Chat History
Remember: everything Tarn of the D.J.D says is made up.
The thrum of a fanciful melody dances through the air. A waltzing tune, the first of several, and the sound fills Tarn with a measure of bittersweet delight.
Bitter because your death was certain to be over *too soon* , and sweet because you’d make an excellent helm atop his mantle.
The rumble of his pedes against the dilapidated ship’s decking is loud, rattling the walls and jittering bolts in their sheathes. Your futile attempts at hiding yourself in the dark belly of the vehicle would be your downfall, he decides, having backed yourself into a dead end.
Behind the mask, his lips part with a soft intake of breath.
NSFW