It almost feels strange to be back in the Lantern Light Wood again so quickly-- almost.

It isn't exactly an uncommon site for Kvasir to visit-- the Moonglade is always teeming with life, after all, thrumming with a myriad of mystical herbs and flowers, and so it's a common destination for a traveling medic like himself. Most particularly rare or significant flora from other areas of Charon are at their most potent in conjunction with accentuating herbs from the depths of the Eclipse Jungle, or vice versa-- fond memories of his riveting hunt for Dusk's Kiss with his favorite enchanter Morrigan rise to the forefront of his mind--, and so trips out here are more common than not, even if walking all over the continent just to trail back to the Moonglade can get a little exhausting.

He's not on the hunt for any particularly rare or special herbs tonight, though; just some simpler wildflowers, ones that amplify the effects of a certain fruit he intends to go hunting for in Zeinav sometime in the next few weeks, as... uneasy as the thought of going back to Zeinav makes him. Medicine is medicine, and medicine is his field of expertise, so he'll go wherever the plants and herbs he needs lead him, even if it drags him through broken glass and heartache on his way.

The thought is... embittering, and he's here for a calm night-- for flowers alone, not for adventure, for combat, or for the sting of once-sweet memories.

Kvasir shakes his head to himself, letting out his usual contemplative hum as he kneels beside a clump of tall grass, his tail swishing back and forth as he sifts through the long blades-- aha, there. He pinches at the base of a cluster of purple blossoms all bursting from the same stem, carefully uprooting them in once practiced, precise motion, turning the specimen over in his hand before placing it in the ever-growing bundle of flowers cradled against his arm. Only a few more of these, and he should nearly be done-- a smooth journey, in-and-out, as many flowers as he could acquire before he starts making preparations to go to Zeinav within the next few days.

Of course, smooth and simple are hardly ever within reach, and despite those keen ears, Kvasir hardly notices the telltale signs that he's not alone in the Lantern Light Wood.

The woods are quiet tonight, as they are most nights. A hushed breeze rustles through the leaves overhead, gently ruffling Wit's own soft leaves as he ambles through grass nearly as tall as himself, the soft glow of various plants reflecting against his inky black eyes. As with most nights, the little plant has found himself sleepless, unable to rest while the stars glitter and play overhead, beckoning him to follow them.

Follow them he did, toddling from one patch of moonlight to another, fists full of leaves and wildflowers, humming tunelessly to himself. He stops near a gnarled willow tree, spying a pretty purple bloom growing among the tall grass. He haphazardly tucks the leaf litter he's already carrying into the ragged strip of moth-eaten cloth tied around his belly before plucking the flower, taking a long sniff of its delicate scent and breathing out a soft, contented sigh. Wit immediately stuffs it in his mouth, chomping down on its delicate petals, mashing to a paste it in his toothy maw. He claps quietly to himself, the flower's stem still sticking out of his jagged teeth as he rifles through the grass in search of another.

He pats around the dirt, peeking through the grass with a determined squint, only to discover that the patch has already been picked clean. Disappointment tugs his face into a frown as he emerges empty handed.

Something else quickly catches his eye, however-- the fluffy tail of some sort of creature, swishing gently from side to side. Crouching low to the ground, he hides himself amidst the long blades as he approaches, creeping closer and closer until he sees... A man?

Wit tilts his head to the side, perplexed. This was not what he was expecting to find on the other end of the black fur. He watches the man for a moment, entranced by the strange figure crouched in the dirt. His gaze wanders from the man's glossy black hair and fluffy ears, to the colourful pattern on the edges of his cloak... All the way to the bundle of purple flowers tucked in the crook of his arm.

The man hasn't seemed to notice his presence. At least, not yet. Curiosity brimming up inside him, Wit scoots closer until he's sitting just a short distance from the fluffy man, reaching up with his tiny hands to pull a handful of flowers from the bundle, shoving them into his mouth with a soft giggle.

It takes a moment longer of idle foraging before the soft sound of something brushing against grass, the feeling of flowers slipping from his grasp, finally sets Kvasir back on guard.

His ears perk, tail bristling as his muscles tense, body swiveling to turn and catch whatever creature seems to be preparing to get the jump on him, ready to act if necessary even if he certainly doesn't have the time to get his weapon out, and--

Huh.

"...huh."

In all his travels across Charon, Kvasir isn't entirely sure he's ever seen a creature quite like this-- tiny, about the size of a human child, and completely plantlike, with pointed teeth, and a strip of tattered-looking cloth haphazardly wrapped around it. Its eyes are big and gleeful as it happily munches away at some of the purple flowers it's pulled from Kvasir's arms, hardly seeming to mind the fact that it's effectively stolen right out of his hands. Does... does it even understand the concept of theft? Is it merely acting off of instinct? Gods, he has a myriad of silent questions-- he really should be doing something other than staring blankly down at this strange little plant child as if that alone will give him the information he needs.

"...hey, there, friend-- easy, now..." he starts, trying to gently pull the flowers in his arms out of this strange, plant creature's reach. It isn't as if he doesn't have plenty, but still-- he only gathers so many because he travels so often, and these kinds of flowers only grow in the Moonglade. The last thing he wants is to have to walk back and forth between here and Zeinav one too many times. That's... a bit too much nostalgia for his tastes, even for his foggy memories. "These aren't exactly that nutritious... I'd be happy to help you find something a little better to eat, if you'd like."

...Dear Solaria, he hopes this strange little thing can understand the common language.

Wit pauses in his snacking, a few stray petals falling from his mouth as he stares up at the unfamiliar figure with rapt attention. The man's voice is beautiful. Not like the scary voice of a hunter, or like the hushed whisper of the wildflowers. No, he sounds so different from the voices of the woods, yet there's something comforting about his low, gentle tone, like the soft lullaby of creaking branches in the summer's evening wind.

"Frrren..?" the plant child chirps in a tiny, gravelly voice. The glowing leaves atop his head twitch slightly, bouncing as he lets his head sway over to the other side, his eyes filled with a newfound wonder. He's never had a friend before-- certainly he's seen a traveller or two pass through the glowing wood, but they've seldom stayed long enough for Wit to interact with, much less befriend. He wiggles delightedly at the thought, barely able to contain his excitement about the thought of having stumbled upon a friendly stranger.

He's brought out of his reverie by the man shifting the bundle of herbs he's holding, easily putting them well out of Wit's limited reach. He stretches a purple stained hand after the receding flowers, a small frown forming on his face.

"No nummies?" he asks, stumbling to his feet to reach after them, bouncing slightly in an unsuccessful attempt to reach higher.

All Kvasir can do, for a moment, is watch in bemused silence as this strange creature seems to drink in his presence, processing his voice, his appearance, his words-- a positive indicator that they understand him, at least. He has to bite down a chuckle at the way they practically start wiggling on the spot, at the quiet almost-indignation in their face as they try to reach for the flowers in his arm, not seeming to process that they're off-limits.

It's... strangely adorable, truth be told.

"Ah-ah," he chides gently, his voice still low and soft, moving his free hand to gently tap the little plant creature's face where a nose might be on a more humanoid structure. He's certain to keep the gesture light, not wanting to startle the poor thing-- it's more to see if they're amenable to any physical contact, really. "I need these particular plants, little one-- for medicine. Still, if you're hungry, I can help you find better plants to snack on; ones that probably taste better than these, too. Does that sound alright...?"

He tilts his head down at them, offering a small, closed-mouth smile-- the last thing Kvasir wants is to flash his teeth, the telltale show of a predator, and scare the plant creature off. He's more curious about them than anything, really, having never seen anything quite like them before.

"By the way... do you have a name? Mine is Kvasir, and I'm happy to meet you, friend."

"...Oh," he says, his brow scrunching in thought. "Otay."

Wit crouches down, picking up one of the blooms that fell to the ground and holding it out to Kvasir, offering it back to him with a wide smile, his tongue poking out slightly. He's not sure what 'medicine' is, but it sounds awfully important. That must be why he has so many of them.

"Kaaa... Vas..? Kvassr? Kvaaaasssr..." the little plant chirrups the name to himself a few times, as if trying to get used to the feel of it in his mouth. When he feels satisfied with how it sounds, he claps his hands, turning a few clumsy circles before looking back up to his new friend. "Am Wit," he says, gesturing to himself by placing a tiny hand on his chest.

Wit glances around the faintly illuminated glade, eyes squinted as he scans over the grass in search for more of the little purple flowers. Maybe he could help find another patch of them. They weren't the most plentiful of his forest friends, but not many animals seemed to like to eat them... Perhaps they didn't like the taste of purple.

He looks back up to Kvasir, burbling nonsensically for a moment before asking him, "What am med-sin?"

As Wit reaches up to hand him one of the scattered violet flowers, the seeds of fondness immediately sow themselves within Kvasir's heart; oh, he's hardly known this child for five minutes and he's already endeared to them. He tucks the stray blossom amidst the rest, smoothing his hand over the stems to ensure they're all in place.

"Well, Wit," he begins with a smile, undoing the latch on his satchel so he can slip the bundle of flowers into it, setting them within it carefully to ensure that they don't get damaged where they lay. He'll secure them properly later, sealing them away in proper enough containment like the rest of the herbs and flowers he carries, but for now, his focus lies with this odd little plant child who's wandered into his life. "It's lovely to meet you."

With his hands now completely freed, Kvasir extends one of them to pat the top of Wit's head, lightly smoothing a gloved palm over waxy, leaf-like skin in an attempt at a friendly gesture.

"Medicine is what people use to help make them feel better when they're sick or in pain," he says slowly, carefully, trying to weigh his words as he speaks-- Wit seems to only have the faintest grasp of language, after all, and he doesn't want to drag him down a rabbit hole of explanation after explanation. "I use flowers to make medicine. Medicine is part of my job. I'm a medic-- a doctor. I make people feel better when they're hurting. Does that make sense?"

Wit watches with rapt attention as Kvasir tends to the gathered herbs, taking notice of each measured, careful movement... Evidently, this is a man who knows how to handle a flower, with how gently he's treating the blossoms, smoothing their petals with a practised touch. Petal-friends like soft hands, he thinks to himself, beaming up at the man.

It takes him by surprise, the moment Kvasir's gloved hand makes contact with his head-- his leaves twitch when he startles but quickly settle back down when he realizes that the same soft touch is being extended to him. In an instant, Wit seems to melt, nuzzling against his palm with an expression of pure bliss. His eyes close half-mast as he makes a raspy, chirpy purring sound in his throat, sounding halfway between a kitten and a cricket.

"Lovie to meet'chu," he chirrs, echoing the sentiments.

He drinks in the words like a spring rain, rolling them over and over in his mind as he digests their meaning. What sort of magic has he learned, to be able to turn flowers into something that makes pains and sickness disappear? Wit knows of one or two plants that make his tummy feel better when he eats something funny, but none that make pain go away. The colourful mashes of petals and dew that he paints with certainly aren't good for that, either. Did they have to be purple for it to work? The questions bounce around as he thinks, tumbling over each other like honey-drunk bees, all clamouring for attention.

One question, however, cries just a little bit louder than the others. "Med-sin make lonely hurts go 'way?" Wit asks, looking up at Kvasir, dark eyes wide in the low light of the wood.

"P'ease?"

Oh, it's strange how easily Kvasir finds himself warming to Wit; as unusual as he'd initially found the little plant child at a first glance, the fact that his heart has started melting so quickly for him is hardly at all expected. Even so, he can't help it, with the way he nuzzles into his palm, chirping with sweet contentment.

He keeps his hand in place, gently sweeping his thumb back and forth over Wit's forehead in slow circles, just happy to see how happy the little plant looks beneath the comfort of a soft touch. He doesn't seem especially accustomed to interacting with humans, or, err, human-adjacent individuals; Kvasir imagines that something like this is rather foreign to him. He can't help but wonder if he's even encountered all that many humanoids to begin with, this deep in the Lantern Light Wood, but the last thing he wants is to overwhelm the poor thing with too many questions.

Especially as Wit asks him one in return.

"Lonely hurts?"

Kvasir falters a little at that, concern flashing in his eye as he looks down at Wit, at the hope in their big eyes, at the subtle edge of desperation in their voice. There's something distinctly heartbreaking about it. He bites his lip, inhaling sharply, before kneeling down to carefully scoop Wit up in his arms, balancing the plant child against his hip.

"...alright, Wit, there are some things out there that medicine can't cure on its own," he says softly, carefully. "But if loneliness is your ailment, then I do know how to cure it."

"Yah," Wit nods, pouting a little. He looks down, patting his hands against his chest, covered only by a dirty, raggedy scarf, wrapped around him like a makeshift poncho. "Owies in here."

Every other person he's seen in the woods has been either too fast or too scary to approach, and while he loves all of his tree friends and petal friends, they aren't a very talkative bunch... Some small part of him still hopes that one day they'll speak to him, that maybe they're just shy, or he hasn't learned to decipher the whispering of their leaves just yet. As the days have gone on though... The waiting aches just a little bit deeper.

He isn't able to ruminate too long on the thought, however, his little feet quickly leaving the grass as he's swept upwards into warm, gentle arms. His body shudders slightly, a brief moment of hesitance before he goes completely limp, slumping against Kvasir's torso with a heavy sigh, as though every bit of tension has been carried away on the breeze.

Inside his chest feels funny, similar to the ache he's so familiar with but... different, somehow. It doesn't feel as heavy, or as painful. It's such a strange new feeling, like hiccup that's gotten stuck in his throat.

Wit glances back up at Kvasir from his new vantage point, cheek smushed against the man's shirt, likely leaving a smudge of dirt in the process. "How do?"

Kvasir hardly minds the smudge of dirt left against his shirt; if there's anything he's well-acquainted with, as both a medic and a forager, it's the earth and all its gifts-- the blades of grass and the stains they'll often leave, remnants of rainbows' worth of flower petals, the soil in all its forms. He's stumbled back into rented rooms in earth-kissed clothes a thousand times, and such will happen a thousand more. Such is his life, as a traveler and as a doctor, and it's hardly something he's ever minded.

He sets a palm at the small of Wit's back, gently patting him there in a silent offer of comfort, relieved by how easily Wit takes to being lifted up off of the familiarity of the ground. He hadn't been totally sure he'd welcome the gesture, but he's glad he had.

"My prescription-- err, my cure for loneliness is really quite simple," he says easily, smiling warmly down at Wit. "A little bit of familiar company works wonders for that. I'd be happy to spend some time with you if you would like, and I'd love to visit you whenever I get the chance. That should make you a little less lonely."

Silently, Kvasir resolves to figure out exactly how to go about sorting out potential future friendships for a little plant child; he doesn't really know of any other plant children, and his networking skills aren't exactly splendid. Hm. Goodness, he'd probably have to ask someone-- or go searching, even. The last thing he wants is for Wit to keep suffering from the deep  loneliness he describes; that's its own special hell.

By the brightest star in the evening sky, Wit can hardly believe the happenstance he's stumbled into. How lucky was he, to not only find a gentlest, prettiest, fluffiest man, but also one who knows how to fix the biggest hurts he's ever had? Surely he was the smartest man alive-- even smarter than the oldest trees in the wood. It could almost be a dream, but night time isn't for sleepies. Even if he were sleeping, he wouldn't want to wake up just yet. He doesn't want to let go of this warmth. It feels like the kiss of the summer sun, but so much more alive.

The little plant continues to chirp his raspy purr. "Tank 'ou," he burbles, burying his face deeper into Kvasir's shirt, clutching on tight with violet stained hands, his dark eyes now wet and glassy in the moonlight. In this moment, he understands why the little forest creatures cling so tightly to their mothers as they bound through the treetops.

"Kvas'r stay here?" Wit asks in earnest, unaware that his new friend was merely visiting. The world outside of the Lantern Light woods is a mystery to him, much like the vastness of space. After all, the world was very big, and Wit was so very, very small. The woods are full of scary things, and it doesn't take much for him to find himself lost, even in the areas he's wandered in for many moons.

He'd hate for Kvasir to get lost, too. He's only just found him, after all. He's only just been found.

Oh. Oh, dear.

Guilt blooms like a morning glory at the break of dawn somewhere deep within his ribs, leaves and stems and strangling greenery wrapping too tight around his lungs, his heart, stark-purple petals suffocating in what they leave behind. It's not a foreign feeling in the slightest, to be certain, but it's one Kvasir loathes all the same; the same way he did when young, recovered children who'd gotten too attached would give him teary-eyed, too-long looks when the time came for them to return to their parents' care, the same way he did when someone would place a withering hand on his shoulder and say "I understand, I know there's nothing more you can do," the same way he did when sun-stained eyes stared him down, burning with sorrow and betrayal and something too close to budding hatred for comfort--

"What do you remember, then, Kvasir, if not--"

--well.

He pauses for a long moment as he stares down at Wit, searching for the right words to say.

He isn't sure if there'll be an answer either of them will like.

"...well, Wit," he starts slowly, carefully, his voice a little weaker. "Part of my job requires... quite a bit of traveling. I come to these woods very often, but I have to go all over Charon to find more things to make medicine. To find other people who need me to help them. I... I can't always be here, but I..."

Kvasir trails off, briefly, searching for the right words.

"...I would visit whenever possible, and I... I would love to find someone to be with you when I can't be. So that you never have to be alone."

"...Oh," he says quietly. "Das otay."

A familiar pang of achey something twists in his chest, burrowing somewhere where he supposes a heart might be, if he even has one. It isn't particularly surprising, he supposes; most of his friends come and go, sprouting up for a time, passing through before inevitably withering as the seasons too come and go. The stars hide behind heavy clouds and bluest skies... Even the moon, with her smile bright and comforting like a mother's warm gaze, often disappears, leaving the nights dark and solemn in her absence. But...

"I would visit"

The moon still comes back. She doesn't disappear forever. The stars are always there... Even if he can't see them. Their absence makes him sad, but he always feels overjoyed when he sees them again. Wit ponders these concepts quietly, taking his time to digest the feelings. Kvasir sounds sad, too, with that weary, knowing tone in his voice... Perhaps he feels lonely as well? He does know how to cure the pains of loneliness, after all.

It takes a moment before Wit finds his words again. The curiosity begins to sprout back up within him, his leaves bouncing almost like a woodland creature's whiskers. He gently pokes Kvasir's shirt as he thinks, painting tiny purple dots in his wake.

"Where 'ou going?" he asks.

Even in the wake of Wit's quiet little assertion, the silence that settles over this little corner of the forest feels heavy.

It's difficult to explain the concept of needing to leave-- the eternal wanderlust that consumes him, the inability to settle, even if some part of him yearns to. Part of it is work, part of it is fear, and all of it is something he cannot explain to a mind that likely could not grasp it. He's already beginning to fret over what to say next when Wit perks to life once more, asking him where exactly he's going, and... Kvasir simply hums contemplatively, his uneasy thoughts scattered like dandelion seeds in the wind.

"Well, Wit, I travel... all over," he begins slowly, pausing to contemplate exactly how to explain the finer details of travel to someone who's likely never seen the world beyond this tiny little corner of the woods. The Moonglade is resplendent in its beauty, in all the glimmering light that adorns sprigs of plants, the veritable rainbow that drapes itself over the flowers, the brilliance of the stars in all their glory overhead, but there's so many fine forms of beauty beyond it, too, intricate and infinite, incomparable. "...There are a lot of places outside of this forest. Cities, and... mountains, and deserts. I'm from the desert, actually."

The words taste bittersweet as they leave Kvasir's tongue, but true all the same; he belongs to the Moonglade by birthright, but the warmth of the Zeinavian sun, the way life flourishes so differently there, the call of the White Sand Sea and the familiarity of cardamom and rosewater... the way they coalesce into one, draping over him like a quilt and settling so comfortably, is the essence of home.

...That... does give him an idea.

"...Wit," he begins, humming quietly. "Would you like to hear about the other places outside of the forest? Some stories?"