#yzocs

In all his years, Shur’azan had never, ever seen this before. Meat! So, so much meat! Strips of loins and jerky sprouted from the ground like grass and magnificent, delicious flowers. Ears pricked, he pounced into the field of wonder, jaws opening wide and chomping off large hunks of meat. He skipped and danced on all fours, before finally rolling onto his back, drunk and satisfied in his-

His blue eyes grew wide. The tree he lay under - drumsticks as big as his flank were hanging from the branches! Shuri scrambled to his paws immediately, but was soon distracted by the sound of a rushing river beside him. He turned his head and froze - it was a river, yes, but not of water. Thick, juicy steaks flowed and flopped atop one another, and Shuri didn’t hesitate. 

Taking off at a sprint, Shur’azan threw himself into the river of wonder, of happiness, of absolute heaven.

-

Vareysa sipped on her mug of tea, watching the tiger fidget in his sleep. He was on his back, and the paws stuck in the air were waving about lazily, as his open jaws twitched repeatedly as if he were eating. He was growling that low growl of happiness, and Vareysa snorted in amusement.

“I hereby relinquish command to you-”

“No!” Sielaire exclaims in panic, in fear, as she stares at the dying battlereeve. A blink is Hedelir’s only sign of surprise, and he keeps quiet as she speaks, “I can’t-, we can’t do without you.”

“You have no choice,” Hedelir rumbles, gesturing at the bandages on his chest, soaked through with blood. “I can feel the poison, Sielaire. Death is upon me. Listen.” He grips her shoulder tightly, and she can feel the weak shiver in his fingers. “Trust your training and instincts. You will make it through.”

Sielaire’s lips part in protest - which remains unspoken, overshadowed by Hedelir.

“I hereby relinquish command to you, Battlereeve Sielaire.” Hedelir sways on the spot, and Sielaire clutches at his arms, steadying him. “Lead our soldiers well. Bring them home. Promise me,” he hisses, fresh blood staining his lips.

“I promise.” Sielaire is shocked, shaken by the sudden field promotion. But the declaration of her new rank steadies her, and practiced calm settles over her racing heart and mind. It seems Hedelir is aware of this - a weak smile graces his face before his eyelids flutter shut.

As she lowers the late-battlereeve to his bedroll, a runner bursts into the tent, turning the heads of the other lieutenants gathered in the tent behind Sielaire - witnesses to Hedelir’s last moments. “Battlereeve, the Maormer are in sight! They’re heading straight for our camp!”

The runner refers to the dead battlereeve, of course, but no one bothers to correct him. The lieutenants watch as Sielaire rises to her feet, turning away from her mentor.

Alwinarwe tries and fails to stifle a sigh, setting her empty glass of wine on the rich cloth of the picnic mat. She rises to her feet, feeling her knees creak in faint protest after spending an hour cross-legged on the ground. Straightening her dress, Alwin strolls over to her companion, who is still absorbed in painting, forehead creased in a frown.

Ilensariel had coaxed her out for a picnic under the moonlight, and though Alwin isn’t one for spending too much idle time in such a...natural environment, she’d agreed. How can she ever deny what her heart wants?

So the ambassador had led Alwinarwe from her private estate, heading south towards a clearing by a small lake. They shared a modest supper, before Ilen propped a blank canvas on the easel she’d lugged along, and grew utterly engrossed in painting the view before them. Not that Alwin had a complaint - had. Now, though, after spending four hours reading a novel by candlelight, and shaking away torchbugs which landed on her hair and book, Alwin believes she’s had her fill of ‘oh sweet, gentle nature’ - as Ilen described it.

She goes to stand behind Ilen, who laughs softly. “I’ll be done soon, love.”

“I can tell,” Alwin replies, eyeing the painting which Ilen had finished with surprising speed. Such elegant brush strokes and delicate shading - it’s as if Alwin is gazing upon the very sight itself. Such work is no small feat; no wonder Ilen had worn such focus for the past few hours. “It is quite breathtaking.”

“Thank you,” Ilen says, then makes Alwin’s brow rise when she offers the paintbrush. “Hold this.”

Alwin takes the brush without thought, then stutters when Ilen’s fingers close over hers, bringing her towards the canvas. “I can’t paint very well.”

Ilen merely hums, guiding her to fill in the silvery face of the moon, and its reflection in the lake beneath. Alwin’s cheeks bloom with warmth when Ilen looks at her, a soft and teasing smile on her lips.