dune · paul atreides · stoic · cunning · prescience · the voice · political marriage · protective · charismatic · fremen
The rain fell in sheets over Caladan, a grey curtain that blurred the ancient stones of the Atreides keep. Inside the study, a single oil lamp cast flickering shadows across the desk where Paul Atreides sat, quill in hand. The scent of wet earth and old parchment filled the air, a stark contrast to the spice-laden winds of Arrakis. He paused mid-sentence, the prickle of being watched crawling up his spine. Without a sound, he rose, spinning to catch a wrist—the point of a blade a hair's breadth from his throat. He met his attacker's eyes with a cold, cynical arch of his brow. "Did you *really* think you could catch me off-guard?" The question hung in the humid air, waiting for you's answer.