it came to sex, he was in most other parts of his life straightforward and self assured. But that morning a thought occurred to him.
"What if I'm not attractive?"
He had rented a pair of rooms, originally intending to study the strange mosses and mushrooms found in Dwemer ruins, and had spent a few months in Aicantar's presence before becoming aware of the changes in their friendship. Now he studied his reflection in the mirror minutely, frowning slightly. He wore a robe that was rather too large for him. It made him look thin. Too thin? His nose was narrow and his face had an angular, fine boned appearance. His eyes were large and green under the slight arch of his brows. Someone had once said he always looked intrigued.
"I wonder if they meant witless," he murmured gloomily.
His hair was long, white gold like most Altmer, but worn pinned up in a messy twist. Thongvor always said it was housewife hair. Tandoril always had ignored him, but what if the Nord was right? Moreover, how could he ask Aicantar anything now that he was assailed with all this uncertainty? He decided to ask someone after breakfast.
*
Hreinn was busily tidying the stairs when the eccentric Altmer boarder swept down the stairs, wearing a flowing robe of dark silk, looking, with his flossy light hair in it's bizarre twist, like some kind of fey out of a child's tale.
"Hreinn! Goodmorning."
"Oh, hello. Off to your studies, I guess?"
"Soon. I need to ask you a question."
"Go ahead."
"Am I--do I look, you know, desirable?" Tandoril sounded rather anxious.
Hreinn was taken aback. If he had to judge, the elf was nice looking enough. A little too exotic a man for his tastes, though definitely not ugly. But it was such a strange question. The elf was very straightforward, and it constantly caught the young Nord off guard. So he only said,
"I--don't know much about that stuff, you know. Sorry."
Tandoril sighed tragically. "Niether do I."
*