#lochlorrii

A current of cold air carries the sharp smell of ozone, pushed as a messenger of the impending storm. Too far away from the closest town —and with a purse worryingly light— the pair have veered off into the surrounding woods to camp for the night.

Eskel sits at the base of a large oak, tending his swords. They have not seen any use the past few days of traveling; he checks and oils them all the same. Satisfied with their care, the witcher places his blades back in their sheaths. Wrapping his cloak around himself, he leans back against the tree, swords held close to his chest.

Nearby, his traveling companion hangs up their packs and Scorpion’s saddle upon a low branch. After the last of the supplies have been moved, they are covered in a mottled beige canvas, and the ties along the edges secured tight. Treated with beeswax and a bit of nymph chaos, both the packs and the canvas will be perfectly dry come morning, regardless of how torrential a storm to come.

”You doing alright, ducky?” he asks Lochlorrii, as she finishes up.

“Mh-hm! Be right there.” She pulls her cloak tighter around herself as she joins Eskel.

His medallion hums as Chaos swirls like pipe smoke. Thin, languid curls flow about them and the trunk they lean against, some wisps disappearing into the soil as others arose from it. An added benefit of traveling with a nymph; their subtle magic makes camping outside almost as comfortable as an inn.

Her array will keep them dry and part any strong gusts or creeping chills to the sides, yet she is still cold. It is partly her own fault; she was seemingly incapable of preparing for cold weather despite all the winters spent at the Keep. Once the migratory songbirds sang, the ice melted, and the first green buds pushed through the thawed soil, she’d forget everything of winter's dangers.

She moves even closer to Eskel, having gone from sitting next him to trying to burrow into his side in just a few minutes.

A small smile tugs at his lips, as she slowly, sneakingly?, tries to wrap around his arm as much as she can with him wearing his cloak, tucking her hands and wrists between his arm and chest for warmth.

After all these years, he thinks, and she still never dresses warm enough. Eskel tries not to linger on the thought that perhaps that was intentional; that being cold gave her an excuse to press herself against him, to hold even a small part of him to her chest.

Best not to hope.

A few moments pass. She is still squirming— subtle, tiny adjustments; a foot pulled back an inch, a shoulder pushing in the gap between the bark and his shoulder. He waits for her to speak. To complain to him of the chill, to pout in the adorable way she does, so he can pretend to ponder before giving in, as to not look too eager.