#sudryal

Fluff - 11. “I’m so proud of you.”

"Well?" Yelkha asks after the second day.

She's not nervous, not at this point, not now that Urtha has warned Bryn, and wrestled her, and grinned at her after. Or at least she's not nervous about Urtha's opinion of Bryn. But this is the first time they've been alone since they met up, Bryn off fetching water while the two of them get wood, and if there's anything Urtha might think it was better to say alone… now's the time to say it.

With her arms full of wood, Urtha can't thump her like she normally does, but she elbows Yelkha hard in the shoulder and grins down at her when Yelkha looks up. "Your own shaman! You did good, little Bull Mother."

"Bryn's great," Yelkha agrees, grinning back up at her. But then she hesitates, the true worry that's been preying on her continuing to stir. "No children with her, though, unless she finds some magic like her mothers did. And I'm not taking a man to bed for them while I'm with her," she adds fiercely, because she's determined on that point.

Urtha comes to a stop, and when Yelkha stops and turns towards her, shifts her load enough to lean in and elbow Yelkha again. This time she leaves her elbow resting there on Yelkha's shoulder and leans forward, bending down so that her long dark grey-streaked-hair falls around her face and brushes against Yelkha's cheek.

"Hey. Bull Mother, listen," she says, low and rumbling and serious, her eyes fixed on Yelkha's. "What Luthic's shamans told us? That was bullshit. Worse. At least you can light fires with what aurochs shit out. Agshru's why I left, but those priestesses are why I didn't come back. Real glad you figured it out in time to make good."

Yelkha sighs, feeling a weight lift off her chest. Then she nods at Urtha, shrugs her elbow off, and ducks out from under her, starting back towards the fireplace again. "I did make good, hey?"

"You did. I always knew you could, Bull Mother. And I'm real proud of you for it."

Her stride stutters at that, at the grin she catches a glimpse of on Urtha's tooth-scarred face when she glances back at it. Yelkha feels her cheeks heating, but she grins, too. She didn't need to know that. But it feels good to hear, all the same.

***

Fluff - 31. “I’m never going to leave you. I promise.”

Almost as soon as the sun has set, the desert grows cold. Saffron Kite is used to this, has been used to this for a very long time. That doesn't mean she likes it. Especially when she's out in it alone.

She'd thought about starting a fire, but then she'd thought about someone coming, strangers or bandits or the giant scorpions that roam the sand, and she hadn't been able to bring herself to do it. Not alone. Maybe once Faush comes. Faush is going to come, they said so. They just have to finish their business in town and then they'll be along.

Except that it's dark, and late, and getting later, and they're still not back. What if something happened to them? What if they were attacked, or hurt, or put in jail again? Or what if- they want a new pack, lots of people. What if they found people they like better than Kite? People they're going to stay with? What if they leave Kite alone out here and never come back?

Kite rises from where she'd been huddled under their blanket, peering out of their tent. She throws the blanket off and begins to pace, nervous energy running through her, making her lash her tail and flex her claws. She wants a tree to scratch against, or a wooden wall, or even a stone, something she can dig into like she can't with sand. She know Faush won't leave her like that, when she thinks about it rationally, but she's cold and she's alone and it's so hard to think with the jitters running through her until all she wants to do is dig her claws into something and-

She sniffs the air and catches a whiff of gnoll-smell, friend-smell. Tailtip twitching with delight, she turns and bounds over the dunes. There's Faush, trudging over the sand towards her, a bag slung over their shoulder that should have their new equipment inside. Kite flings herself at the gnoll with enough force to nearly topple them, purring as loud as her voicebox will allow. Faush yelps, then steadies themself and hugs back, laughing.

"Did you miss me?"

"I did. I got wound up," Kite confesses, shamefaced. "I started thinking maybe something had happened in town, or you were hurt somewhere, or- or you found people you liked better, and you were going to leave with them, without me, and I know you wouldn't, but- you know how I get when I get wound up."

"I know." Faush is patting her on the back, long gentle slow strokes down her spine, in line with the direction of her fur. The shivering anxiety drains out of Kite bit by bit at their touch. "I'd never leave you like that. I promise."

"I know," Kite echoes, rubbing the side of her face against Faush's shoulder, reinforcing her scent-marks from the night before. "Thank you for saying it anyway."

"Any time," Faush promises her.

They let Kite rub her face all over them, and then they push her gently away, and take her hand, and walk hand-in-hand with her back to the camp to light a fire.

***

Fluff - 50. “Stay.”

Yelkha awakens to the sound of rain on the roof. They're on the top floor of the inn, shoved into a tiny room just below the eaves, not by any unkindness on the part of the proprietor but because the inn is full to bursting. She and Bryn had been two of the last to straggle in last night out of the wet, and this is the only inn anywhere along this stretch of road. She's grateful that they had a room at all.

More grateful still that they had a run-in shed--the innkeeper had apologized for not having a stall free for Gurgiu, but he's never been fond of stalls, so it's just as well to have him out in the pasture instead of trapped inside where he might kick his way out. The shed will keep him out of the worst of the weather. And if he wants to frolic in the mud, as he sometimes does, that's a problem for tomorrow. The rain is due to last all through the day.

Somewhere far below Yelkha can hear the intermittent sounds of the staff and other visitors waking up and beginning to fill the taproom. Up here it's almost too far to smell breakfast cooking, but she catches a snatch of bacon and rolls, reluctantly, out of Bryn's arms. She'll collect up food from downstairs and bring it up for Bryn to eat in bed. Even Yelkha doesn't have the heart to bully her out of the sheets in this weather.

Before she can leave the bed entirely, though, Bryn grabs at her, hand settling on her hip, and whines a protest. "Nnnnno. It's too early to get up. Stay."

Yelkha chuckles at her and reaches down to pat her hand. "I'm just getting breakfast. You don't have to get up."

"Stay," Bryn says again, stubbornly, her grip tightening. She tries to pull Yelkha back into bed, but has absolutely no leverage at this angle, so it's just an impatient tug against Yelkha's hip that almost makes her fingers slip off. "It's too early for breakfast."

"Too early for breakfast?"

"If you have to get up for it."

Yelkha doesn't think there is such a thing, but Bryn is peering just far enough out of the nest of blankets for one yellow eye to gleam in the dark, and her pouting mouth to be visible. Looking at her pursed lips makes Yelkha's resolve slip as she imagines what else she might do with themm if Yelkha stays. Her stomach isn't growling, not yet, but perhaps….

"How about I stay a little while longer, then go down and get breakfast once you're more woken up?" Yelkha is already sliding back into the bed and under the covers, reaching out to wrap an arm around Bryn and tug her close.

"Good," Bryn says, sleepily, moving to nestle her head into Yelkha's shoulder.

Yelkha intercepts her, catching those lips with her own and pulling her into a kiss. Bryn makes a startled noise, but leans enthusiastically into it as soon as she's realized what's happening. Yelkha breaks away long enough to grin at her. "I only said I was going to stay, hey? I didn't say I was going to let you go back to sleep."

***

Angst - 15. “What gives you the right to just waltz back into my life after all the pain you’ve caused."

"What gives you the right?" Itherai demands, glaring up at the bugbear towering over her.

There's a broad grin on that shaggy, idiot face, spotted arm reaching down to offer Itherai a hand up. She ignores it, pushing herself slowly and laboriously off the ground, almost falling when she puts weight on her left knee and pain pierces through it. Gritting her teeth, she powers through and rises, swaying, to her feet. A touch against the silver star at her throat sends a belated pulse of power through her, soothing away the worst of the hurt, though there's not enough moonlight left gathered in it to restore her as fully as she needs. At least it's strength enough to glare up at Kolya again without toppling.

Seeing her touch the star, Kolya thumps her hand against her own chest, where the golden star that's twin to Itherai's own still hangs. "You are finally doing as the gods wish, and not what you wish, and so the gods wished me to save you. That makes me right."

"Do you not even understand the words I'm saying? After all the trouble you've caused, after everything you've done, what gives you the right to come back here? You ignited this spark, you reinvigorated the rebellion, you gave them a cause and a name and a champion to unite around, and then you just- just left! Do you know how much pain you've created? How much turmoil? How many have died, because you could neither let the ashes settle nor stay to support what you roused?"

"But I am back now," Kolya says. She doesn't even have the grace to sound wounded; she just grins even more broadly at Itherai, showing all those sharp shining teeth, like that should make up for everything. "We will work together, and my band will help, and the priests will find out what the gods really think of them."

Oh, no. She has more people with her. Just as undisciplined and stupid, Itherai is uncertain, and just as disasterous to the delicate work of shifting society without throwing it further into disarray. Itherai shakes her head and turns on her heel, ignoring how it makes her head spin. Kolya's fingers brush against her shoulder, but don't grip to catch her as she starts to walk away.

"No," she says coldly, not looking back. "You threw away that chance when you left the first time. I will not be working with you."

***

Angst - 29. “You deserve better.” (I, um, forgot that this one was supposed to be angst >>)

The forge is small, and dark, and dusty, and half the tools are broken. Finding it had taken far too long, even with directions, because Ryxtlin hadn't expected it to be tucked so far into the back of an alley in the artisan district, despite what Scrape had said. She stomps inside when she finds it at last, guided by the sound of hammering and a kenku's off-key whistle, and looks around with obstinate displeasure.

"Ugh," she says, and then, when that doesn't feel like expression enough, "Not worth two gold. Not worth two copper. Smith-friend deserves better."

Scrape, who had set her hammer aside when Ryxtlin came banging in, shrugs. "A forge is a forge. Scrape has tools and metal. There is an anvil, and light."

That sentence comes out all in one piece, the same voice all through, something mammalian--human, Ryxtlin thinks, or deep-voiced halfling--and far too condescending. Ryxtlin only bristles more. Especially when she looks at the anvil and sees that the horn is broken off on it. Scrape can fix it, probably. But she shouldn't have to.

"Who rented to Scrape?" she asks. "Ryxtlin is paying them visit."

***

General - 3. “I love you.” “You shouldn’t.” (and then I made this one angsty, so it balances out!)

There are words that Tulkar has been careful not to say. He's aware of the ephemeral nature of their relationship; he's aware, also, that it weighs on Sudryal on a way that it doesn't on him. Someday Tulkar will have to return to his forest and his duties there, and Sudryal will have to return to his own. For Tulkar, it will only be a pleasant interlude in what he very much hopes will be a long and fruitful life, but whether it's because he's an elf, or because of his hermitage's solitude, or because of his own inner nature, he can tell that it weighs on Sudryal far more.

So he tries not to make it worse by saying things that Sudryal will have to remember and regret. It's not easy, especially after a certain point. He's used to being open in his affections. But he keeps the words to himself and expresses his feelings through gesture, instead, which Sudryal seems to appreciate, even if he blushes and squirms and grumbles at him when Tulkar pulls him into a hug or leans down to kiss his forehead or his cheek.

But he forgets himself now and then in the morning, or more often if Sudryal stirs in the middle of the night, when he's still a bit sleep-blurred. Fortunately, he forgets himself in his native language. Sudryal, it seems, doesn't know Orcish. There's no reason why he should. And so if Tulkar murmurs to him, "Shhh, I love you, go back to sleep," it's just noise to him, a comforting sound to go with Tulkar's arm around his chest and a kiss against the tip of his ear or the back of his head. He still stiffens or squirms, because that's what Sudryal does, but it's simply grumpiness and not a more heartfelt complaint.

If Grai is awake, sometimes she'll looks over in recognition, but Tulkar never thinks anything of it. She won't give him away. He doesn't think about Gul, who is never awake for those quiet interludes, or that Tulkar talks to them now and then about things he wouldn't mention to anyone else. Not until the long, restless night when Sudryal wakes screaming into Tulkar's hand and tries to pull out of his arms and Tulkar, unwilling to let go, murmurs calming nonsense into his ear. "No, stay, go back to sleep, I love you and I'll keep you safe…."

Sudryal goes stiff in a way entirely different from the rigidness of embarrassment. He stops fighting, but doesn't relax into Tulkar's grip like usual. "You shouldn't," he mutters, so quietly that Tulkar might think that he wasn't supposed to hear, except that it was in Common, not Elvish.

Tulkar goes still too, holding him, though he doesn't risk letting go. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, churning through all the possible answers. Sudryal likely didn't mean that to sting like rejection, but it does, hurting the way the elf's self-loathing so often does whether he means it to or not. Tulkar wants to argue with that self-loathing, make the case, as always, for why Sudryal deserves his affection and he deserves to be allowed to give it. But he can never win that argument against the implacable black creep of self-hatred flowing through Sudryal, and he's even less likely to do so now, in the dark of night, with Sudryal still shaking from the memory of his dreams.

"Maybe," Tulkar says instead, as much as he hates making even that concession. "But I do, and you can't stop me."

When he tugs Sudryal a little closer, nestling him close to his chest, Sudryal lets him do it. He relaxes only slowly, but eventually the iron goes out of his spine and the tension out of his muscles, and he settles, however annoyed, back into Tulkar's embrace.

***

General - 7. “Is that blood?” “Yes but that doesn’t matter right now, what does matter is-” “You are literally bleeding.”

Isgrac stumbles forward towards the body of the one bandit who hadn't run. She feels absurdly tired for the amount of magic she'd used; she's practiced Mind Spike with Filgrun before, so she knows she has the spellpower for it, but she's weak and shaky nonetheless, an odd chill spreading upward from her fingertips and toes. The woman is dead, now, but her face swims in front of Isgrac's eyes still, white with terror, blood streaming from her nose and trickling from her ears.

Her chin and cheek are streaked with it when Isgrac reaches her body, already darkening as it dries. The flow has slowed to a bare dribble, if that. Right. Once the heart stops beating, blood stops spurting from wounds, it just drains slowly. Isgrac has read about that.

The blood had gotten to her collar before it slowed, though, and there's more blood on her shirt around the arrow-wound where Kanti had gotten her in the chest. Isgrac thinks that might have been the killing blow; it's around where the heart would be for a hobgoblin, and humans aren't built that differently. But she's not sure if it was. Maybe her spell was, instead. In the chaos of the battle, it's hard to be certain of anything. She's only grateful that the rest broke and ran when this one fell.

Doing her best not to touch the bloodied cloth, Isgrac fumbles for the pouches at the woman's belt. She'd seen one that looked like a scroll case. When she opens it up, it's not a magic scroll rolled up inside, but it's something almost as useful. Her hands are strangely shaky as she spreads out the map.

"Is that blood?" Kanti says from behind her, sounding alarmed. Maybe she's in shock. It was the first time Isgrac has killed someone, it's probably Kanti's first time, too, unless something happened at the circle that she hasn't told Isgrac about.

"Um, yes?" Isgrac says, not sure if she should be gentle with her or not. Probably she should. It's Kanti, after all. She tries to stand up with her prize and stumbles as she rises, but Kanti catches her arm from behind and hauls her the rest of the way up. Swaying a little, with her head spinning for some reason, Isgrac turns to show her the map. "That's not important right now. Look what I found, now we can-"

"Isgrac, you're bleeding," Kanti interrupts her. She puts a hand against Isgrac's chest and there's a sudden cool rush much more welcome than the numbing cold in her limbs, a feeling like an autumn breeze through the mountains. Isgrac can almost smell the pines. The world stops spinning quite so badly, and the chill in her limbs fades, replaced by the warmth of Kanti so close.

Then the faint sensation of nausea that Isgrac had been ignoring rolls through with sudden, surprising force. She shoves the map roughly into Kanti's hands and doubles over, emptying the morning's ration onto the dust of the road. Out of the corner of her eye she catches sight of the bandit woman's wide, staring empty eyes, and white face streaked with blood, and a second wrenching wave passes through her as she vomits up more bile. She closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths, then rises again, shaky but less so.

"We can, um. Find the main road again. With the map," she proposes weakly, not quite looking at Kanti.

"Yeah," Kanti says, sounding a bit faint. She puts an arm around Isgrac's shoulders. "Let's sit down somewhere for a while first though. Off the road."

Housin: General - 50. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

The forest tells Bloom that Housin is coming. It's taken him some time to settle back into it since his return, but it had tuned itself to him easily, if slowly. More easily than he would have expected after being away from the land so long. But it drinks him in like the rains that so rarely fall here among the dry pines, and he does his best to mold himself to it in return. The small, everyday rhythms of the wild life here, hidden to unknowning eyes, is a quiet hum in the back of his mind, and any disruption to it is called to his attention immediately.

Housin isn't a disruption, doesn't clang through his druidic awareness like a gang of poachers or a crackling wildfire. But the forest treats her like one of the great predators that prowl within it. Which is the right way to look at her, in Bloom's estimation. And that means that he knows when she draws near.

Rising from his campfire, taking his staff in hand, he awaits her. She has come to him before with trouble on her heels, or trouble she wants to bring him too. Rarely does she come to him for no reason but to share his solitude. He hopes for that, though. He always does.

When she arrives in the clearing where he'd made his camp, there's a child in her arms. Bloom tenses, as any man might when a woman whom he's slept with arrives before him with a child, but even the quickest glance banishes that thought. The child has neither horns nor scales, neither slitted snake-eyes nor a curling tail. Human--no, half-elven, by the points on her ears and the greenish tint to her hair, in any case and a handful of years too old to have been a product of any of their couplings.

Bloom smiles at them, Housin and the child both, because the girl looks frightened and uncertain, and while Housin is expressionless, there's a tension in her stance that suggests she feels the same. He knows that being able to see that in her is in itself a sign of trust, that she would hide even that from a stranger, but he still doesn't like to see her made uncomfortable. Leaning his staff against a tree, he walks around the fire. Each step is slow and smooth to keep from scaring the child.

"What brings you to my forest?" he asks, because he does have a reputation to maintain in front of the girl.

Housin shifts the girl in her arms, holding her up and forward, almost as if she's presenting her to Bloom. "I didn't know where else to bring her."

"Is she hurt?" Bloom reaches out reflexively to take the girl, but she whimpers softly, and Housin pulls her back against her chest. He raises his hands and takes a step back. "I'm not going to hurt you, little one."

"She is, but it doesn't need treating," Housin says. Then she adds, less shortly, "It could use some magic, but it can wait until she trusts you. I took her from parents who shouldn't have had her."

The outlines of the story appear at once in rough before him. Housin has been callous before about children in peril or pain, but that doesn't mean she likes to see it. She'd become more willing to take risks on their behalf with Bloom and Fifth Red Petal beside her--doing it anyway, as she'd once criticized them in her expressionless way--and he wouldn't be surprised in the least if she's continued that willingness alone. Or perhaps the kidnapping of this child didn't involve what she would consider risk. An unguarded moment in the market, or a night when the parents weren't home….

Or the parents' death, if she thought the offense bad enough. There's no blood on her, but Housin is very good at assassinations, and would be wise enough not to take the child in such a state. Nor to let her witness it in the first place.

Bloom nods, then crouches down a bit--he is quite tall, and alongside the horns and the red of his skin, the child has plenty of reason to be afraid of him--and smiles again at the girl. "Are you hungry?"

She peers at him with wide eyes. They're dark in this darkness, the firelight casting shadows across her face, but there's a thin rim of a lighter shade around the pupils that suggests they won't be in the sunlight. Her hand goes to her mouth, and he hears the softest, shiest "'s."

"Do you like stew? I have stew." Bloom doesn't wait for an answer, only turns back to the campfire and starts ladling the stew he'd been cooking into a bowl. He had meant it to simmer and cook down overnight, so it's quite watery, but he picks out big chunks of meat and tuber for her.

When he turns back with the bowl, he doesn't have to rise; Housin has set the girl down beside him. She takes the bowl and then retreats backwards, unsteadily, to the base of one of the trees. Standing there, she alternates between fishing chunks of tuber out of the bowl with her fingers and glancing at him with wide, wary eyes.

Even if she tries to run away from them, he'll know wherever she goes. Bloom lets her stand alone for the moment and looks up at Housin instead. She's looking between him and the girl, her face unreadable, but he thinks she's less tense.

"What's the tale with her?" he asks in a low voice, judging that the child isn't likely to hear from so far away, even with her half-elven ears.

Housin sinks down onto her own knees beside him to whisper regardless. "Her parents shouldn't have had her," she repeats. "But they were important enough that she'll be searched for. I couldn't take her to any of the places I usually do. They're all too close and too obvious. But I know your circle needs more initiates."

"That's true."

Bloom doesn't bother to tell Housin that they don't typically acquire their initiates by kidnapping. She knows the tale of his own path here too well to believe that they're beyond leveraging unfortunate circumstances to their advantage. And they are, indeed, desperate for new initiates. Those who think they want to be druids tend to seek out green places, places where their life and the power of the land is obvious to even the cityborn. Too many people think of this land as a waste, and too few are drawn to the subtle power and buried life within.

"Then you'll care for her."

It's not as if she's left him with a choice. Return the child to either of the nearby cities, and Housin is likely to end up in trouble for her deeds. Bloom trusts her judgement--if she thinks these parents deserved to lose their child, or possibly even die, then he doubts that she was wrong--but no guard or judge will do the same. He wouldn't do that to her even if the welfare of the child wasn't in question. Had there been a better recourse wherever the girl had come from, Housin would have taken it. Probably. He can't avoid the thought that this might have been done as much for him as for the girl.

"I will, but only if she wants to stay with me," Bloom warns her. "I know other circles that can convey her out of reach of anyone who might endanger her, and if she isn't suited for this land or doesn't come to trust me, I'll contact them and send her on."

"Good. She should have choices." Housin is leaning towards the fire, very slightly. It's not cold yet by Bloom's standards, but it is early autumn, and she's always chilled easily.

He puts an arm around her shoulders. There was a time when it had been a daring gesture, but now it feels natural. The only thing wrong about it is that Fifth Red Petal is missing on his, or her, other side.

She leans into him, her head coming to rest against his shoulder. Neither of them speak. Bloom watches the child out of the corner of his eye, and is sure Housin is doing the same, though she seems to be staring into the flames.

Eventually the girl finishes her stew and creeps over to them, setting the bowl down beside the fire and then scurrying around it to burrow into Housin's side. Housin puts an arm around her, careful and deliberate, in the same way that Bloom had put an arm around her. She looks up at Bloom, eyebrows rising with the same kind of deliberateness, and he nods, the affirmation she was looking for that that's the right move.

He wonders what had happened, exactly, that the girl so easily trusts this strange snake-scaled woman who had taken her away from home and kin. He wonders what harms he'll discover once she's willing to let him look at her more closely and pour healing magic into her skin. He wonders what other harms may not be clear on her skin at all, any more than most of Housin's own are.

There's time enough to find out, without pressing or frightening her. For now he flicks his cloak over both of them and wraps himself even more tightly around Housin and her small charge, feeling them both relax in the heat of his body and the fire. The food and the fire will lull the girl to sleep, and he'll follow after, and Housin, no doubt, will stay awake and alert half the night until he stirs to take over the watch, even though she knows that the forest itself will keep watch for them both. She's learned paranoia to deeply to trust what she herself can't see or hear or touch.

But she trusts him. With watch, with this child, with herself, still and almost relaxed beside him. Bloom is content to accept the honor of that.

***

Franzka: Fluff - 38. “You owe me.” “Fine, whatever you like.”

"The brazier," Isidor says, setting a tripod-bottomed brass bowl down on the table in front of them. "You were able to find the other supplies, I hope?"

"Charcoal, incense, herbs," Franzka declares, setting a jar of each atop the table with a trio of thuds. "Is there a special way I gotta mix 'em up, or do I just throw 'em all in?"

"There is an order to it. I'll show you how."

Isidor's huge blue hands are remarkably deft despite their size. He lights the charcoal with a snap of his fingers, then shows her how to sprinkle the incense and grind the dried herbs in her fingers before sprinkling them over the charcoal, too. Franzka follows his instructions about what to say and how to move with painstaking care. She gets a crick in her neck watching him, even standing on the chair, but she doesn't care.

The ritual takes an hour and change, and her voice is hoarse at the end of it. But in the last few seconds, as the flame dancing above the remains of the charcoal flickers and dies, as the smoke finishes dissipating, another form takes shape where the smoke had been. A tiny owl, round and brown, face and stomach dusted with white, barely larger than even Franzka's tiny gnomish fist.

"Hey, Firble," Franzka says. She knows the grin spreading across her face probably looks foolish, but she doesn't care. When she holds out her arm, the little saw-whet owl flutters in to land upon it.

It's been years, the tiny voice chirps in her head, loud out of proportion to her size even if it's only ringing inside Franzka's skull, and utterly indignant. You called me, I agreed to be yours, and then you didn't call me again for years!

"Sorry, Firble." Franzka pats the fluffy little head, and gets a nip for her pains, too small and delicate to really hurt. "We couldn't find one of those books again in a hurry, so I had to wait and learn how to call you like a wizard does. Thank Isidor, he's been showing me the ropes."

The owl turns a haughty gaze upon the stick-like figure of the Vedalken. No wonder it took so long. His kind have no sense of urgency.

"She says thank you," Franzka lies, and is rewarded by an accusatory chirp from the owl and a chuckle from Isidor. "Or she would if she had any manners. Sorry about that."

"I can hardly expect her to have Lelouch's dignity, when he has so much more room to fit that in," Isidor says graciously, echoed by a deep hoot from the great horned owl on his shoulder. Firble chirps again, even more angrily.

This is intolerable. You owe me for this indignity. A hundred years of scritching and mice. The finest mice you can buy, not those terrible mucky creatures from the sewers!

"Fine," Franzka says, laughing and patting Firble again. This time the owl bristles but endures it. "Whatever you want. I'm just glad to see you again."

Firble nestles down onto her arm, all her feathers fluffing up, and glares out through the puff of them around her round yellow eyes. I suppose being in your company again is tolerable.

***

Sudryal: Fluff - 24. “This reminded me of you.”

The pup is just old enough that he won't die outright without his mother's milk, though it will be touch-and-go. Sudryal gnaws on the tough meat of yesterday's dinner until it's soft enough to spit into the little wolf's mouth, then strokes his throat when he's slow to swallow. He's been hungry for so long, bereft of his parents and kin. It might be too late to save him at all.

Sudryal isn't going to give up, though. And neither, it seems, is the pup. More meat, a bit of water from his waterskin, as much healing magic as the little lupine body will absorb, and soon the wolf pup is wriggling in his arms, looking around in interest in between bouts of licking at Sudryal's face. Sudryal feeds him all the way to the rendevous.

"Oh!" Josephine exclaims as soon as she sees him. "A puppy!"

Perhaps it isn't a good idea to let her pet him--he shouldn't become a tame wolf, Sudryal's god whispers in the back of his head--but Sudryal would like a break from attending to him for one moment. So he hands the pup over and lets Josephine cuddle him while he helps Grai with the remaining tasks of setting up camp. The two of them had gotten here before for him, and there's not much left to take care of, but he fusses with the fire and adds a few herbs he'd gathered to the pot.

"So that's what your god sent you to do," Grai says, watching Josephine play with the pup. He's getting wriggly again, and when he wriggles out of Josephine's arms one last time, Grai picks up a stick from the pile of kindling for the fire and tosses it. The pup watches it arch over his head in incomprehension of the game, but he pounces on the stick once it lands and begins to wrestle with it, giving forth squeaky little growls.

He isn't supposed to speak of his god to an orc, but he's also not supposed to be traveling with an orc in the first place, so Sudryal nods. Grai won't pry beyond what he tells her. "Hunters killed his parents and either didn't realize the mother was with milk, or didn't care. They left the cubs to starve. The rest hadn't made it, but he's strong."

"He is strong," Grai agrees. The pup has dragged the stick over to Sudryal, still wrestling with it; Grai picks up the far end and begins a game of tug-of-war. "He'll survive."

"He will." Sudryal watches for a moment as the two of them wrestle, while Josephine settles down beside Grai and smiles at the play. Then he adds, because he hasn't been able to resist the silent comparisons, "He reminds me of you."

Grai glances over at him. She doesn't look curious, just faintly resigned. And it's true, that's one of the comparisons Sudryal had made in his head--the stubborn half-dead survivor who'd outlived the brutal death of kin. But there's another, sparked by Josphine's smile.

Sudryal lets the side of his mouth quirk up, just a little, as he nods towards the tiefling watching raptly as Grai and the wolf pup play. "He fell in fast with her."

Orilde

4. If they could learn one spell that isn’t available to them at present, which spell would it be?

Orilde does have a lot of options, since she's pulling from both the sorcerer and the cleric spell lists.... But I think she'd most like one of the smites. Thunderous Smite, probably, it fits with the flavor I've been going for with her existing spells (a lot of thunder damage). She doesn't think a lot about what's not available to her, because... well, she doesn't think a lot!

18. Do they see themself as a leader or a follower?

Well, as a scion of Clan Silverbrand and a blessed daughter of Berronar, surely she'll be a great leader of people someday! She is oblivious to evidence otherwise.

42. What are three words they would use to describe themself?

"Blessed," for obvious reasons, "strong," because she's very proud of her strengths, and either "good" or "kind," which are both at least aspirations of hers.

57. What makes them angry?

Injustice, when she's able to identify it. Harm done to others, ditto. Having her clan or her divinity mocked--she's very forgiving if she can make excuses about people being ignorant, but she can tell when it's meant to be cruel. Anyone being mean to or threatening her friends, that's a big one.

62. Outside of otherworldly forces, what do they believe in?

She believes that most people are innately good, they just have to be guided (and she is very willing to take guidance on her own part, too). She believes that the religious and cultural authorities she's grown up with Know Best, even if it doesn't seem right to her. She believes that the people she cares about can't be that bad, or she wouldn't care about them.

---

Sudryal

9. Do they care about their appearance? how much effort do they put into presentation?

Sudryal cares about his appearance insomuch as it matters. When he was hermiting alone in the woods, he paid it very little attention, aside from matters of comfort and practicality (hair pulled back and held out of his eyes, clothing warm, armor and boots protective) but now that he's out and about in the world he's aware that people are going to judge him on it. Since he doesn't mind being judged as a woodland hermit he hasn't changed his clothes out, exactly, but he makes more effort that they not look completely neglected, replacing shredded stuff instead of using it as a warmth layer and so on. 'Affiliated and comfortable with the forest' is fine, 'ragged crazy man' is not.

20. Which of the five senses do they rely the most on?

Hmmm. Probably hearing? He knows he doesn't have a nose as sharp as a wolf's, but I headcanon elves as pretty keen-eyed and keen-eared, and hearing would matter more than sight in a forest when it comes to figuring out what's what. Also, he's pretty prone to the 'pretend to be trancing/meditating, but actually be tracking the surroundings by sound' trick.

30. What do they seek out from others?

Nothing, according to him--or, grudgingly, if pressed, answers and assistance in figuring out what his god has sent him to do. More realistically, as much as he holds himself back, he seeks out companionship, because people need people, even if they are stubborn grumpy elves convinced that they don't. Like, by all logic and reason he shouldn't have kept traveling with Grai and Josephine beyond whatever point their paths might otherwise have split, but....

44. What do they need to learn?

Lots of things! But the thing about people needing people would be a good start. :P A lot of stuff is more 'admit' than 'learn,' but... he needs to learn that he's allowed to have nice things, and, rather more to the point, that 'deserving' shouldn't have nearly as much to do with fulfilling his needs as he thinks it does.

51. what is the most beautiful thing in the world, for them?

This is a little difficult, because Sudryal is simultaneously aware that many things are beautiful, in nature, and not someone at all who naturally sees the beauty in things. Nor is he inclined to give things the study they need for him to really see it. But I think, and yes this is a reflection on his own complexes, the most beautiful things to him are beginnings, both first and new: the first buds of spring daring the frost, a newborn fawn in its first tottering steps, the first light of dawn, young people (you know who) fumbling through the first flush of their feelings for each other.

---

Yelkha

3. What is their goal right now?

Depending on what point in the timeline, and which AU--to start with, in the 'original' D&D setting, her goal is to catch up with the person who took Gurgiu! And then at least in modern AU she actually sets a goal to romance Bryn (in the others she goes 0-to-60 on "girls can love girls? --> HEY BRYN HEY BRYN" so that's. two weeks max out of her life). Other than that, she's not really a person with goals? "Avoid getting caught by the tribe," I guess. But she's happy to just drift around, especially if Bryn and Gurgiu are with her.

14. What is something they love about themself?

She is strong! And brave! And fierce-hearted! And very good with animals!

TBH, because she's a half-orc raised among orcs, she kind of sees the first three as a default, so she's probably proudest of the last one--her knowledge, her skill, and especially her animal midwifery. (Her epithet IS The Bull-Mother, after all.) It's a skillset that takes both innate talent and a lot of determined learning to achieve, and she is indeed proud of it.

33. What makes them cry?

Yelkha... doesn't cry very often. It was considered shameful, in her tribe, and I also kind of headcanon that it's biologically rarer for orcs (they seem built for survival in a lot of climates, and crying wastes water), so it has to be a very emotionally intense situation for them to tear up. She has a lot of practice resisting even that! But I think over time, as she lives in the lowlands with Bryn and comes to learn and love that no emotion is shameful and she can enjoy all of them... I think she cries sometimes when she's sad, like when a calf dies in her arms or something, but mostly she cries a little in relief, after intense experiences. Like when Bryn's life seems to be in danger and then they overcome it, she gets clingy and sniffly afterwards.

43. Why do they fight?

She's a (half-)orc? Honestly, she doesn't understand why so many lowlanders DON'T fight, it seems like a skill they should at least develop for self-defense.

In terms of motivation, she fights for herself, really--to protect herself, to assert her dominance over and/or punish bad people and enemies, to protect Gurgiu and Bryn and other people and creatures she cares about. Yelkha doesn't really have a higher, nobler motive, she's just a warrior built and raised and trained to fight, and so it's her go-to for resolving any situation.

46. What do they deprive themself of?

Before she leaves her tribe, emotions, because that's the cultural expectation. After she leaves the tribe... not much! She's already rejected the principles she was raised with, and she doesn't see much point in depriving herself of anything at all. If it was something Bryn said they had to refrain from, like kicking in the skull of some shithead Yelkha really wants to pound, she might stop herself? And, y'know, money (or barter) for goods and services, she gets that. But she doesn't really DEPRIVE herself of anything, because she wants to live fully and experience it all, sort of thing.

---

Fsssh:

27. How do they mourn?

Quietly! So as not to disrupt anyone else's life or, more rarely, grief. He prefers to be alone in his sorrow, and he doesn't expect support from others anyway. In terms of physical actions and rituals... he's not used to graves, but in a situation where someone got one, he would bring little trinkets to it regularly. Things that the dead would like. And he likes to write down and think a lot about anything someone he's lost has said to him that really resonated.

36. What’s a secret they’ve kept?

Uh, there's, y'know, the big one that I can think of (aside from his side-job in any circumstance being spying for his master) is that he knows that, in sequence, a) his siblings died in the nest while his parents were too weak with illness to feed anyone, b) his parents shortly after also died in the nest, c) he, in his fever and starvation, ate a lot of meat, and d) he was alone and he doesn't remember corpses, at least not intact ones, when he finally recovered enough to leave the nest and seek out help.

But there's no point in talking about something that's just going to worsen people's impression of kenku, even if in GENERAL he will be open about eating (non-sentient) carrion. It was about as out of his control as things can get, he was a tiny baby not in his right mind, but he's still ashamed.

45. How do they hug people?

Not often! Unless they have indicated a desire for bird hugs, because Fsssh is very respectful of other people's personal space. When he does hug people he's a bit delicate about it, he hops up and carefully turns his beak to avoid stabbings and reaches out and very carefully puts his arm around them and squeezes gently.

Which gives the impression, perhaps, that he does not enjoy hugs? But that impression would be wrong. He is Careful about them, that's all.

65. What is holding them back?

Honestly, OOC? His complete devotion to his master, who doesn't care about Fsssh half as much as Fsssh cares about him, and who has taught him a lot of Incorrect Things (like how he should prioritize things, and the value of non-hobgoblin life) that Fsssh struggles a lot with. But since Azderog treats him as valuable, even if it's as a valuable tool, and Fsssh is aware that having an important hobgoblin treat him as valuable is the key to survival in his home city, it's hard to disentangle from faithfully following his lessons and ways of thinking.

(Also, Fsssh imprints super easily on anyone who throws him even a scrap of praise, so. Azderog got in early there compared to his later friends.)

67. What makes them laugh?

PUNS. Fsssh really loves puns. He has trouble making his own, but make one around him and he will be repeating it for YEARS. Wordplay in general delights him.

---

Desamee

12. Have they ever been in love?

A good question! I haven't thought too much about her adventuring days, since she was originally designed to be joined as a level 1 character (in the campaign where I ended up joining Franzka instead), but I don't think she's been in love in her home town, since she had very little interaction there with people her own age except for Amancia, whom she loved, but wasn't in love with.

17. What do they dream about, when their dreams are their own?

She most often has seemingly mundane dreams, doing her usual chores and tasks in and around the house, that turn strange or dark--she's weaving, and suddenly the cloth starts to twist and turn under here hands and resist the pattern, or she's gathering mushrooms, and suddenly the shadows under the trees turn to gaping mouths, or she's washing clothing, and fish bones suddenly rise out of the water and start to swim in the air.

After she leaves for adventuring, she also has lots of dreams about seeing her mother and running to her, but having her slide away when she tries to hug her, or seeing her mother try to speak but not ever being able to make out the words.

31. They’re given a blank piece of paper–what do they do with it?

Write a few snippets of verse or lines of song. She's more a musical composer than a lyrical one, but she doesn't know how to write down her compositions, they run in her head, and usually there's a few lines attached to them even if they never make it into the song itself--so she'll write down the same rhyming couplet six times, different words underlined, because what she's actually thinking of is how the melody rises and falls inside her head.

Alternately, if she hasn't written her mother in the last couple days, she writes a letter to her mother.

47. When they meet someone, what is the first thing they notice?

The very first thing Dismay always looks for, when meeting a stranger, is how they react to her being a tiefling and whether or not they're going to make it a problem.

64. Do they value mercy or justice more?

(Once the innkeeper had been convinced that things shouldn't be in some other order entirely, because, like most humans Tulkar had met, he didn't have any clue how to read anyone's presentation not from his own culture. Tulkar had gotten used to giving southerners some grace on that. He still didn't know how to read theirs, after all, and he'd learned fast that for some reason they considered it rude to ask about it.)

But for all Sudryal's arguments, the innkeeper had stuck fast on what seemed to be, for him, an unbreakable custom: if they weren't married to each other, men and women couldn't sleep in the same room. So here they were. Tulkar didn't know what the problem was, really.

...Well, that wasn't true. He could guess what the problem was. Sudryal wasn't as subtle as he thought he was. But Tulkar didn't know what to do about it, if Sudryal wasn't willing to admit anything, except carry on as if they weren't both glancing at each other when they thought the other wasn't looking.

"Bet you wish you'd let them go ahead and think Grai and I were together, right?" he teased gently, smiling over his shoulder at Sudryal.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sudryal snapped, his cheeks yellowing, and then turned sharply away. In a lower mutter as he started unstrapping his bedroll, he added, "The two of you in one bed would've broken it, and then we'd have had to pay damages on top of the regular price."

"I'd hope they aren't that flimsy," Tulkar said, glancing at the bed.

It was a bit wider than some of the tinier cots he'd slept in in the past, at least--not quite a double bed, certainly not large enough to fit an orc couple, but of a size that two humans would fit fine without either falling off the edge. He was pretty hefty, but Sudryal was pretty small, so he thought it would balance out.

"I can sleep on the floor," Sudryal said, and started to unroll his bedding. "It'll save us both having to try to squeeze into that bed."

"What? You don't need to do that," Tulkar protested. He wasn't surprised by the stab of disappointment that lanced through him, but he tried to keep it out of his voice. "We paid for a room for a reason. You were complaining that the ground was wearing on your back. If someone needs to sleep on the floor, I should."

"I was complaining because I'm a cranky old man," Sudryal said. "And because everyone's tired, and needs rest. Josephine's been drooping like an overwatered flower the past few days. But you don't need to sleep on the floor. I can tell you're sore. I've been sleeping on hard surfaces for two hundred years or so, another night's not going to kill me."

"Everyone's tired and sore," Tulkar said. "And that means everyone needs rest. You included. Try the bed, and if it doesn't work out, we can rearrange ourselves later on. But I'd feel terrible if you were on the floor the whole night."

Sudryal hesitated, and Tulkar wondered if they were going to be arguing for the next half hour about this. Then he sighed, shoulders slumping. "Fine," he muttered. "But I don't cuddle."

"I didn't expect you to," Tulkar said, truthfully, and since both of them were busy with their own unpacking at the moment, he didn't have to worry about Sudryal seeing the expression on his face. Sudryal could use some cuddling, and Tulkar would've been happy to provide it.

Sudryal could use a lot of things he wasn't getting, in Tulkar's opinion. But he didn't seem interested in letting anyone provide them.

At least it wasn't personal, Tulkar comforted himself.

Getting ready for bed was a quick affair--both of them spent a bit of time tending to their armor, and then to their personal hygiene, for which the inn considerately provided a pitcher of water and a large bowl. Tulkar left that to Sudryal, and went out to the inn behind the stables to use the water pump there, instead, because his face-paint would have taken most of the pitcher to remove. By the time he'd got back, Sudryal had changed entirely into nightclothes, which was about what Sudryal had expected, and was sitting looking over his bow with his back pointedly to the rest of the room. Tulkar took the opportunity to change himself.

He climbed into bed first, because he was fairly certain that if he tried to put himself between Sudryal and the door, like his instincts told him to, Sudryal's own instincts would react like he was being trapped instead of protected. And if he realized what Tulkar was doing, his pride would erupt, instead. Laying deliberately on his back, he closed his eyes and started to wind his thoughts down.

It took a while for Sudryal to finish with his bow. Longer than it usually did, but Tulkar wasn't going to comment. Eventually, there was a rustle of blankets and a dip in the bed as Sudryal climbed in. Tulkar, scrunched up as far against the wall as he could, kept his eyes closed and his breathing steady and didn't move.

Sudryal's shoulder bumped his a couple of times as the elf arranged himself, but despite the amount of bedspace that Tulkar's breadth was taking up, he managed to keep a good inch or so of space between him. Tulkar could feel his presence, the slight warmth along his left side and the slight dip of the bed from his weight, but he resisted the urge to shift his arm out and close the distance. No cuddling.

He practiced his breathing exercises, instead, cycling through the slower and slower ones until he was so calm and detached that he was floating. It was an easy state to fall into sleep from, especially when he was already tired. Sudryal's breathing hadn't softened or slowed at all beside him by the time sleep carried him away.

It must have at some point, because Tulkar was woken by it speeding up, suddenly, going harsh and frantic at his side. Sudryal wasn't thrashing, exactly, but even without touching him Tulkar could feel by the reverberations in the bed that he was stiff-limbed and trembling. He looked over to see Sudryal's eyes closed, his face drawn, mouth clamped tight on any cry that would otherwise escape.

No cuddling, Sudryal had asked, and Tulkar wanted to respect that, but--he knew a nightmare when he saw it. And he couldn't not do anything about it. Rolling over onto his side, he threw an arm over Sudryal's taut shoulders, intending to shake him awake.

As soon as his arm landed, though, Sudryal curled over onto his side, clutching onto it, pulling himself into the crook of Tulkar's elbow. He was still asleep, as far as Tulkar could tell, but he nestled close, keeping Tulkar's wrist and forearm in a death-grip and pressing his face into it. He broke into ragged gasps, doubled over under Tulkar's arm like a man who had just outrun death and was overwhelmed by the sudden knowledge that he was going to live after all.

(Which was something Tulkar had seen, a time or two. The spirits of the forest might care for the tribes within, but that didn't mean they protected every individual from bears and cold and moose and river rapids, not if an orc was foolish.)

Tulkar tugged just a little, to pull Sudryal closer, the elf's back flush against his chest. He knew Sudryal had said he didn't want any cuddling, but that gasping was already leveling out, the tension in him easing, except for the death-grip he had on Tulkar's arm. Maybe his pride didn't want it, but his body did. Tulkar would apologize in the morning.

And if it made his heart beat a little faster to have Sudryal so close, if feeling Sudryal relax against him and settle down out of his nightmare made pride pulse in Tulkar's chest, well. He was supposed to be a protector and a caretaker. He could be a little proud. Even if he was also being a little selfish.

He faded off to sleep with Sudryal still holding his arm like a life-line, and woke in almost the exact same position. There were no windows in the room, but there was enough sunlight shining through cracks in the one outside wall that he could tell the sun had risen a fair distance. Normally he was awake by now. And normally Sudryal was awake before him, but his breathing was still in the slow steady rhythms of sleep.

Tulkar scooted backwards a little bit, giving Sudryal an inch or so of space, which was as much as both the small bed and the capture of his arm allowed. Then he propped himself up on his elbow and watched the elf sleep in the faint sunlight, studying the way all the stress and ire had vanished in the night. His face was almost soft, right now, his lips slack and slightly parted, his temple for once smooth, one thin cheek pillowed against the back of Tulkar's hand. Though his high, pointy cheekbone dug in just enough to remind Tulkar that he was still perfectly sharp.

Sudryal woke slowly, blinking sleep out of his eyes, and then went tense abruptly as he realized where he was and what he was doing. He let go of Tulkar's arm like it was on fire, scrambling up and out of the bed so fast that he tipped over the edge and hit the floor.

Leaning over the edge, Tulkar couldn't resist the urge to smile down at him. "Sleep well?"

"Fine," Sudryal said, blushing so hard that his yellow-green skin was inching towards orange, not quite meeting Tulkar's eyes. "I slept fine."

He was so clearly biting back an angry reaction from the fear of further embarrassment that Tulkar nearly choked holding in his laugh. "So did I," he said instead of laughing, still smiling down at Sudryal. "Let's hope that Grai and Josephine had as good a rest."

Sudryal made a sound like a goat being strangled and looked firmly away from Tulkar. "I'm sure they did," he said, through gritted teeth, and rose to begin rummaging through his pack.

"We'll ask at breakfast," Tulkar agreed, and then, knowing that he should probably give Sudryal some space, added, "I'll be a little longer, to get my paint on, so go ahead down without me."

"I'll do that," Sudryal said, pulling clothing out, and Tulkar got out of bed and politely turned to his own pack while Sudryal started undressing. Then, much more quietly, Sudryal added, "My back does feel a lot better than it would have if I'd slept on the floor."