faderift | What Comes Due | Open (with prompt for Myr)

WHO: Sorrel
WHAT: Dietary supplements
WHEN: A good bit after Kirkwail
WHERE: Just outside Kirkwall
NOTES: hunting gore, ect.

Winter in Kirkwall was about as unpleasant as anything else in Kirkwall. It had a scrubby, grasping character, and if it had been a person it would have been a bent old man, steely-haired, dressed in rags, and in possession of a lengthy bankroll which he would neither evidence nor share. In such a manner did the flowers sleep under the begrudging snow around the city; secret, miserly, and invisible.

It was, in a word, absolutely miserable hunting. Even if the hungry habits of the city's ordinary population of scavengers had not made it so, nature herself would have. Sorrel quietly attributed it to some unheard-of curse from Andruil, but did not share this opinion with anyone when he went out into it. Sometimes, you just need to know your best audience; Kirkwall was not it. And anyways, he was out of practice enough that there was probably no curse here not going by the more ordinary name of 'laziness,' not that hunting was his job. Sorrel left Kirkwall in sensible leather footwraps, robes left behind in favor of practical, close-bodied leathers, bow, arrows, and kit in tow. He was going to get the hell out of this city, just for a little while. He needed the air, and the quiet, and the clean empty hate of the world to wash away the clinging, personal hatred that came with living in the Gallows, or in Kirkwall at all.

And it felt good, to breathe.

_i._for myr_
....And, as promised, he brought Myr along with him! The weather had begun grey and sullen, lightening slowly over the morning until the sky shone with that particular purity of blue that was unique to bright winter afternoons. The cold was biting, even though the wind was low, but Sorrel paid it no mind with the sun warming his back, and was happy to chat quietly with Myr along their path. Luck, and a lot of trudging through an ice-backed skin of snow-over-mud eventually found them a chance when they crossed a deer-path, and they'd turned to follow it without much real hope, though in a cheerful spirit.

Or, Sorrel felt cheerful. The point of this was, in a small part, to get a very petty sort of comeuppance, and that is always an emotion to warm one's heart, even when your fingertips are numb and tingling.

"What do you think of it, so far?" He was presently asking, with that very same cheer. Sorrel turned a grin on Myr as he did so; alright, he was enjoying it, and wouldn't apologize. It's a beautiful day.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

In retrospect, she probably should have expected that.

Ghostface looks extremely pleased about having chased someone into a bush with his mere presence; he puffs his chest out, feathers rustling, and keeps his wings proudly spread. Yes, look at him, the magnificent hunter!

"No," starts Merrill, before realizing that the raised wings are muffling her a bit and making it rather hard to see. She pats Ghostface near the wing joint, and while he ruffles his feathers, the griffon complies after a moment and folds them.

Oh. Sorrel looks a bit- green.

"Ghostface was a bit- um, eager."

Sorrel opens his mouth to say something unpleasant. Then he stops, noticing a sprig of bush flopping, stuck by its spikey prickers to his hair, and takes the time to brush it off. Dignity, always dignity.

"Right, well. Well," He stops, having completely forgotten what he meant to say and now lost steam as well, "Well..."

And here they are, two elves and a bird. Sorrel is suddenly very aware of his hands, and the placement of his feet, and the fact that the last time they spoke, Merril had neatly done an end-run around him and— had he complimented her? He was sure it was, in their shared state of disgrace, nearly an insult. God, what do you do with your hands? He's gone his whole life having hands, but now they just exist there, on the ends of his arms, like floppy graceless masses, always in the way.

"...Its name is Ghostface?"

"It is!"

Cheerful, ever-cheerful, but there are few things Merrill loves more than talking about the griffons. Ghostface trills happily in response to his name, making Merrill giggle. He gets another pet and then she swings herself off, landing on the ground with bare feet and bent knees.

"We didn't name them, that was up to the rookery master, but yes. I was there when we got them out of Weisshaupt, and Ghostface and I took to each other."

She rubs her knuckles along his neck, careful not to expose her fingers.

"You can pet him, if you like; just be careful. He thinks fingers are sausages sometimes."

Sorrel, who had been halfway to reaching out towards the animal, pulls his hand back hurriedly. He's not afraid of horses, or nugs, and certainly not Halla, but...

...He'll call it respect, if he can, not cowardice, though the latter be more honest. There's a lot about Ghostface, and Merril herself, that inspires both reactions, if he's honest. Maybe that's not a bad thing.

"I'm going hunting today," He says instead, to cover for embarrassment, despite the blush, "Though I don't expect to get much more than a rabbit, with the weather. It's mostly just an excuse to feel like..."

Not like anything: unlike something. Unlike Kirkwall. Unkirkwally, that's how he wants to feel.

The pull of Sorrel's hand inspires Ghostface to chirp, head turning to watch him curiously. Respect or cowardice, Ghostface is interested now.

"It's good to get out of the city," Merrill agrees, whether she knows it or not. Hunting is a good reason, better than 'just because'; no one can argue that you need food, while they can argue against recreation. Morale was important, but wasting time wasn't.

Sorrel is quiet, mostly watching Ghostface to ward off any sudden, terrifying advances of a sharp, possibly angry beak. Is that an angry chirp or a happy chirp? Maybe it's not a chirp, maybe that's what it sounds like when a Griffin is evaluating you as a meal. Maybe he's overthinking this.

"You've lived here a long time," He says, eventually, "In Kirkwall. Don't you ever..."

He stops again, struggles. What had Nari said?

"Doesn't it feel like you're losing yourself, sometimes? Forgetting?"

For a moment, Merrill visits herself with Ghostface's tack, fiddling with the straps and stroking his feathers. The question hits close to home, and she has to think about it.

"Yes," she says at last, turning back to Sorrel. "And no. It's... I am not the Merrill who left my clan. I'm different. Whether that's good or bad... I think that depends on who you ask."

She pauses again and then, quieter: "I'm happier, though."

Happier. He regards this notion with at first some measure of doubt; Sorrel thinks he's earned that much, at least. But as he goes on, as the thought sits, toadlike, in the center of his mind, Sorrel wonders.

It's silly, of course; is he happier in Kirkwall? Not....generally. The city pressed in on him like a bare hand on a raw burn, sometimes. Most times. There were days when he felt the loss of the clan like a missing limb, sorrow rising in him like a miasma, and no need to breathe the fumes coming up from darktown to compare.

Still, would he go back, given the choice?

No. He didn't know if he would ever be happier here, but what happiness there was, was so sharp and vivid and real as to seem impossible. He could never abandon it, abandon them. Even if it meant putting up with Kirkwall.

Sorrel realizes, belatedly, that he hadn't said anything for quite some time, and blushed hard in the sudden rush of embarrassment. He could feel the heat in his ears, and the sure knowledge of how red he was did not help the situation at all. Well, that's just fine now isn't it, Sorrelean Ashara? You can't speak to a girl without embarrassing yourself, can you?

No, of course not.

"Sorry," He blurts, eventually mastering himself at least that much, "That was... I shouldn't have asked. I. That. Was rude?"

Was it? He has no idea. But it seems right to say so.

"I'm used to it," Merrill replies almost instantly. Having been waiting as Sorrel thought about it, she's now all but leaning into Ghostface, face partially hidden by his feathers. "But I don't mind. I know that wasn't what you meant."

There were plenty of people who asked her questions in order to be accusatory. Sorrel... this time, she didn't think he was. She smiles at him softly, even through the feathers, and scratches Ghostface's neck again.

"If I didn't worry for the alienage so much, I think I'd be wandering. Out of Kirkwall, just... seeing things."

What Comes Due | Open (with prompt for Myr)

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