CLOSED | a million pieces

[alankazam]

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."

Comments

aggressively keeps!!!!

[chainlightning]

"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!"

passively delights!!

[alankazam]

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.