Khadgar had a moment to pause as he listened to Medivh, before he started up shedding the heavier parts of his blue tunic (it hit the ground with a loud thump) and was left in was sleeveless white undershirt he wore. His belt was moved from its spot haphazardly sprawled to being put with his tunic, followed by his gloves, bracers and boots. He felt under-dressed, though the Archmage was infinitely more comfortable sinking back into the couch after the weight was off.
Seeing the Magus in such a state was something that prickled in the back of his mind, it was more intimate than when he had sat upon the floor of the man's bedroom waiting for him to awake from his two-week nap and he had been wearing less then. Perhaps it was just the light drawing his eyes down Medivh's arms and pausing on one particular spot. He wasn't sure if it was right to have the urge to bite at a shoulder or his triceps, but it was a tempting idea that roved through him. He dismissed it and shook his head free and moved to look at his hands.
Though Khadgar would always say he was sure he was repulsive due to the curse he was laid with, there are many who disagree. The Archmage was handsome in his own way, they would say. He was tall, broad-shouldered and surprisingly lean under all the layers of blue he tended to wear. He was no warrior, that's true, but he did have muscles that proved to help him when carrying heavy things. Khadgar never particularly heard any Champion say such things, though it could just be that he didn't hear it because he didn't want too and liked to hold staunchly to the suggestion that he was unattractive as a way to get out of ... attempting to find someone to spend the rest of his life with.
(He didn't want anyone, he told himself sometimes, though he knew it was a lie.)
Rolling a shoulder, the mage twisted suddenly to stretch out to let his sore muscles roll and relieve themselves. He didn't particularly remember to tell Medivh about the mark on his shoulder, the important spell that had saved Azeroth from Sargeras a second time if only by chance. Perhaps it was the thought of the demon that brought his eyes back to Medivh and down towards his neck.
There was a scar from where Lothar had beheaded him and his stomach sank to his feet as he wondered if there was one from where he had stabbed the ex-guardian. Quickly he glanced away and focused back upon the floor, ignoring the nauseous feeling that began to form with knowing there were marks from where it had happened. But it wasn't like Khadgar didn't have scars of his own now, because he had plenty of them, most on his forearms and chest from where he poked too hard at something and it... exploded, or a fight he got into that had turned to another mage sending a fireball at his chest. That was one of the more nasty patches of scar tissue he had, ugly and not at all sightly.
Before his mind could tangle down the road of self-loathing and anger directed inward, Khadgar wracked his brain for something to say so they could focus on something else.
“Varian named his son Anduin.”
Well, that was a bad topic and he was already rubbing his face because, how do you tell someone that Llane's son had died against the Legion?
no subject
Seeing the Magus in such a state was something that prickled in the back of his mind, it was more intimate than when he had sat upon the floor of the man's bedroom waiting for him to awake from his two-week nap and he had been wearing less then. Perhaps it was just the light drawing his eyes down Medivh's arms and pausing on one particular spot. He wasn't sure if it was right to have the urge to bite at a shoulder or his triceps, but it was a tempting idea that roved through him. He dismissed it and shook his head free and moved to look at his hands.
Though Khadgar would always say he was sure he was repulsive due to the curse he was laid with, there are many who disagree. The Archmage was handsome in his own way, they would say. He was tall, broad-shouldered and surprisingly lean under all the layers of blue he tended to wear. He was no warrior, that's true, but he did have muscles that proved to help him when carrying heavy things. Khadgar never particularly heard any Champion say such things, though it could just be that he didn't hear it because he didn't want too and liked to hold staunchly to the suggestion that he was unattractive as a way to get out of ... attempting to find someone to spend the rest of his life with.
(He didn't want anyone, he told himself sometimes, though he knew it was a lie.)
Rolling a shoulder, the mage twisted suddenly to stretch out to let his sore muscles roll and relieve themselves. He didn't particularly remember to tell Medivh about the mark on his shoulder, the important spell that had saved Azeroth from Sargeras a second time if only by chance. Perhaps it was the thought of the demon that brought his eyes back to Medivh and down towards his neck.
There was a scar from where Lothar had beheaded him and his stomach sank to his feet as he wondered if there was one from where he had stabbed the ex-guardian. Quickly he glanced away and focused back upon the floor, ignoring the nauseous feeling that began to form with knowing there were marks from where it had happened. But it wasn't like Khadgar didn't have scars of his own now, because he had plenty of them, most on his forearms and chest from where he poked too hard at something and it... exploded, or a fight he got into that had turned to another mage sending a fireball at his chest. That was one of the more nasty patches of scar tissue he had, ugly and not at all sightly.
Before his mind could tangle down the road of self-loathing and anger directed inward, Khadgar wracked his brain for something to say so they could focus on something else.
“Varian named his son Anduin.”
Well, that was a bad topic and he was already rubbing his face because, how do you tell someone that Llane's son had died against the Legion?