Even in the dead of night, Morrigan Moonweaver had no problems navigating the patch of sprawling woods in the southern part of Eclipse jungle. This was largely, in part, to the natural glow of the flora in the area. The leaves from trees delicately fluttered in the autumn air, resembling blinking fireflies on their unhurried trek to the ground. Mushrooms lined the dirt path, guiding the tiefling’s way through the thick canopy of trees.

They hummed to themselves, pace unhurried- while the particular mission that had brought them to Moonglade was time-sensitive, it was rare that Morrigan left the comforts of Zeinav, and even rarer that they were blessed with the natural, serene beauty that Moonglade offered. They would never consider living here- far too many nasty bugs, and the air carried a humidity to it that made Morrigan’s hair curl- but it always made for a lovely visit.

The particular business that had brought Morrigan from the comforts of their home country was simple- as autumn gave away to winter, a rare plant known as Dusk’s Kiss bloomed in the dark crevices of Moonglade’s forests. The plant itself was pretty, but ultimately useless… until combined with a certain flower one could only find far up north in Frostgale to make a potent healing balm. Unfortunately, the plant only grew for a brief period of time in the year, making it difficult to obtain.

Normally, Morrigan had dealers from which they could buy such commodities, but this season had been difficult for harvesting, and Morrigan’s usual contact had come up short, complaining about some great beast that had been terrorizing the woods, leaving Morrigan to make the trip all the way to the southern forests to collect some themselves. It was a far better alternative to paying the criminal prices that the vendor tried to sell their stock at.

Honestly, Morrigan’s miracles weren’t cheap!

“The things I do for my loyal followers…” The tiefling mumbled to themselves. Their tail idly flicked behind them as they ventured further into the woods. They had yet to see any Dusk’s Kiss, nor any sign of the beast that the vendor had mentioned, but they had their sickle strapped to their side, and stocked to the nines with potions. It was just as well, they supposed. “No risk, no reward!” The tiefling exclaimed cheerfully, swatting a low-hanging branch out of the way.

Morrigan was so distracted by the beauty of the falling leaves that they almost missed the sound of a twig snapping behind them. The tiefling stiffened, reaching for their bag of potions and pulling out a small, rounded vial that swirled with light, like a miniature star system contained in a bottle. They ran their thumb over the glass as they uttered a warning to whoever might be out there in the woods, keeping their tone casual.

“Who goes there? If this is the beast I’ve heard so much about, I promise you I would not be very tasty. You may as well be on your way and find some other unsuspecting traveler to eat.”

It always seems to come back to the Moonglade with him.

Kvasir likes to think that he’s pried nostalgia’s fangs out from his skin by this point in time, that he wanders where he does within the continent because of volition or necessity and not because of frivolous things like the ghost of old feelings or pining for what feels familiar, but oh, nostalgia’s bite marks are fresh as ever, stinging like nettles against the notches of his spine. The wildlife within Charon is diverse and ample enough, and Kvasir himself knowledgeable and versatile in handling it enough that he doesn’t need to make this many ventures to the Moonglade for supplies, but he finds himself venturing out this way more and more anyway.

Perhaps it’s the desperation for familiarity, perhaps it’s just the joy of working with materials that feel like second nature in his hands– it isn’t like it really matters. Either way, he has an excuse this time– it’s the prime point in the season for the blooming of the Dusk’s Kiss, and Kvasir would want nothing more than to get his hands on a few samples of it. Hell, he can’t help it– he’s a medic. To him, the blossoming of a herb like this is the equivalent of a small town getting a visit from a famed traveling bard troupe, or something to that effect. The analogy is lost on him in the excitement, truth be told.

He’s in high spirits as he wanders the familiar forests, humming some old, nameless tune beneath his breath as he walks along, tail lazily swishing as the cool night air settles over him. It’s so tranquil, really– few things give him this kind of joy. Rare herb gathering in the serene peak of night, beneath the light of the stars… it’s enough to make his mind go blank and guard dwindle, his steps becoming mindless as he wanders the path.

That’s his first mistake, he realizes, as a twig snaps beneath his heel.

The second is just how damn lackadaisical he’s been– because nearly as soon as he processes the noise, a voice calls out from a short distance away.

“Beast?”

Kvasir tilts his head at that, stepping toward the source of the voice and stopping a stone’s throw away, seeing eye roving over this stranger with a glint of curiosity. A tiefling, all in violet, each aspect of their appearance refined to perfection, star-and-moonlight alike dancing in the silver of their jewelry, a celestial waltz captured in earthen treasure. They’re certainly striking– beautiful, even, undeniably–, but hardly the type of person he would expect to see out in a place like this at this hour of the night, searching through the shadows of the woods all alone with only a sickle by their side and a vial in their hand, at least from what he could see.

“Oh, friend, beast is an awfully harsh word– sure, I’ve the ears and tail of an animal, but hardly the appetite of one,” he says, voice light with what could almost be mirthfulness, amusement bleeding through each syllable. “I have no interest in harming you, let alone eating you. What brings you out here this time of night?”

Oh, thank the gods, Morrigan thought. A human voice.

Only slightly more confident that they would not be immediately devoured by any one of Moonglade’s exotic, ferocious beasts, Morrigan whirled around, faced with a man who stood out even amongst the dazzling lights of the wood. It was rare that Morrigan met someone that matched their natural beauty and aestheticism, but the man across the glade was a sure challenger. Tall and slim, and adorned in garb that held inspirations from Zeinav, clearly.

But no, this man was no native of the desert, at least not in his entirety- while parts of him whispered with a familiarity with Zeinav, the clinking jewels on his cloak and the jewelry adorned on his neck, the rest spoke to a different origin, one that Morrigan themselves could not place. Morrigan could barely make out a bow strapped to his back- a hunter?

Only then did Morrigan notice the dark ears poking out from the man’s hair, twitching in what could only be described as droll amusement. They realized their unintentional folly, and smirked. They lowered their hand with the vial, toying with it but not quite putting it away, just in case the need arose.

“You’ll have to forgive me- it would be awfully hypocritical for someone of my lineage to judge based on appearance alone.” Morrigan made a vague gesture to their horns, which had been adorned in finery, but a spade was still a spade. “And yours is quite lovely, I must say. It seems I’ve found an unexpected gem in the forest.” They added with a wink, unable to resist laying the compliments on thick.

The man seemed to be telling the truth- while he’d given his position away, he could have attacked Morrigan from any point in time with that bow of his before then, and Morrigan’s back remained miraculously free of bolts. And- well- Morrigan had never been the best at self-preservation, as history had proven.

Decision made, Morrigan approached the stranger with confident, long strides that were surprising for someone of their short stature. As they moved, they plucked one of the falling glowing leaves out of the air, spinning it between their fingers before dipping into a bow, offering the leaf to the stranger as if it were a treasure.

“You may call me Morrigan Moonweaver- enchanter, diviner, storyteller, and right now, a simple guest in this fine country looking to partake in its rare and beautiful plants.”

Oh. Well, that’s quite the shift in attitude.

The already-present amusement flickering low like an ember in Kvasir’s eye kindles ever-brighter as he studies the stranger stepping out from beneath the delicate veil of night, watching as some of the guardedness slips from their stance– not all of it, perhaps, but a not-insignificant amount– as they step a little closer. It’s a little easier to catch sight of some smaller details in broader slivers of moonlight, this way; he can feel the dig of nostalgia’s jaws set in once more as he notes the familiar patterns on their clothing, delicate etchings of the desert making their mark across even more familiar textiles, Zeinav’s handprint diffused over fabric in threaded swirls. It makes Kvasir’s heart sing with equal joy and sorrow, an ache and euphoria stitched up all in one.

It’s at least one commonality, though– one commonality is a good bridge to… something.

“No forgiveness needed, friend,” he practically purrs, a smile cracking across that usually so-severe countenance, though he can’t help but hope the shadow of night does something to hide the color rising to his cheeks at the stranger’s sugar-spun speech. It’s hard to help, really– it’s been a long time since he’s heard pretty words like that. “You’ve hardly done anything wrong. Merely trying to protect yourself out in the woods at night– I can’t blame you for being wary. I would’ve done the same thing in your shoes.”

All the relaxed casualness Kvasir holds in his expression quickly fizzles out as Morrigan steps closer, offering one of the forest’s luminous leaves to him in a sweeping bow with all the bravado of a bard after a show and the grace of a prince offering a prized treasure to some maiden– where amusement once settled, surprise takes root instead. This is hardly the kind of personality he expected from a stranger he’d met in the deep woods at night, but… there’s definitely something inexplicably charming about it, something that appeals to some corner of his mind, whether it belongs to god or mortal or both. The smile, inevitably, returns.

“Well, aren’t you a talented one, then?” he half-chuckles, voice low against the quiet night, only just louder than the chirping of the forest cicadas. His tail swishes behind him, flicking the air in a quick motion. “Alright, then, Morrigan Moonweaver– my name is Kas– Kvasir. Kvasir Sigurros. Medic, doctor, man of fewer titles than you, but with a similar mission, it seems.”

Medic. An admirable title, though not one that Morrigan would have first ascribed to the man. His fine style pointed to an entertainer, while his bow brought to mind a hunter. In these woods, Morrigan would expect to find the latter, though they understood all too well that people were more than the sum of their outermost parts. They straightened to their full height- still much shorter than the man who hesitantly called himself Kvasir Sigurros- with a twinkle of mirth in their eyes.

“That does not give those titles any less weight. And, arguably, much more noble than my own.” Morrigan said with carefully affixed humility in all the right places. Now that the two were standing much closer, they could make out all of the man’s fine details. A flower over the left eye, the dashes of white standing out against the stark backdrop of his wild, black mane pulled away from his face. The charlatan cataloged all of this, and filed it away for later. Every detail piqued their curiosity.

They did not stand and observe his appearance for long. Morrigan was not a person who was content with stillness- they were constantly in motion, looking for the next thing to see and do. “You seek Dusk’s Kiss?” At this, Morrigan couldn’t help but be impressed. Knowledge of the plant’s medicinal superior medicinal properties was not commonplace. “You must be very skilled at your craft, Medic Kvasir Sigurros.”

They returned to the path before glancing back at their new… acquaintance was the word they would categorize Kvasir Sigurros for now, but that was subject to change, depending on where the evening went. Morrigan loved to make new friends. “Are you a native to these lands? Two pairs of eyes-” Or, one and a half, they mentally amended- “Are better than one. We could find the plant faster, and split our findings. What do you say to a mutually beneficial herb hunt?”

Ah, so Morrigan was on the hunt for Dusk's Kiss as well. That streamlined things a little bit.

He'd had a bit of a suspicion when Morrigan had mentioned being on the hunt for rare and beautiful plants-- none were rarer and more beautiful than one that only bloomed in one specific location for a specific interval of time in the year and could only reach its full potential in juncture with other specific components. Still, although he'd expected that to be the plant in question, Kvasir can't help the jolt of surprise he feels at hearing the confirmation of it-- Morrigan hardly looks the foraging type, let alone the sort to travel all this way for one specific plant, but he supposes one can never judge a book by its cover, a prescription by its bottle, or a wizard by their pretty, pretty words.

"Kvasir alone is fine, Morrigan Moonweaver," Kvasir says simply, the sound of his surname already sounding strange when spoken so often. "Still, you're too kind-- I've merely been at work with this craft for a very, very long time. It's second nature to me, now."

It was true, too-- even on days when Kvasir's mind felt like it was dissolving most, unraveling and assimilating into the corners of those intrusive, alien memories, he knew he could trust his knowledge, the sight of herbs and flowers and the way his hands knew how to handle them, as instinctual as inhalation, as exhalation, as the cycle of a breath. His fingertips seemed capable of remembering more than his brain could, some days, and that was... fine; better than this didn't intercept his work, really.

"You could... certainly say I am native to these lands," he starts, humming quietly. "I was born here. Trained here, in medicine, so I'm well-educated on the flora and fauna of the Moonglade. I think there's certainly more we can get done as a pair than we could individually, so... if you'd accept my help, I'd be happy to offer it."

Morrigan did not expect genuine discomfort from Kvasir at being referred to by his full title. Calling someone their full name was a habit Morrigan had fallen into somewhere along the line, back during the days they would stare in Madam Medb’s cracked vanity mirror and whisper their name until their voice faded into a hoarse whisper and it became muscle memory to introduce themselves as Morrigan, and not-

Well.

The point was that names held power, influencing both how the world saw you, and how you saw yourself in turn. Kvasir Sigurros’s discomfort, barely so much as a twitch in his ears and an odd sort of dissonance in his voice, told Morrigan more than enough about his discomfort with his identity, his inner self. While Morrigan’s outward expression did not change, their tail twitched, the only tell that betrayed when they were thinking deeply about something.

They would acquiesce for now, if only because they didn’t want to scare away their new companion so easily.

“Very well, if that is your wish.” Morrigan replied carefully before the beaming smile returned to their face, and they clapped their hands together. “A seasoned healer? I trust that I’m in good hands if we run into any danger… any dangerous beasts and whatnot.” There was a teasing lilt to their voice as they spoke.

At Kvasir’s hesitant acceptance, Morrigan wasted no time throwing their hands in the air, and a handful of swirling dust and glitter along with it to mark the occasion. “Wonderful! You have the blessing of familiarity- I’m ashamed to admit this is my first time in Moonglade, and while I’m familiar with its diverse array of plants,” Namely, what was useful for potions, “I’m unfamiliar with the lay of the land.” A shortcoming that Kvasir’s aid would hopefully remedy.

With that in mind, they set off, barely looking back to see if Kvasir was following. Though the path was decently well-lit, that didn’t stop the tiefling from scooping glowing leaves from the air and collecting them in their hands to light the path as they walked, keeping a sharp eye out for any Dusk’s Kiss.

They turned around to face their companion trailing behind them before throwing the leaves in the air, letting them flutter through the soft breeze- the light seemed to dance in their eyes. A question formed on their lips, one that another person might not ask so soon after meeting another person, but Morrigan craved knowledge, desperate for the answer. “Moonglade may be your birthright, but your clothes tell another story.” One of a familiar, arid landscape, Morrigan's own home country. “Are you a traveling healer, then?”

There's a moment, briefly, where something in the air between them... shifts.

It's difficult to describe, really; nothing truly changes. There's no motion in Morrigan's expression, their bright smile unchanging, no dimming to the sparkle in their eyes to mark a shift in their mood, but the air feels different for a split-second all the same, and Kvasir can't help but wonder if he's said something wrong. But just as quickly as the air changes, it shifts right back, all the strangeness gone with the wind, any momentary darkness buried beneath the sparkle of Morrigan's silver jewelry and moon-bright smile, beneath the lyrical, playful cadence of their voice, singing away the discomfort with all the ease of a canary at the maw of a coal mine.

Kvasir knows better than to say anything, than to overthink the mannerisms of a stranger, and so he doesn't, merely offering a nod in response as they continue to talk.

"Well, of course-- I'm adept in magic and traditional healing methods alike. You'd have nothing to worry about with me," he says simply, easily, because it's true. "No dangerous beast would have you on my watch."

As Morrigan throws a shower of glitter into the air around them, another soft chuckle escapes Kvasir's lips, the sound barely stifled-- he can't help it, really. It's rare to meet someone with a personality this luminous, someone who'll throw faux-stardust around at the smallest delight, as if to share the smallest joys with the heavens and the heavens with the smallest joys. If anything, Morrigan has certainly shifted the mood of the evening from one mired in bittersweet nostalgia to something lively, all of Kvasir's travel fatigue forgotten beneath the contagion of the tiefling's star-kissed energy. He doesn't think twice before following along behind them, just a short stride back.

"Well, I promise I'll teach you what I can," he says as they walk, scanning over the spaces between the trees for any telltale signs of those petals, hardly minding the light of the leaves. [1] "I suppose learning the way of the woods can be tricky to those unfamiliar with them, though."

Ah, but then there's that inevitable question he suspected was coming from the moment he laid eyes on the patterns of Morrigan's clothing-- for a second, Kvasir just... pauses, only barely remembering to continue walking.

"...you could say that," Kvasir finally says, not dishonestly, but his tongue stings with the words anyway. "I... imagine you have your theories about where I came here from. I may as well just tell you; I consider Zeinav to be a... second home, of sorts. I haven't been back in a while, is all."

---

[1] Night Vision babey

Through their hike Kvasir’s mood had started to lighten, like the first peek of the sun’s rays through a troubled storm loud. But at the mention of Zeinav- the country that had gone unspoken- Kvasir’s expression shifted, becoming pinched.

He spoke of Zeinav as fondly as one might an old lover, but with the regret of someone who knew he would never be able to return to their arms. Perhaps it wasn’t just the country itself Kvasir yearned for, but a person within it? Morrigan’s mind reeled with the possibilities of why Kvasir might not wish to return… or might not be able to.

Morrigan’s lips cracked into a knowing smile, voice coy. “Oh? I think I know exactly what your problem is.” They crossed their arms, nodding their head in complete seriousness, as if they were about to offer sage advice. The tense silence as Morrigan paused was only disturbed by the sound of bugs chirping in the woods.

“… You committed a crime, and are no longer allowed in the country’s borders.” They concluded. “If it’s simply a matter of smuggling you back into the country, worry no more. I have channels to go through that would be happy to help you, no questions asked.”

The guess, of course, was likely wildly off the mark, but Morrigan simply wished to undercut the tension, put another smile on his face after bringing up bad memories.

Mentally, they filed away another note on Kvasir, tucking it away for later.

“But we’re not here to reminisce about the past.” Morrigan replied, waving a dismissive hand as if the gesture could physically brush the conversation away, the topic already forgotten in their mind. “Zeinav is the same as it always has been- sandy and unbearably dry. No amount of time will change that.”

The entire time they had been speaking, Morrigan had been walking backwards down the path, preferring to face Kvasir as they spoke, full of grandiose gestures that made their jewelry clink. Unfortunately for them, their distraction cost them their balance as the heel of their boot got caught on a gnarled root protruding from the dirt. Morrigan wobbled, waving their arms in a desperate attempt to regain their balance, but it was too late, and they landed flat on their back with a soft, pained grunt.

Kvasir can only pray the dread that washes over his expression as Morrigan says they know what his problem is isn't too palpable.

He's been careless, he knows-- something about Morrigan's effortless charisma has loosened those tight-wound stitches Kvasir uses to keep himself together, to keep the bits and pieces of himself that haven't slipped away all in one place, and it's made him transparent. Desperate pining still blossoms through his every word when he speaks of Zeinav, even if it's for a memory of a love he can never have again, the memory of a home he can never have again, the memory of a place that he's desperate not to return to lest the wrong mind be allowed to root further within his brain, lest it rain the hurt of dead memories upon living people. Time can strip his name from his memories, rob him of the minutiae, but it can never cleanse the ache of watching hurt burst like embers in sunlit eyes as he called their owner by the wrong name, by the name of a long dead lover that wasn't even his.

The tension is a brutal stranglehold for the moment it lasts, and then Morrigan completes their train of thought.

"..."

Oh.

Kvasir blinks, eye wide, dread cresting into shock in the moment that follows before his lips part and he merely... giggles, once again, a little less subdued, relief and amusement waltzing together in the sound.

"Oh-- oh, I think you should add a new title to your list," he laughs, the unease melting from his voice like ice against sand, tension he didn't realize he was carrying between his shoulders starting to slowly drift away. He adopts a lighter cadence, a singsong tone, his stance shifting to imitate the tiefling's more theatrical mannerisms, gloved fingers fluttering as if spreading glitter through the air. "'Morrigan Moonweaver, enchanter, diviner, storyteller, and detective supreme.' Absolutely nothing escapes you, clever wizard-- you've read me like a beginner's tome. I absolutely partake in all manner of crime. Live and breathe it. I'm banned from at least six nations."

The sarcasm in his tone is evident, but it's gentle, playful, even- an attempt at banter, a step into something familiar with someone unfamiliar, a small comfort found within the discomfort of getting to know a stranger. He merely nods along as Morrigan talks about Zeinav, and though his heart does ache a bit with homesickness over the familiarity of the description, he... supposes it is better not to idly reminisce. Especially not here, not now, not with someone he still doesn't know very well, as easy as that seems to be to forget.

Morrigan Moonweaver, enchanter, indeed-- Kvasir's dead certain he's fallen under some kind of spell.

And then the grand magician is falling backward, collapsing onto their back, felled by the cruel sting of a tree root, and Kvasir simply lets out a quiet tsk, his ears twitching in slight amusement as he kneels over them on the ground, offering his hand to them to help them to their feet.

"You alright there, friend?" he asks, smiling down at them. "I didn't expect your weakness to be something as simple as a tree root... was that just a slip, or does anything actually hurt?"

“Only six?” Morrigan teased, lilting accent giving their tone an even more mischievous edge. “My friend, you still have much to learn in the ways of crime. I have been banned from no less than ten, and on pain of having my head forcibly removed from my shoulders should I set foot in their borders again, no less.” It was a welcome change to banter with someone with the kind of dry wit Kvasir possessed. Others were fun to tease, but finding others who shared Morrigan’s humor. There was Atreion, of course, but they so rarely had the chance to visit.

Morrigan’s tumble on the root was unfortunate, but their embarrassment was undercut by Kvasir’s face appearing in their line of sight, concern and a hand extended outwards.

Morrigan accepted the help back to their feet, laughing as they did. “Rarely am I at the mercy of such mundane foes, but I was distracted by the lovely view. I suppose that it’s only natural that I’d fall for you.” They replied. For a moment, they wondered if they were laying it on too thick- they’d only just met, after all- but it was in Morrigan’s nature to give compliments freely, especially to lovely creatures like the one in front of them.

Oh, beauty, Morrigan’s mortal weakness.

The tiefling put weight on their foot experimentally, a bit of pain lacing up their leg as they did.

Hmm. Well, that certainly was a problem. It wouldn’t be much of a herb hunt if Morrigan could not walk to find them in the first place. They suppressed a sigh of frustration- the setback was minor, really, but it would mean wasting a potion, and painting themselves a fool in front of a man who was still under the impression that they were a powerful wizard and not… what Morrigan truly was. No one wanted to see the rather unimpressive man behind the curtain, after all. This simply would not do.

“It seems that my ankle did not fare well.” Morrigan said brightly, immediately diving for their bag in an attempt to remedy the situation. “But not to worry! I have just the thing to patch this right up.” At least, a healing elixir would help, if Morrigan could find a vial amongst their bag, stuffed with so many trinkets, elixir components, and old, dried food that it was difficult to find one.

“Erm… just a moment…”

Ah, yes, this was it. This was going to be the night Kvasir Sigurros died.

If he is ever lucky enough to be given the sweet acknowledgement of a death certificate, he wonders what will be on it-- slain by the sweet edge of a silver tongue? By his heartbeat accelerating to a hummingbird's pace over mere light compliments from someone he's only just met, even though he's dishing out the same manner of sweet praises? Will mere banter mark his end? It truly seems that way.

Solaria's Blade, he's such a mess.

"My, my, Morrigan Moonweaver, you're three times the criminal mastermind I am, and yet a smile and a tree prove a worthy foe," Kvasir chuckles, shaking his head to himself, tail swishing back and forth behind him in lazy amusement.

The motion stills, however, as he watches Morrigan test the feeling of pressure against their ankle, the subtle wince unmissable to the trained eye of a medic. It was unlikely that anything was broken, of course, but Kvasir had no doubt that the pain would be too great to walk with all the same. Mercifully, it was an easy fix- a sprain or a twist like that would likely fade beneath the kiss of a healing spell. Still, before he gets the chance to offer, Morrigan quickly launches into sifting through their bag, doubtlessly for some kind of salve or potion, and...

That won't do. Don't they realize they don't need to waste such a resource with him around?

"Mm... I have no doubt such a powerful wizard has the means to patch themself back up," Kvasir starts, shooting another smile at Morrigan, but this one is softer, unlaced by jest. He pats their shoulder, briefly, before he kneels back before them, glancing over the tiefling's ankle with a furrowed brow and an observant eye before the look melts away. When he tilts his head back up to look up at them, haloed in starlight, all of the softness rushes back, fluid and slow as a brook over a stone. "But I wouldn't want you to waste your hard work. Would you let this humble medic take care of you, instead?"

“You underestimate the power of a pretty smile. In the right hands it can be a deadly weapon.” Morrigan replied to Kvasir’s good-natured jest as they rummaged through their bag, a frown playing on their lips. Before they could grow too frustrated, Kvasir offered his own services, voice taking on a softer tone that Morrigan had yet to hear.

It almost sounded like pity.

I don’t need help, Morrigan nearly snapped, holding their tongue before they could say something they would regret. They were no longer a helpless babe in the deserts of Zeinav, looked down upon for lacking talent, and Kvasir’s offer came from a place of genuine concern. It would not do Morrigan well to bite the hand that fed them.

Besides, Morrigan would not deny the allure of having a handsome man fettering and fussing over them. “Very well.” Morrigan said carefully. A twinge of frustration was still evident in their voice, but years of masking decidedly cruel thoughts behind kindness was something they were well practiced at. Kvasir was still enchanted by the spell Morrigan had woven- not one of sorcery, but one of kindness and charm- and Morrigan did not want to break it.

They found that they greatly enjoyed Kvasir’s. It would not do to lose his favor so quickly by being careless with their words.

“I would greatly appreciate your help, and your years of wisdom in the healing arts. While I am adept at potions, I admit that I can be somewhat lacking in the healing department. Your treatment I’ll be much more effective than whatever I could do, I’m sure.”

Without waiting for help, Morrigan limped over to a nearby tree stump and took a seat. They pried off their boot, careful not to exacerbate the injury, and rolled up their pant leg before sticking out their leg.

“Well, Medic Kvasir? What is your diagnosis?” The playful lilt had fully returned by now as Morrigan smirked up at the other man.

There's a moment, however brief, where Kvasir's gentle smile falters.

He's not sure what it is he's said to invite it, but he can detect a newfound edge to Morrigan's voice as they acquiesce to treatment, something like irritation festering underneath their usually honeyed words, a scorpion's sting trapped in amber. It isn't especially sharp-- there's no real bite to it or anything-- but even for the two words and three syllables the ghost of frustration lasts, all Kvasir can wonder over is what he's done wrong. The flutter of hummingbird's wings in his ribs slows to that of a songbird in a storm, slow and uneasy. It's amazing, really, what a slight shift in tone from someone who's still basically a stranger to him can do.

His ears droop ever so slightly for a second before he takes a deep breath. Perhaps they're just in pain.

That's likely all there is to it-- pain and embarrassment.

Stop being so damn anxious.

"Really, friend, there's no need to be so modest. Don't light your sleeve ablaze to give me a bit of warmth; I'm certain your healing capabilities are perfectly potent."

Kvasir follows along as Morrigan limps over to a tree stump and seats themself atop it, kneeling back at their side so he can get a decent look at their ankle. He lifts a hand to his lips, seizing the tip of his glove between his teeth so he can pull it away from his left hand-- a certainly unnecessary gesture, but hey, even he has to have his fun--, his touch light and cautious as he brushes it over Morrigan's exposed skin. It's just as he thought-- it's not broken, thankfully, but there's the telltale blossoming of bruises under the shadow of the fibula, indigo against the pale purple of their skin, tiny indicators of inflammation and bruising intertwining together in all the signs of a sprain.

"Luckily for you, it's nothing too severe," he says simply. "Just a sprain. That's an easy fix, Morrigan Moonweaver. Just relax for me, and I'll take care of it."

He smooths his thumb over the area in a gentle circle before closing his eye, calling upon that surge of light he knows so well-- the warmth of dawn and starlight, the gentility of sun pouring through a window, the healing rays of dappled sunlight through leaves... As soon as he feels the telltale sparks of warmth against his fingertips, he's quick to channel it forward, willing healing energy forth into Morrigan's leg, into every cell and bone and patch of skin until the light goes dim. [1]

"There..." he murmurs after a moment, his eye slowly reopening. "How does that feel? Better?"

---

[1] Major Healing babey

Morrigan was not used to this kind of treatment. Kvasir was handling Morrigan with a surprising amount of gentleness, but not as if Morrigan were an incompetent child. It was obvious that Morrigan’s snappishness had upset the man. They tried to search for the right words to remedy the situation, fix their social shortcomings, but for someone who made a living out of words Morrigan could not seem to find the right ones, the ones that mattered.

It was a bit ridiculous, really, that some strangers opinion already mattered to Morrigan so much. But Kvasir was fun, and easy to be around.

They opened their mouth, closing it again while Kvasir pulled off his glove in appropriately dramatic fashion, just the right amount of showman’s flair. They poked and prodded at the bruised that had already begun to form. While the pain was not overwhelming, the skin was tender, and Morrigan let out a gentle sigh while Kvasir worked his magic.

In the literal sense, Morrigan soon learned.

They had met plenty of real mages over the course of their time in the desert, and every one of them different. Their own employer of sorts- the Witch of Moonglade- was one such example. Her power was like an inferno, an insurmountable force of nature that one could not hope to conquer. Kvasir’s, on the other hand, felt more like the desert’s rising sun, the first rays of light on a warm day, and the pain washed away with the summer’s rain.

Morrigan rolled their ankle as Kvasir opened his eyes once more.

“Much better, my friend.” Whatever tension they’d been feeling had dissipated with the spell- they seemed more at ease now as they slowly pulled themselves off the tree stump. As they did, they plucked a luminescent flower from the ground. Kvasir was a head taller than them, so Morrigan had to stand up on the tree stump so they would be at eye level with the man before tucking the flower in his ear. Their tail waved behind them, as if a physical indicator they were pleased.

“There. I don’t have much on hand in the way of money, but this should suffice. An offering to match the lovely one on your face.”

They hopped off the stump, leg perfectly fine to continue walking- the hunt was back on. There was still no sign of Dusk’s Kiss, but they were venturing deeper into the woods, the trees growing thicker around them.

“Of course, if you would prefer solars, I have plenty in my wagon stowed back in Eclipse City for the time being. Once all this is said and done I would be more than happy to pay you for your services.”