Kvasir smiles up at Morrigan as they rise to their feet, mirroring the movement himself and pulling his glove back over his hand, dusting dirt off of the knees of his pants as he does. He studies their walking patterns for a moment, carefully ascertaining that everything is alright, but before he really gets the chance, his attention is stolen by how Morrigan ascends the tree stump and tucks a flower in his ear, a sweet gesture accompanied by equally sweet words.

Ah. Kvasir can't help but feel a little foolish as his tail starts practically wagging, like he's a dog instead of a fox.

"Really, Morrigan Moonweaver, that's hardly necessary," Kvasir says in response to Morrigan's offer of later payment, shaking his head and holding up a hand. Solars hardly felt as though they were of any significance, here; in truth, Morrigan's presence felt like payment enough. It's been a while since Kvasir's felt this capable of relaxing, this capable of letting the dread and paranoia and desperation to hold onto his awareness slip from his brain-- the mere joy of a serene evening and light laughter felt like more than enough compensation. "...A flower and your company are more than payment enough."

As Morrigan continues walking, Kvasir is quick to follow once more, a little surge of pride bubbling up in his heart at how easily the tiefling takes to moving again. He's delighted that they're not having any issue with movement-- he remembers, now, so clearly, the first time he'd ever successfully healed a patient, a young writer who'd wounded her hand and feared she wouldn't be able to string together a stanza again. He'd spent a while mixing methods magical and medicinal to try and piece together the perfect treatment for her, sleeplessly working in hopes of salvaging her dream, and... the joy he'd felt, more than something secondhand, at the look in her eyes when she realized she could hold a pen again.

That had been true joy.

"Speaking of flowers... we still have one to find. We're likely not far off from where they bloom, though."

...although, really, perhaps he's not in any hurry.

“No, no, I insist!” The concept of denying payment when offered was foreign to Morrigan. They were used to dealing in transactions. A smile and a miracle in exchange for solars. A favor for a favor. Everybody wanted something, even the smooth, calm, honey-tongued Kvasir Sigurros. Unless he’d truly offered for the sake of helping…

Hm.

Morrigan was not quite sure what to do with that information. Well, if all he wished for was amicable company, Morrigan could deliver that. Not to mention Kvasir certainly seemed happy with a job well done. And a job well done he’d delivered- Morrigan’s ankle still tingled with the faint remains of sunshine and a spring morning and worked as well as it had before their unfortunate fall.

“If it’s not Solars you’re after, then my cart is full of any other matter of items and curiosities that might pique your interest.” Some that might even serve as a physical reminder of a country he could seemingly no longer return to, if he so desired. But Morrigan did not voice that thought- given their brief acquaintance, they were sure it would just as easily brighten his evening as it would upset him. But the wagon was certainly chock-full of things from Zeinav- from ornate rugs to spun glass, and clothing in any style you could imagine.

“Oh, yes, the flower!” In their company, Morrigan had briefly forgotten what their true mission was. The charlatan’s face turned a faint shade of violet at the realization of their mistake, another crack in their mask of professionalism. “According to my contact, Dusk’s Kiss grows in a meadow deep in the woods. The area itself normally holds no danger… but my contact encountered a rather nasty displacer beast that ran him off before he could collect any.”

Now, a thoughtful frown marred their lips as Morrigan tapped at their chin, deep in thought. They had their elixirs, and Kvasir the bow on his back. Perhaps they could set up some distraction while the other nabbed the herbs…

“But what’s life without a little danger, yes? It keeps us on our toes, prevents us from getting fat and happy and content with life.”

"A-Ah, well, I... I would hate to turn down an offer if you truly do insist, Morrigan Moonweaver," Kvasir says quietly, voice delicately laced with sheepishness. This is a precarious position, really; as fond as he's gotten to be of this strange tiefling, he'd truly hate to offend him by turning down an eager offer, but faint memories of his father's gentle lecturing linger in his mind, instructions over choosing a patient's wellbeing before your own financial gain. Health took precedence, never the weight of your purse-- to ask a fee after offering to help another was like clipping the stitches after taking the time to thread them through. "If it brings you joy, then, I can certainly look through what you have to offer. I... simply hope you don't feel obligated, is all."

Kvasir has to stifle a chuckle behind his hand at the way Morrigan's face colors at the reminder of their mission-- it's strangely endearing to see them fluster so over as simple and mortal a concept as forgetfulness, as if they, too, expect they should be immune to it. His expression shifts, however, at the mention of a displacer beast, a graver look to his eye at the thought of handling such a creature.

"This is true," he says, nodding along as they walk, though a shadow of contemplation darkens his visible eye. Just the two of them handling a beast could quickly go south if they were anything less than meticulous-- they would have to be especially careful, and plan things out quite well. Even if Kvasir had the means to patch either of them up should any injuries be sustained, really, he'd prefer that neither of them have to deal with the pain of any, no matter how easily he could take it away. "We'll just... have to prepare, then, for a challenge. Prepare to keep each other safe."

A fight was certainly not ideal, but Kvasir is fairly certain the two of them can handle it-- as for what came after, he wasn't certain. He supposes that depends quite a bit on what happens when they actually make it to the site where Dusk's Kiss blooms; whether there's any injuries, how much of it they manage to obtain, so on, so forth.

"Say, we're fairly deep in the woods, friend. Do you intend to walk all the way back out after this?"

“Not at all!” Morrigan said brightly, accentuated by waving their hands in the air once more. “My wares are meant to be shared with people, not accumulate dust in the back of a wagon.”

Keep each other safe. This was another foreign concept to Morrigan. They’d been in combat only a few times before, though they were accustomed to watching out for themselves first and foremost. Kvasir’s earnest nature was infectious, though, and soon, Morrigan found themselves nodding along with his suggestion.

“I’ve heard displacer beasts are tricky little creatures, capable of slipping out of your grasp. But if one of us acts as a distraction, then the other can stand back and keep their pretty little face hidden while they take care of it with his bow.” They gestured towards Kvasir’s weapon strapped to his back.

“Now, I must warn you- as a wizard, my magic is very powerful. If I were to use my full strength, any mere mortal in a certain distance would be obliterated along with whatever beast I was attempting to vanquish. As I quite like having you around, I’ll be refraining from using any of my magic in this battle- my elixirs will suit me just fine.”

Of course, this was the worst case scenario- Morrigan would much prefer they grabbed the herbs and ran out before any creature could make a sudden appearance.

At Kvasir’s inquiry, Morrigan simply shrugged. “That was the plan. It’s rare I get to see Moonglade’s beauty, so I do not mind a little exercise if it means getting to bask in the woods of your lovely country.” They replied, not quite sure where Kvasir was going with this. Kvasir himself lacked a horse, or any other means to make a hasty return to Eclipse City- surely, he had been planning on walking as well? Unless he had some magical means of leaving the forest Morrigan didn’t know about…

“I assume you intended to do the same?”

"Then... only if you're sure."

That uncertainty hangs in the air for only a mere moment longer, forgotten as the focus shifts toward talk of preparation, of planning ahead in the case of monsters-- Kvasir hoped it didn't come to that, but he had keen enough aim in case it did. It was a shame neither one of them seemed particularly suited to close-quarters combat, but they could certainly work out something, as Morrigan was quickly proving.

"If you promise you'll be careful, friend, then I'm amenable to that," he says, his tone low, careful, that contemplative edge still lingering, even as that usual brief rush of sweet embarrassment floods over him at Morrigan's thirtieth compliment of the night. Gods, they really do have him wrapped around their finger. "I look forward to seeing those elixirs of yours in action, if necessary. Hopefully, we can merely get in and get out, of course-- but if need be? I wouldn't be opposed to seeing a powerful enchanter work their craft."

He falls silent for a while as Morrigan talks, hesitation and unease festering like rot within a tree as they continue talking about their plans after the flower is obtained. It's all rather silly, on Kvasir's part, to suddenly feel so sheepish-- it's natural for two companions, newly met or not, to want to continue traveling together, even for just a short while. But there's this distinct vulnerability in letting himself ask, and... something about it makes his throat tighten in a way he can't explain.

"...if it's no burden, and I understand if it is," he quickly amends before any damage can be done, smoothing over stitches before they can unravel. "I... Could I walk out with you? Of the forest, I mean? I'd been planning on just camping till morning somewhere out here, but I..."

Kvasir pauses, again, words stilling on his tongue, unwilling to make the jump.

I don't want to be alone out here.

I don't want to left out here with my thoughts.

I don't want to close my eyes and forget this all come dawn.

"...I enjoy your company, is all."

Morrigan patted their bag and their sickle at their side, full of unwarranted confidence. “Not to worry. My potions should suffice just fine, and my sickle delivers a hell of a punch.” A farmer’s tool may have seemed an odd choice for someone from the desert, but it was just another one of those strange things about them in the patchwork quilt of oddities that made up Morrigan. It often threw others off, kept them at an arms distance. While in awe of the persona, they never got close.

All of a sudden, Kvasir’s demeanor… changed, growing more withdrawn, hesitancy lacing his stilted words. He avoided meeting Morrigan’s gaze as he made his proposal. The vulnerability was unexpected, especially for two people that had only just met, but Morrigan, for once, found themselves falling silent as Kvasir forced the words out, as if they hurt him.

“... I enjoy your company, is all.”

The sentiment was shared. Just as Morrigan had offered to search for herbs together, the same held true here- there was pleasure to be had in company, in sharing stories and exchanging pleasant words where the night would otherwise be filled with silence.

“I have a counter-offer.” Morrigan said as Kvasir remained silent, anxiously awaiting Morrigan’s response- perhaps anticipating their rejection. “We camp for the night. If you were initially planning on doing so, I would be more than happy to, if you would have me.” They had no pressing matters once they found Dusk’s Kiss, after all.

They reached into their bag and pulled out a half-full bottle of spirits and shook it enticingly, as if sweetening the deal. “I have plenty of drink, if that’s something you wish to partake in.” They said with a playful smirk on their face. “Don’t worry. You won’t get rid of me that easily. I've been told I'm like a leech in that regard.”

"...O-Oh-- truly? You'd be alright with that?"

There's nothing Kvasir can do to disguise the surprise etched across his face; it's sewn into the gentle lift of his eyebrows, the subtle wideness in his eye, the way his lips part just so as if he's been holding his breath and is unsure if it's alright to allow himself to just yet. And, as always, his ears betray him-- perking atop his head, two furry beacons of barely-muted joy, relief and delight painted over him with a sweeping, un-subtle brush.

Really, he can't help but be shocked-- regardless of how well they're getting along, how smoothly the banter flows, it isn't as if Kvasir expects Morrigan to put off their return to Eclipse City just for the sake of keeping him company out here for the night. Although... at the same time, it's mutually beneficial, this way. They'll be rested come morning, with no room to worry about sleep deprivation or a lack of nutrients, and it'll be smoother traveling conditions for them both. It's optimal, logical, and... and it's nice, if he subtracts the urge to rationalize it, for just a moment, and lets himself just be happy that Morrigan offered.

"...I'd like that very much, Morrigan Moonweaver," Kvasir says, his voice softening out again, the unease unfurling in slow loops like thread from a spool. A tiny chuckle falls from his lips as Morrigan offers a bottle of spirits, as well-- Kvasir doesn't usually drink very often, but it isn't like he never does. "I wouldn't complain about a drink, either. Consider it... a celebration, perhaps. For a successful herb-gathering."

“Oh, how wonderful!” Morrigan couldn’t help but be pleased at Kvasir’s acceptance. Although the charlatan might not admit to their humble roots, they were a Zeinav merchant to the core, and often missed the companionship a caravan granted towards otherwise lonely nights, where the silence was filled with laughter and story that always seemed to make your aching feet and troubles wash away after a long day. “Then tonight we celebrate to new friends, and new opportunities. And most of all, to a successful herb gathering!”

This announcement was accompanied with another burst of glittering dust seemingly produced from nowhere. Relief and shock were plastered on Kvasir’s face, a series of emotions flittering across as if trying to piece together a difficult puzzle. Morrigan did not know him well enough to place where his thoughts wandered, but they had a feeling that the man was trying to make sense of Morrigan’s offer to camp.

They couldn’t help but smirk. It was just like a medic to make sense of everything around them, make sure that everything fit in with logic and perception, but Kvasir would soon enough learn that Morrigan was a creature of whimsy rather than forethought. There was no real practical reason for Morrigan to camp with Kvasir, of course- it would not take too long to reach Eclipse City, where their wagon was safely housed, to rest for the night. Morrigan simply made the proposal because they wanted to spend more time in Kvasir’s company.

They skipped forward, aware of the other man’s melancholy-touched thoughts but unable to assuage them, when something caught their eye. Amidst the glow of the forest, the luminescence of this particular plant would be easy to miss, if it weren’t for the pale coloring that clung to it like frost. Morrigan stopped, making their way through the tall grass before bending over and plucking the plant from the ground.

It was small- barely a sprig- but there was no doubt about its identity. Morrigan could not contain their elation, hopping in the air as they waved the sprig carelessly around above their head.

Although no wager had been struck between the two, Morrigan whirled around and boldly proclaimed, “I have found the first piece- I believe this means I win the race.”

Another laugh, luminous as the dappled moonlight, spills from Kvasir's lips as Morrigan unleashes another burst of stardust from thin air, weaving a tiny corner of the night's tapestry from glitter and dust alone. Really, it's so difficult to be in anything other than high spirits in their company; that urge to pick apart their reasoning, to understand and unravel and dissect the unspooled thread falls apart beneath a cloud of faux-stardust and a smile, and he doesn't chase after the feeling.

Before he can say anything else on the matter, though, Morrigan is already skipping along and their focus has shifted to something else-- the next thing Kvasir knows, the tiefling is waving a sprig around, excitement blossoming in their expression as they chant about winning some undetermined race, and he cannot help but softly laugh all over again.

"Well, I'd expect nothing less from you, master enchanter, diviner, and forager," Kvasir says with a smile and a bow, like a knight bowing before a prince, his eye twinkling, an echo of the stars peeking through the canopy of emerald-green leaves overhead. Even if there wasn't any wager between them whatsoever, he'd already fallen into this pattern of humoring Morrigan's keenness for drama-- who would he be to stop now? "Congratulations, dearest Morrigan Moonweaver, your prowess is truly unrivaled. Though I've lost, shall we at least keep searching?"

As rare as Dusk's Kiss was, he's fairly certain they could leave this place with a few samples of it on hand-- even quantities, perhaps, even if not the most plentiful or amply-sized specimens... It was just a matter of finding more. Kvasir straightens, starting to walk along, deeper into the throng of tall grass that Morrigan had found the plant in, kneeling as he searched for more, his ears poking out above the uneven cut of the grasses, humming in contemplation as he searched for more signs of that telltale luminescence amidst the shadows of the dusk-dimmed greenery.

Morrigan preened under Kvasir’s complements as the medic played along with their teasing in an amused tone of voice, even going to far as to call Morrigan dearest. They pulled out a small, empty vial in which they deposited the sprig of Dusk’s Kiss as the vulpine medic stalked further into the woods, as if he’d caught the scent of something. Morrigan wondered if his features granted him enhanced senses- a question to ask for later, they supposed, now that Kvasir was focused on the task at hand.

Morrigan trailed behind, leaves crunching under their boots, much more rambunctious than Kvasir’s hunter’s gait, and utterly unconcerned about scaring anything off… or attracting the attention of anything else that might be in the woods. What were plants going to do if they got scared by noise, grow legs and run away?

The tall grass and trees eventually gave away to a clearing, a small empty patch of grass littered with mushrooms and leaves that sparkled in the darkness. Sprinkled in the clearing were small sprigs, shyly popping from the grass, as if unsure it was their time to bloom. A pitiful amount, maybe, but enough for any skilled healer to make a decent amount of balm until next season.

Morrigan followed Kvasir into the clearing, nudging the healer in the side. “And which one of us is the more skilled forager, my friend?” They asked playfully. “I would say this is more than enough for the both of us to share.”

They didn’t waste any time marveling at the view- there would be plenty of time to do that once their mission had been accomplished. Morrigan pulled out the vial once more, humming to themselves as they set off through the clearing to collect as much as they could, the pale light of the moon through the break in the trees guiding them along. If one was listening closely, they might have recognized the tune as an old Zeinavian lullaby.

Another half-chuckle leaves Kvasir as Morrigan nudges him in the side, warmth rooting in his expression as he nods along. "I would agree-- this is far more than I expected to find, in any sense. Let's get to work, then."

He pulls his herb-satchel down from across his body, laying it down against the forest floor, nimble fingers dancing over the corks of carefully sealed vials of liquids and flower samples and tiny packets of seeds and powders before plucking a slightly larger phial from one of the leather-strapped segments, his movements meticulous and precise. He's done this sort of thing a thousand times, and he'll do it a thousand times more; foraging is as second-nature to him as the intake of breath, as natural as the cycle of footsteps against the earth, a reflex bound to muscle memory. He's careful but quick as he collects the little sprigs, turning them over between his fingertips in swift observation as he picks them up, slipping them into the vial as soon as he deems them to be substantial.

Kvasir is so immersed in the familiar lull of foraging that it takes him a moment longer than it might have, ordinarily, to catch the sound of humming breaking through the still night air; low and pretty and eerily familiar, a spear of sunlight piercing through gently parted curtains at dawn. He pauses, for a moment, ears twitching as he tries to parse the familiarity, lashes dark against his cheek as his eye flutters shut.

Warm hands, amber eyes, calloused fingertips against the base of his ears, starlight and sand and sweet, sweet exhaustion, a paradoxically soft baritone carrying wordless notes--

A lullaby with an unknown singer. A name on the tip of his tongue.

He pauses, once more.

"...You've a pretty voice, friend," Kvasir says, even knowing Morrigan was merely humming. "Say, how much have you gathered, now?"

“You flatter me, friend.” Kvasir’s voice sounded faraway, something Morrigan barely missed in their distraction with the task at hand. The plants were just small enough that they could be collected in a round glass vial without crushing them. It was not vanity for Morrigan to say they knew their voice held a certain charm to it- though they were not a singer, a sonorous voice was a storyteller’s bread and butter.

Suddenly, a trickle of doubt crept into their mind, remembering that Kvasir’s bad memories seemed to be tied to Zeinav. They bit their lip, halting the lullaby before they could upset the medic any further. Only a few seconds passed before the silence began to feel unnatural. It was quiet, too quiet. Morrigan Moonweaver was not a fan of silence, which had earned them the affectionate description from many of being incapable of shutting their trap. Thankfully, Kvasir broke the silence with a question, one that Morrigan gratefully latched onto as they plucked another herb from the ground, fingers good and well stained from the dirt.

“I’ve got three-fourths of a vial, just about.” They replied, tapping the bottle with a slightly pointed claw for emphasis. The crystalline material clinked softly from the motion. “Though I don’t see much more around here. Perhaps we should move on and see if we can find any… more…”

Morrigan trailed off as a sudden sound caught their attention, barely a low rumbling sound in the distance, accompanied by the occasional, faint snapping of twigs. Morrigan carefully stilled, retrieving their sickle from its resting place in a colorful cloth loop on their belt. This time, they doubted that they would be so lucky to encounter another harmless traveler in these woods.

That was when they remembered the warnings of the beast which had somehow slipped their mind despite only just discussing it with Kvasir.

Morrigan hissed, letting out an unpleasant stream of curse words that would only be understood by those fluent in the infernal tongue, and not one that should ever be translated to the common tongue at risk of forcing the men and women of polite society to gasp in shock and clutch at their pearls. How could I have forgotten about the displacer beast? In their foolishness, distracted by a lovely face and fine conversation, it had slipped their mind entirely, right until it had gotten the drop on them.

Morrigan slowly stood, only to meet a pair of luminescent, unblinking eyes staring right at them.

The displacer beast was already here.

The time for stealth was over. Morrigan raised their sickle in a defensive position against the charging beast, raising their voice to catch Kvasir’s attention. “Take shelter now, Kvasir Sigurros. Get as far away as you can!”

It always seems to happen this way.

In the wake of those flashing images of memory, embers bursting to life from ash-kissed tinder, fragments of fragments poured out into a swirling prismatic mosaic that cannot coalesce into anything tangible, anything logical or cohesive but is beautiful all the same, Kvasir finds himself growing... detached, clouds pouring into his brain and settling there, his senses dull and distant as though he's become a leaf beneath a current. He falls into the unnatural silence like he belongs there, lapsing into the familiar routine of plucking sprigs from the earth, observing their quality, and placing them in the vial, plucking, observing, placing, plucking, observing, placing, plucking, observing, placing, plucking observing placing plucking observing placing until the fog in his mind is parted by the sword of speech once more.

He nods along as Morrigan shows off their collection, lips parting in preparation to agree with the idea to move along elsewhere when he notices the way the tiefling stills, tension rippling through their body like a stone dropped against the surface of a creek. Kvasir blinks, briefly, before falling still as well, ears perking as he searches for a sound-- and ice jolts through his veins as soon as he catches the telltale rumble of aggression, the milk-white eyes of a predator shining in the too-bright moon.

He freezes, his whole body a live-wire of tension, but he springs to his feet as soon as Morrigan does, ready to launch into action-- at least until he hears them speak.

"But I-- you--" he falters, hesitant, clearly wanting so badly to stay, to offer some kind of defense, but he knows, deep down, that there's nothing he can offer in close-quarters. They'd talked about this. Kvasir was at his best with a bow in his hand, with an arrow locked into place; it was the one weapon he had good command over. Anything else felt unwieldy in his hands. His merits laid with thread and needles, with poultices and salves and potions, with command over the flow of holy light no matter how his heart rejected piety.

He'd only be holding Morrigan back by lingering down here; hell, chances are, he'd only be putting the both of them in more danger. The best thing Kvasir could do was let Morrigan execute their plan to the letter and do as he was meant to-- fire arrows, quick and precise, and hope that it would be enough.

"...Stay safe," he whispers, giving them one last worried look before starting off, nearly tripping over his own heels as he makes for the lines of trees haloing the site of the abundant blossoms, having absolutely no plan of running too far. If he can just get a decent enough vantage point, out of sight and out of reach, but still with a good enough view of the beast, then hopefully it will all be fine...

As he grips one of the thinner branches of a tree at the clearing's edge, carefully pulling himself up to the first proper foothold the tree offers, all he can really do is hope that Morrigan's power is enough to keep them safe, and that his arrows will strike true.

It was worth noting that Morrigan held not a single scrap of power in their body and virtually no combat experience to boot. Running from angry mobs and jilted customers, yes, but they could count on their fingers the number of times they had raised their sickle against a foe. Sending Kvasir away was not only to protect him from harm where Morrigan could not, but to save Morrigan’s own dignity.

They heaved a sigh of relief as Kvasir started off, immediately sprinting for shelter. But then the displacer beast blinked, suddenly behind Morrigan, chasing after its prey. Panic seized Morrigan’s body- no, you’ve got the wrong one!- instinct seized them as they reached into their bag, blindly grabbing for a vial and whipping it at the beast’s back.^[1]

Glass shattered with a horrid sound, spraying poison all over its body that ate away at its flesh. There was a faint burning smell in the air as it’s fur melted, leaving behind an exposed patch of ruptured, vulnerable skin all along its back. The beast immediately whipped around, setting its sights on Morrigan.

A wicked smirk was plastered on the charlatan’s face as the tiefling raised their sickle, rolling up their coat sleeves, exposing the tattoos underneath. “How do you like Morrigan Moonweaver’s patented poison blast?” They boasted loudly, a triumphant tone in their voice as if they’d already won the battle. They may not have been a master of combat, but Morrigan Moonweaver would act with confidence, poise, and conviction until the day they drew their last breath.

“Your business is with me, beastie, not him.”

One of the beast’s many spiked tails flicked in thought before immediately switching targets. Morrigan barely so much as twitched before the beast blinked again- there one second and gone the next- before pain blossomed in Morrigan’s torso where the beast whipped it’s massive tail into Morrigan’s side from their left. Morrigan immediately whirled around, slicing the beast’s tail with the long, curved side of their blade, putting a nasty gash along its tail.

Both retreated a few steps back, Morrigan pressing their free hand to the wound in their side. Blood trickled from their side, bright crimson staining their hand. Morrigan stared at the wound, a myriad of emotions flitting across their face before landing on pure, unbridled anger.

“This was my favorite shirt! You’re going to pay for this, you monster!”

---

1. Parasite Poison

In all the chaos of panic and worry and detachment, stitched so painfully tightly to his senses and disconnected from them all the same, Kvasir almost hadn't even noticed the beast gunning for him as soon as he'd set for the trees.

The blood pounding in his ears, the focus on moving, on getting to a proper vantage point, on ensuring that they could get through this and get out alive had overruled his senses, and it isn't until he hears the wicked crack of glass shattering, fractures blooming and spilling fractals across the earth, and the hiss of something searing, the familiar scent of burnt fur immediately unfurling into the air. Then there's the sound of Morrigan's voice, triumphant, defiant, demanding the displacer beast's attention like a performer commands their audience--

"Your business is with me, beastie. Not with him."

Oh. They've just saved his life.

Kvasir says a quick "thank you" beneath his breath, even knowing they won't hear him, before he's quick to scramble up the rest of the tree until he's perched upon a stable enough branch, one where he has a decent enough view of the clearing, and subsequently, of Morrigan and the beast. His hands shake, briefly, as he fumbles for his bow, all his usual surgical precision slipping beneath the weight of unease and worry for another person's life, but he takes a moment to close his eye and breath, to remind himself that this is life and death, the same as a procedure.

The arrows at his back are no different than a scalpel in his hand-- the wounds he opens in a monster are no different than a surgical incision. His mission is, always, to protect, to save, no matter what tools the universe places in his hands to do so.

And so he relaxes his shoulders, nocks an arrow, and takes aim.

Kvasir would almost laugh, really, if their situation wasn't so dire, at the way Morrigan focuses on the exact wrong thing in the moment; their side is split open, and yet their mind is drawn to the tears in the fabric of their shirt instead of their skin. He might spare a fond lecture about that, later, when the beast is down and there's time to reflect later-- right now, he needs to focus on offering support, on striking down the creature so he can heal up that nasty gash. He pulls back his bowstring as the beast stills a few feet back from Morrigan, the both of them caught in a standoff, and as soon as he's sure the beast won't leap and dodge too suddenly, he lets go, sending an arrow flying toward the creature's shoulder.