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it’s always “i was born like this,” or even more clever, “a group of myrkul cultists held me down and tattooed my face.”
the worst was when you asked and he gave you a corpse-like stare, the flicker of the flame in his pupils taunting you, “what markings?”
it’s infuriating, yes, but what did you expect from a charlatan as secretive as yourself.
the tiefling masquerades himself as a hero, only few knowing the sadistic pleasure he gets wiping the blood of his so-called enemies on his lips. it’s like with nature, somehow he subconsciously designed his own image to show he’s dangerous but the world chooses to ignore, taunt, jest at it instead.
he is a predator very much like yourself; his identity, his soothing music, his empty but kind eyes - a ruse.
it’s exhausting getting lost in these thoughts again as you continue to try to read the same sentence over and over in your book, but instead your eyes follow him in the shadows of the campsite attempting to engage in surface interactions with your fellow companions. here he lurks pathetically, observing their mannerisms, finding the perfect moment to make a fool of himself, strumming that lute so insincerely and soothing their woes away. the world is his stage to charm and adore, to rip apart at his will while you hide away in the shadows.
bastard.
your gaze catches his briefly as he sings about some tale of a woman having a tryst with a dragon, karlach and wyll hanging off his every word as they cheer and laugh at his awful puns and sexual innuendo. it’s not that you don’t enjoy your own bottle of wine and atmosphere after a rough day, but hearing the jester perform for his court night after night without any substance is tiresome. you aren’t sure what's coming over you, but it’s nagging you to catch a glimpse under that mask.
they’re drunk enough they barely notice you slide by, ruse slowly trying to find words that rhyme with nipple and monumental with that insincere smile on his face. you stand slightly behind the tiefling, with a glass of subpar wine in your grasp, tapping your foot off-beat as if this micro-aggression would be enough to grab his attention. the skull tosses you a glance over his shoulder and gives you a wink, the aggravation he causes you by merely existing now plain on your face. you turn away, crossing your arms as the song reaches the bridge and he begins to trail off in murmurs and sing songy mismatched words to accompany the tune.
enough of this.
your hand slips, the wash of red spilling over ruse’s dark shirt and splashing on his alabaster skin, mixing with the markings on his face. quite the feat to make it look like an accident, but you were always just as prepared for a performance as he was.
the music stops and the atmosphere changes; you turn your back to him again, you press your fingers to your lips and chuckle to yourself, looking from the corner of your eye. “oh my. i didn’t see you there.”
you’re waiting for the rage, you’re waiting for the beast to break through and his facade to disappear. instead the tiefling lets out a genuine laugh, wyll and karlach joining in and taking another sip of their own wine glasses.
“i thought you could hold your drink a bit better than that.” ruse wipes his face with the back of his hand as it starts dripping down his neck, the smile on his face dissipating to his blank stare.
you try to hide your scowl turning back towards the tiefling and press your hand against his damp chest. “you better go wash that out before you start attracting wildlife.”
it feels like he’s almost caving in at your touch, his eyes flickering as he looks back at you.
“if you insist.”
—
it’s easy enough to follow ruse after he leaves camp. the moon lightens the path down to the lake, and you stick to the shadows as you stalk after your prize. it’s strange seeing him like this, alone and off stage. how could someone so loud and bright dim so quickly? the easy answer: he’s a liar and a fraud and hiding something you can't put your finger on.
the tiefling reaches the shore and you find comfort in the shadows behind a few trees. the wind picks up, bellowing your clothes and his as he begins to undress.
voyeurism was never your cup of tea in the past and it wasn’t moving to the top of your list this night. but there was something calming, watching him pull away his layers and possibly having the chance to see who the bard actually is.
ruse slowly wades into the lake; you stupidly move even closer to see. his body isn’t one of a whimsy minstrel, but of a retired soldier. he’s thin and his neck curved, he looks worn as if he was tossed to the side after giving all he could give. there are numerous scars from what looks like years of combat,but also those of torture and ritual sacrifice. you gaze across the shore at ruse’s reflection glimmering in the ripples, being drawn in towards the shore by the bard’s beautiful song of silence.
you wonder, are you this damaged? does your body expose the sadness and suffering you’ve tried so desperately to hide?
it takes only moments for his mask to wash away in the dark lake, and you finally see his face bare. the dark paint hides the sunken eyes, the sullen cheeks, the ritualistic scars on his lips and chin tearing down the front of his neck. the charade is gone and what’s left is a shell of what you thought this man was.
it makes you feel almost sad, that a creature like him so broken down could find the strength to stand.
you could not stop yourself from speaking up, “hells.. you look like shit.”
and you’re almost taken aback as the bard looks at you from the corner of his eye, his sloppy graying locks sticking to his cheeks and you feel more exposed than fully clothed. for the first time you see his true face with a smug grin.
“never figured you for a peeping thom.”
you cross your arms in protection and shut your eyes, scowling as you turn your head away. “you truly think i would get some sick sexual kick from seeing you like this?” but your eyes don’t stay closed for long.
he has no shame, wading out of the lake and returning to the shore; making his way towards you. your eyes trace his footsteps as scorches of white hellfire burn away the small bits of greenery in his path. ruse picks up his things and with what you could swear is your heartbeat, picks up the pace of his stride.
he stands before you matter of factly, not breaking your stare, his grin faded. he’s only slightly taller than you but that slight turn of his chin downwards feels oh so heavy with droplets from his wet body getting on your boots.
“this is what you were wanting?!” you imagine him yelling at you. you imagine him throwing his body against in an act of combat, that bloodlust inside finally catching up with him. you imagine him caressing your face and feeling his breath against your lips.
but nothing happens. there’s no reaction in the flicker of his eyes; he stands there like a husk on display for your own amusement and again, you feel sad.
your own hand reaches out for his face, your fingertips press against his lips hoping the simple touch will let you know all his secrets but there’s never a tadpole reaction when you need one.
ruse pulls away almost immediately and begins to redress himself, and you just watch. he moves with purpose but you can see the strain as he pulls on his leathers. he’s worn, he’s been used, and yet he acts on that stage as if he has so much more to give. your foot is tapping out of the awkwardness of this situation you put yourself in as you watch him retrieve a small bottle of black liquid from his bag. the tiefling stays silent as he moves away, lowering himself into a crouch leaning towards the shore to see his reflection in the moonlight. you follow like his shadow. this is what you wanted right? to possibly understand why he hides this way? ruse’s thin skeleton-like fingers dip into the black paint and brush against his hollow cheeks.
you watch silently for a moment as he almost struggles retracing his mask. without it, he looks as if the waves of this still lake could take him away in an instant. his breathing is heavy and his hands are shaking but he continues.
“let me… help you..” you murmur softly, taking the bottle from his grasp, pushing him down to sit. you dip your fingers in the paint, handing it back for him to hold as you grab his chin. “hold still.”
ruse does not speak but does not pull away this time. his gaze is off on the horizon behind you, dancing back and forth to catch a glimpse of you. you feel every fine line of his face, the curvature of each bone, the indentation of each scar that must have a magnificent tale he could lie to you about; instead, you drown in the silence.
he is allowing you to see him like this without any barriers, without you having to sacrifice your space, and you wonder, do your eyes crave understanding like his?
your fingers trace his neck, over marks you have left behind, two small little holes that call for company. you are lost in them and you feel your body pulsating in hunger. your hand falls from his neck and grabs his shoulder, turning yourself away as you feel your fangs rip through the inside of your cheek. but he holds onto you; his grip is strong and supportive and he allows you to steady yourself against him as you attempt to regain your composure.
your eyes meet again; his face is more stern when painted - this lost soul finding standing and strength in mere disguises - but he tightens his grip on your leg instead of pushing you away. he tilts his head to the side, exposing his freshly painted neck and the marks you’ve left.
“go on.” ruse speaks in only a whisper and you immediately lower yourself down and straddle his lap, your weight collapsing on him but his strength does not falter. you feel almost small in his hands despite how weak you know they are.
your teeth rip through his paper thin skin, the blood gushing like a fountain. he doesn’t flinch, his grasp on your legs just gets tighter, and you feel his horns pressing on your chest. he bleeds so easily you almost choke on the amount of blood coursing down your throat. you pull back with a gasp of sheer delight; you can feel the excess blood on your lips, your tongue cleaning up the taste of the tiefling. his blood is so thick and warm, so dark in color, with a strong smokey under taste and something else you still could not figure out; it’s off, but it makes you feel otherworldly.
you linger over him, your breathing growing short; he locks onto your gaze but you can see from the corner of your eyes his tail flicking back and forth. no emotion on his face but his eyes still longing for you, longing to give everything he has left.
you could take it. with anyone else, you would have taken it, to show you are the superior predator - you are the monster, you are the one that will survive.
but in his hands you feel safe.
you lower your head to his neck and run your tongue along the exposed wound, your face pressing against his wet hair. you brush your fingers with the black paint to cover his neck once more.
quickly you lift yourself from his lap, turning away from him and straightening up your clothes, brushing off the dirt from your legs. you tug on your shirt and look over your shoulder as ruse regains the composure of the charlatan who took this world as his stage.
“i-“ you are caught on your own words when your eyes meet and you look away, “thank you… for that.”
the skull sends you a smug grin, and you feel cornered again despite having all the cards. despite seeing the monster bare bones and all, it feels like that moment never even happened. the curtain was dropped and your part was over.
—
ruse’s song of silence continues, and your normal after-meal high is tainted by his presence. he does nothing but walk beside you; he doesn’t speak, he doesn't jest, he exists and this existing seems more overbearing than any show you watched him perform. anxiously you quicken your pace to get lost in your thoughts, or at least have a crowd to snap at him in front of him. being alone with him felt too close, too intimate, too comforting…
the soft murmurs of the camp break your daze thankfully before you start feeling like dry heaving. karlach and wyll at the fire still enjoying their chat and drinks, while the others have either retired for the night or chosen more solitary activities this evening. everything is exactly the same as you left it. he breaks off from your stride, and you seek shelter from your own emotions.
you stop and raise your hand, touching the lines of your face, and you still feel him. he’s in your body, his image in the front of your mind, his vulnerability burning right through you.
you wonder, why does this scare you? why does he feel even more frightening than you have seen him before? why do you feel like you see yourself for the first time in hundreds of years?
“well, you two seem rather chummy!” you hear gale sticking his head out of his book, approaching ruse for some one-on-one interaction, which you gladly let the wizard have. you break from your stupor and silently scoff at the comment and turn your heels towards your tent.
still within ear shot you hear the bard, “not at all.” you let out half a laugh, “i caught astarion watching me while i bathed.”
you come to an abrupt stop and send them both a scowl that could kill an entire goblin army. “i would never in my wildest ye-“
you are immediately cut off by the pompous wizard, “naughty, naughty! but it looks like there might be a bit more to that story; what do you have to say for yourself?”
you furrow your brows in confusion and look towards ruse, but in exchange, the tiefling motions towards his lip in indication of your own. you raise the back of your hand to your mouth wiping away what you would assume is his blood but is instead the skull’s black paint. how long have you been walking around with that on your face? rage pulsates throughout your body, your arm hairs are on end as you reach for your knife. you could easily kill them both before they had the chance to shoot off a spell.
“cat got your tongue, astarion? i never thought i’d see the day.” the tiefling grinned.
unfortunately, karlach broke up the fight in an instant and you could barely get two stabs in ruse’s arm.
bastard.