faderift | CLOSED | a million pieces

WHO: Alan & Merrill
WHAT: Butterfly hunting. You heard me.
WHEN: Earlyish this month.
WHERE: Waves hands vaguely.
NOTES: I'll edit if vicious pitched butterfly battles come up.

He's never seen an Aravel so close.

Even when stalking halla, he's avoided the heart of the Dalish camps. They're too quick to recognize his kind, and too like to count their losses dearly. But the work is full of a graceful purpose, and he lingers to take it in, bandaged hand reaching out to trace the curves.

Merrill's lost someone, he knows. A brother, he thinks. A tragic thing, he supposes. But knowing, thinking, supposing, none of that will heal the wound. There are some aches that don't mend, some hurts you only hope to slip from frequent view.

He is perhaps not the healthiest person to speak to of grief.

But he's here, and he cares. And there are butterflies to find, and the sun yet shines high. So there's a small bag tucked over his good shoulder, smelling of fresh dough and warm places. There's something like a smile, as he calls out:

"Merrill? It's Alan."

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Alan reaches out, attempts a Reassuring Shoulder Brush.

"Sometimes it's nice to get some space from the useful things too." It's peculiar to look back on the crystals at times, and remember the way he first saw them. They're only rocks, in the end, just rocks and yet somehow still a medium for people. "I tried burying mine in the mud once. Didn't last."

It's clean enough as he withdraws it from his pocket now.

"But we can leave them here, when we go. It won't be long."

The attempt, if nothing else, is appreciated. Another little smile is flashed at him, genuine even if it is a little sad.

"That's true. I don't mind bringing them, but we could just- put them in the bottom of a bag or something." Maybe better to have them in case they were to run across a dragon or a camp of Red Templars or the Nug King, but it's also just fine to keep them out of immediate reach.

"Do you have anything you need to get to, when we're done?"

"That sounds a plan." Alan tosses his in the bottom of the bag — if it's going to be covered in crumbs now but that's really only an improvement. "My day's open."

Skipping out on all your obligations will do that, but everyone comes and goes here. Inconsistency is the only constant.

"I might go look at the griffins later, but I don't think they'll mind if I wait." They've certainly had enough visitors. "What about you? There's plenty to see, but it's alright if we need to be quick. More than one way to get there."

With Alan's crystal put away, Merrill feels quite comfortable putting her own into one of the pouches along her belt. The pouch is fastened shut, but the crystal is no longer around her neck. The lack of its weight is almost freeing, even as Merrill reaches up to adjust her scarf.

"Then we can stay with the butterflies as long as we'd like, right? My day is open, too." It sounds almost like a dream, just walking around in butterflies with a friend -- even if it is cold. "Though I wouldn't mind visiting the griffons, either. There's one there called 'Ghostface' who I like quite a bit."

Don't tell the other griffons, they might get jealous.

"You can point him out to me," Alan peels a tatty pair of gloves from a pocket, slips them on. They were definitely meant for someone with much, much larger hands. "I've only really met the one-winged one."

Met, been screamed at, same difference.

It's a long walk down into the valleys, and he stretches the route to wind about past all manner of small landmarks. A tiny frozen river-fall, some interesting clumps of mushrooms, a good area for bagging squirrels (the chattering is furious), a boulder that sort of looks like a face doesn't it? What do you think that it's thinking about?

But eventually, they're there. Frost gives way to dirt, the plants grow thicker. A small stand of trees, some dead to the season, some still stretching high with perennial green. It doesn't look much different from any other bit of woods, except,

"Are you ready?"

"Buttons! He's delightful!"

He screams at everyone, Alan, don't feel bad. Merrill still thinks he's delightful, which- says a lot about Merrill's love for griffons, really.

The long walk is fantastic. Merrill is never, ever going to remember the exact route, even with the landmarks, which means Alan is likely to be bothered on more than one occasion if she ever wants to go back. They're similar enough in that they've lived in nature, which keeps the conversation going even past Merrill's just general chattering.

But then they're there, and now it's time for suspense -- and even more excitement. Thoughts of loss have, for the moment, fallen away.

"I'm ready!"

Alan scrounges at his side, withdraws a short knife. A small bit of wrangling, and there's a new slick of blood across his unbandaged palm. He steps forward, a gesture to Merrill, eyebrows lifting in question (is this alright?) as he reaches out to dab some blood on her hand.

"If you could make some heat — not fire, just warmth." He motions rubbing his fingers together. "They'll like that."

Carefully, he extends an arm into the hollow of a larger tree, withdraws a delicate butterfly. Its wide wings beat a dazed, luminous blue, sucking quietly at the blood on his palm. He offers it over.

CLOSED | a million pieces

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