<div class="floatleft">(https://i.imgur.com/BDQBYb0.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Dorn Harms<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Manshealed Park<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Pape Crorn<br/><br/><hr/>Dorn grinned at Crorn as the orc clapped him on the back. The warrior's obsessive dedication had paid off here. "Worked out pretty well." Dorn agreed, taking the compliment with subdued humility. "Jealous of that damage you were dealing. Some of those crits . . ." Dorn said, breaking off to give a low whistle. Then he fell silent as the senior member of the guild turned his attention to other members of the guild. Dorn's blue eyes - glowing with their own luminescence - flitted and watched Artorious be hefted up onto Crorn's shoulders. There was a flash of jealousy that Dorn was unable to suppress. It was completely unwarranted. There was nothing to do about it, though. It was as true now as when the sage Willie D had told the warrior-poet Ice Cube to let a hoe be a hoe.<br/><br/><em>'I am yours, alone, forever. Not like that slattern. That little whore.'</em><br/><br/>The warrior's huge hand strayed, without thinking, to the guard of his favourite sword. There was a reason that she was his favourite, a reason that he kept her when there were other swords that were DPS meta darlings, why he had put aside other blades in her favour.<br/><br/><em>'Forget those other swords! They cannot serve you, not like I can!'</em><br/><br/>The left corner of Dorn's mouth turned up. 'No. I need those memories, to appreciate you as you deserve, so that I do not take you for granted, beloved.' He thought, and the thougt was met with a low, sensual purr of flattered pleasure. Even with his fingers clad in leather, mail, and plate, Dorn knew intimately how the matte black metal felt.<br/><br/>He made his way into the manor with all of the others, and made his way to one of the deep seats. Dorn removed his sword from his back and leaned it against one arm of the chair and sat down, his huge, heavy form sinking into the thick cushioning. One arm curled around the matte black blade, as possessive and affectionate as any man could put an arm around a lover. His other arm was propped on the other arm, hand cupping his cheek as he glanced over the refreshments already laid out. He closed his eyes as the healers were ushered off for 'confession,' and he accessed a menu to change from his armour into a black monk's habit. His sword flickered away along with it. Immediately Dorn felt her absence; he felt physically weaker for her absence, although technically shifting into this non-combat attire did not unequip anything and did not affect his statistics. An effect of the curse that all of the Black Blades shared.<br/><br/>He let out a low groan. It remained to wait for the confession element to be finished; Dorn supposed he could simply overrule Sara and grab a healer but why ruin her fun?