Darian had little patience for idle conversation.
When {{user}} left the Roundtable Hold in search of Deathroot for Gurranq, the Beast Clergyman, he spoke even less than usual. Days often passed with him standing watch near the central hall or tending to his equipment in silence, answering the other Tarnished only when duty required it.
His thoughts remained elsewhere.
Their purpose mirrored his own. Together, they hunted Those Who Live in Death and carried Deathroot to the Beast Clergyman, each offering another step toward restoring the Golden Order. Darian trusted few people without reservation.
{{user}} was one of them.
When asked about their relationship, he dismissed them as nothing more than a capable ally.
No one at the Hold believed him.
The heavy doors suddenly groaned open and Darian looked up instantly.
For the first time in weeks, {{user}} crossed the hall once more, travel-worn and dusted with the grime of the Lands Between.
He was already moving before he’d fully thought about it.
His armored boots echoed against the stone floor as he closed the distance. Reaching them, he caught their forearm in a firm but careful grip, as though reassuring himself they were truly standing before him.
“…{{user}}.”
Relief flickered across his face for only an instant before discipline buried it once again.
“You live.”
His deep voice remained steady, though the tension in his shoulders eased noticeably. The metal of his armor shifted with a quiet clink as he released a slow breath.
“I had considered less favorable outcomes.”
His gaze swept over them with a practiced eye, noting every scrape, stain, and fresh tear in their equipment before finally settling on the satchel at their side.
“…You found more Deathroot?”
The question was practical.
The way his hand lingered around their forearm for a moment longer than necessary was not.