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

Sorrel's magic sinks into the Halla's body like rain into thirsty ground, and he sinks with it. The arrow is not particularly nasty, as these things go, but it's still a hunting arrow, diamond-shaped point broad and ugly, meant to tear as its pulled out. The Halla moans and shudders with every inch, but Sorrel only presses his hands more firmly against her flank as she churns the dust with her thrashing, and the action of her fore-hooves.

It's like a cresting wave, as always, the pressure building, rising, and then over in a rush, the damage suddenly coming together easily, snap, as the body recognized how it ought to be. The Halla struggled to her feet immediately, a chaotic, dusty surge of white and brown and red. She was gone almost as soon as she had gained her feet, and the crashing of the brush was audible, once, twice, and again, and then gone.

Sorrel lay on his back where he'd been kicked as she made her first heaving leap, dazed and completely filthy, with nothing to show for it but what would soon enough be a spectacular bruise at his middle.

"Ow," He told Myr, intelligently, and then again, with more indignation: "Ow. So much for gratitude. You alright?"

A noise escapes Myr that's not quite a laugh as the halla knocks them aside like ninepins and vaults out of the clearing; an idiosyncratic escape of tension, a sound of relief as he tries to rise himself--to give her space--and ends up going down in the leaf litter on his ass for all his trouble. His eyes follow the track she left long after she's gone, holding to that abrupt departure as reassurance she'd survive.

"Uhm." Sorrel's question doesn't quite penetrate; Myr looks over at him, comically bewildered. "I--yeah," though the word's hesitant, and he pats himself down to be sure before responding with more certainty: "Yeah. I'm fine. You?"

Even as he's asking he's getting back to his knees, inching over to sit back down beside Sorrel heavily. He doesn't look fine, Myr decides, though the healing came off all right. (Something for him to envy later, when he's less rattled; he really isn't any kind of healer at all.) It's the work of moments to scratch out a pattern on the ground and invoke a spellbloom, coalescing mana from the Fade like water for the taking. ...It probably won't be that much help but it feels like he's helping, so there, have this dumb little flower made of magic, Sorrel. "Need something for, uh. ...Did she kick you?"

He didn't see it in all the commotion but thinks he might've heard a distinctly meaty thump.

"I'm fine," Sorrel grunted, not yet moving. And then Myr did... something, something fancy undoubtedly learned in his fancy Circle lessons. Sorrel took a deep breath and it came with the scent of flowers and a rush of returning Mana, "...I said, I'm fine."

Well, now he's just whining. So mature!

"Let's head back."

Myr knows that breed of prickly when he hears it.

Still, it doesn't keep him from reaching out to offer Sorrel a hand up once he's regained his feet.

"Let's." A breath in, a breath out. "I owe you dinner."

He won't apologize for giving away the rabbit; he isn't sorry to have saved lives with it. But it's a kind of apology all the same.

"Need to go collect my gear before we do, though. If squirrels haven't made off with it."

What Comes Due | Open (with prompt for Myr)

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