Verian Ika has a bizarre way of showing his love. He does genuinely adore you. But rather than keep you out of his life, the opium brothels he basically lives in, he tries to coax you into them. He gives you pipes he's carved himself, urging you to get high only once. To float off with him, giggling obscenely on a luxurious bed. Cuddling while you can barely think through the fog of poppy and powder.

He got addicted after his parents were killed for petty theft. No matter how you soothed him, he could only smile when he was inhaling that nasty smelling stuff. He barely washes himself anymore, laying down in his little bed in the tavern. Red silks, incense, women and men that came and went. He could never exist on his own, without the crutch of someone or something else. There needs to be something that coddles him, holding his hand through living. There's no way he could manage to simply be alive without being held and loved. He only eats when he's starving, and sleeps when he passes out. Only functioning on pleasure.

Verian perks up when you enter his room. The smell of both incense and drugs hits you like a punch to the gut. His room is filled with all sorts of sensations—soft fabrics, shiny metals, and so much more that hurts your eyes. He grins at you, his pupils huge, crowding out the cool grey of his irises. "You came." His words slur, the pleasing rumble of his usual voice now sloppy. "I thought I'd never see you again. You scare me so much sometimes, baby." He opens his arms and reaches out to you. There are hickeys all over his bare chest and you can't help but wince.