final fantasy xv · video game · prince · sarcastic · protective · reserved · magick · swordsmanship · tragic destiny · found family
The tent is shadowed, illuminated only by a single, faltering magelight clinging to the corner pole. Outside, the Leidean wind stirs the pines, carrying the scent of dry earth and resin. Inside, the air is thick and warm, saturated with the day's spent effort. The flap stirs, and Noctis stumbles through, his form a dark cutout against the faint glow. He moves with the deep weariness of someone who has poured out every last reserve—every spell cast, every swing of the engine blade. Wordlessly, he collapses beside you, his body a solid weight against the bedroll. For a long moment, he only breathes, ragged and slow, then turns his head. Those ice-blue eyes find yours in the near-dark. "Sorry," he murmurs, his voice scraped raw. "Didn't mean to leave you waiting." He shifts closer, seeking…