There's something to be said for the comfort of traversing familiar terrain.

As brutal as the Ash Lands are in their torridity, in the brutal, blazing earth so devoid of life, in its sky so thick with ashen clouds that it feels like an otherworldly nightmare, there truly is something a little comforting about traveling there. The volcanic flora it yields is abundant enough that Kvasir ventures there with relative frequency, the searing temperature fanning out from Mount Drakolt just close enough to the relentless heat of the Zeinav Desert to feel like a slightly more intense version of home. It's dangerous and deadly and a far cry from anything anyone should consider comforting, but it has its own appeal, to be sure.

And oh, Kvasir would take the journey to Mount Drakolt and back a thousand times over, bearing every burn the volcano had to give him before he'd ever wish to return to the Gods-damned Frostgale.

But that is where their journey has brought them, and so he'll bite his tongue and choke back any complaints.

Still, as snow gathers in the space behind his ears, clinging to the fur of his tail, a damp cold seeping through him so quickly that it ignores the warmth of the furs and other heavy clothing he relies upon for this weather, it increasingly becomes very, very difficult to stay silent about the weather. It's the unfortunate part of having extra appendages that winter clothing just doesn't cater to, really; he'd hoped fur would be enough to stave off the dreadful chill, but the boreal hands of everwinter nest within his skin all the same, bone-deep and all too delighted to settle in.

He shivers, nose twitching, ears drooping against his skull for what feels like the twelfth time this trek alone. Kvasir has certainly tried to keep a neutral face, not wanting to discourage Morrigan as they travel in search of Ice Beans together, but oh, his ears and tail always do so love to betray him, the telltale twitching and bristling and other such little movements always yielding the truth, whether he wants them to or not.

And right now, the truth is that he's freezing, all his years in Zeinav doing little for him in this moment-- and... his ears sting with the chill, his head pounding, agony splitting his skull, pain pulsing behind his eyes.

Kvasir is exhausted, strangely so, even if they haven't traveled for long.

"Morrigan Moonweaver," he calls weakly, voice almost too soft beneath the whistle of the wind, the syllables slower, tired as he forms them. "I... Do you... do you remember where we-- where we were supposed to go...? They... These Ice Beans, they grow beneath ice, so we should be..."

He falters, blinking, disbelief flashing across his face at just how disconnected the words feel leaving his own lips.

"...toward the base of the mountains. Beneath the ice. By... By the caverns. Right...?"

Even though Morrigan had been to Frostgale once before, they still despised the northern terrain. Even their last journey, while frigid, had been spent in the safety of the Pale City’s towering stone buildings that blocked the worst of the elements. This- the wild- was pure, unmitigated ice that threatened to chill them to the bone, and turn both of the adventurers into fine frozen statues in the northernmost mountains of Frostgale.

Morrigan had been woefully wrong. The lava pits in the Ash Lands were not the brutal part. This task was designed to kill them.

“Perhaps we should have done this in a different order- cool down and then warm up.” Or, at least that was what Morrigan was attempting to say, if their teeth were not chattering like a squirrel’s as they attempted to rub at their arms and bring warmth back into their limbs. Despite the weather, they attempted to keep spirits high, with nothing else to keep their search light in the search for their second component for the Golden Consortium- the ice bean.

“At least we will be able to enjoy Frostgale’s hot springs once this is all said and done!” They pointed out. Truth be told, the hot wells of water Morrigan had heard so much about was what they were looking forward to the most- after they found these ice beans, they would submerge into the water and never return to the surface. “I hear the Sludge Pits at Bleakfort are to die for.”

Their words, once more, seemed to lapse into silence as Kvasir’s ears flattened against the base of his skull, gaze faraway in displeasure. For the past couple of hours, he had not said much, seemingly content to stew in his misery, visible in his expression and body language no matter how he tried to hide it.

Hmm.

Morrigan slowed, allowing the taller man to catch up. As they did, Kvasir finally spoke, hoarse voice only reinforcing Morrigan’s suspicions that they were coming down with something. Morrigan’s own trip had been accompanied by a nasty cold that they could not shake even after they’d crossed the border to Dragon’s Cradle all the way back to Zeinav. But Kvasir Sigurros seemed… uncertain was an apt word for it, voice low and unsteady as he asked Morrigan where they were meant to go.

“Yes, near the caverns. According to the mission statement, there are a handful of frozen lakes commonly used as fishing spots in the warmer months.” Morrigan confirmed, concern lacing their voice. It was not like Kvasir to forget such a thing- he was a walking encyclopedia of plants, as if remembering potion components for salves came as natural as breathing. Perhaps he was simply unfamiliar with Frostgale's flora...?

It was currently one of the coldest months of winter- near Winter’s Crown in fact- so those lakes would be frozen over, making access to the rare plant difficult. That, coupled with the fact that Girallon liked to snack on the tasty treats, made it dangerous land to traverse. A couple of merchants had laughed when they heard Morrigan and Kvasir were attempting to make it to the base of the mountain. At the time Morrigan waved off their concerns, but now... the tiefling was not so sure.

Morrigan frowned thoughtfully. With the snow, ice, and threat of monsters, it would not do to have Kvasir feeling bad. They turned around and got on their toes, prying their mitten off their hand to feel Kvasir’s forehead.

“It does not feel like you have a cold…” Morrigan murmured, brows furrowing. Their tail flicked behind them in thought as they reached into their bag and pulled out one of their healing elixirs, offering it to Kvasir, shoving it in his hand before he could protest, which was thankfully not a difficult task given how sluggish he was. “Drink this. If you are not feeling better afterwards, we turn around. Your health is more important than a couple of beans, friend.”

At the touch of Morrigan's hand against his forehead, Kvasir can't help but lean into their palm, chasing after the warmth of their skin, no matter how briefly-- the cold will merely eclipse it, will dye their skin in ice mere seconds afterwards if they aren't quick to cover it back up, but there's something so strangely comforting about it. He has enough sense to lean back when Morrigan withdraws their hand, not chasing after the touch no matter how he wants to, his eye unfocused as he watches them sift through the contents of their bag for an elixir.

"...Are... you sure...?" Kvasir practically whispers, his voice tiny, achingly quiet as he takes the vial in his hand, fingers trembling around the glass. "I-I... there's no need to..."

He stares blankly at the vial for a moment longer, watching the liquid within sway with the quivering of his fingers, feeling the ache in his skull deepen. Although it feels like Morrigan is wasting their resources on him unnecessarily, he... cannot help but admit that they're likely in the right in offering it. Something is off, even if he can't quite place it-- drinking a healing elixir certainly can't hurt.

"...Th-Thank you, Morrigan Moonweaver. I... I appreciate you..."

But just before Kvasir gets the chance to remove the cork, another surge of pain lances through his skull, lightning piercing through a stormcloud, and he practically whimpers.

Everything spins.

There's no time, no opportunity for Kvasir to find purchase on anything, a tremor climbing through his legs as he weakly stumbles forward, knees buckling, muscle, bone, and sinew failing him in equal measure as he collapses into the snow, spine instinctively curling inward, arms braced against his chest as if to protect himself from the impact. It's as if every ounce of energy has been carefully carved from his body, removed with surgical precision, leaving him with nothing; even an act as minor as moving his fingers feels monumental. It's a mercy that the snow beneath what few patches of exposed skin he has feels so very far away, for even flinching away from crystalline cold is impossible.

The frost sinks deeply into his body, making a home along his ribs, branching over his nerves till all that lingers there is numbness. His head is spinning, traces of what he's sure might be Morrigan's concerned voice slipping in and out through his ears, but not a word of it processes, unable to muster so much as an ear twitch to indicate he's heard them. He's frozen over, a new entanglement of voices resonant in the recesses of his mind, sitting within his heart like the cold desert moon.

He's exhausted.

"Just rest, Kvasir-- we'll figure this out..."

He's exhausted.

"Just rest, little fox."

He's so, so... exhausted.

"It'll all be over soon."

His eyes slide shut.

---

And then they open.

It takes a minute to regain feeling in such weak limbs; he curls his fingers, waiting for the numbness to subside, gentle, subdued heat sparking back to life in his fingertips, in his ligaments, the gloves veiling his hands a mercy for a speedy recovery. He wills his arms to life next-- his shoulders, neck, spine, so on and so forth, until he can ever-so-slightly weakly sit up, ears perking back to life as he dusts snow off of his heavy jacket and glances back up at his fellow traveler, gold gleaming in his eye as he looks them up and down.

"A-Ah, my apologies," he quickly says, flashing a nervous smile. He lifts his arms up overhead, rolling one of his shoulders and letting his lips fall open in a quiet yawn, pointed teeth flashing even beneath the cloud-veiled sky. "Didn't mean to worry you there-- I think I was just a bit tired. Getting a face full of snow sure woke me up, though. Off to those lakes, then?"

Kvasir’s voice was barely a hoarse whisper as he tried to hesitantly deny Morrigan’s assistance. “I am absolutely certain.” Morrigan said firmly. “They are health potions, not unicorns- they are there to be consumed. That is why I make them.” Of course, this little tincture would do little to assuage the onset of sickness, but it would be enough for Morrigan to get back to Bleakfort and get Kvasir under a damned warm blanket.

“Oh, Medic Kvasir Sigurros.” Morrigan said softly, fondness seeping through their voice. “I believe we are far past the point of appreciation for one another. Allow me to heal you for once.”

Kvasir’s hands were shaking as he tried to uncork the bottle- Morrigan moved to help him, to take some of this pain away, though they had no idea how to accomplish that, when Kvasir let out a pained whimper, and his legs gave out from under him.

Morrigan tried to catch him. They really, truly, did. But Kvasir slipped just out of their grasp, collapsing to the snow and curling up into a fetal position. Morrigan was already on their knees, attempting to pull Kvasir up into a sitting position, but the taller man had gone limp, and Morrigan could not move him.

“Kvasir?” Morrigan called- one of Kvasir’s barely even twitched, a sign of recognition, though he did not stir. “Kvasir!” Harsher this time.

Kvasir’s only visible eye fluttered closed as Morrigan tried to maneuver his head into their lap, brushing snow off their cheeks. He’d fallen unconscious.

How could it get this bad so quickly? Unless Morrigan hadn’t noticed the signs, hadn’t paid close enough attention to Kvasir’s attempts to conceal his condition. Or was Morrigan simply that self centered that they hadn’t even seen something so blatantly obvious-?

The potion.

Morrigan could fix this.

Trying not to panic, they searched the snow where Kvasir might have dropped their health potion, only to find that it was still clutched in Kvasir’s hand, as if even in unconsciousness he could not bear to break Morrigan’s things.

“Oh, you fool!” Morrigan hissed, prying the flask from Kvasir’s hands and uncorking the bottle, pouring the contents carefully in his mouth. They weren’t sure what it would do, but it was all they had and it was better than sitting around on their ass and waiting for a miracle. They administered the health potion, waited, and…

Nothing.

“Oh, come on!” Morrigan huffed, dropping the glass vial to the floor. “Kvasir Sigurros, this is not amusing. You know I cannot drag you to Bleakfort with my delicate arms.”

Still no response. Morrigan needed to try a different approach. They nudged Kvasir, nearly smacking his face with their ring-clad hand in an attempt to wake him. “Kvasir, I have broken my leg again and I need you to heal it. Effective immediately.”

Kvasir was still unmoving, only the shallow rise and fall of his chest the only sign that he was still alive. Morrigan bit their lip, tail flicking behind them as they assessed their options, looking for something- anything- they could do, only to come up blank.

And so, in their foolish desperation, approaching near-hysteria the longer that Kvasir remained still, Morrigan attempted something they had not done in a long time, not since they were a vulnerable child in the back of their father’s caravan, staring at the wick of an unlit candle as if willpower alone could cause it to burst aflame, not yet aware that the candle would remain entirely unburnt to this day.

They attempted to cast a spell.

Morrigan closed their eyes, putting their hand on Kvasir’s chest and breathed in. Breathed out. They’d seen their mother- a healer, soft spoken and gentle- patch wounds hundreds of times before. They’d been healed by Kvasir himself countless times before.

It should have been easy.

Innate.

Kvasir should have woken up.

And yet, the magic that was supposed to be in their blood did not respond, eluding them yet again, and when Morrigan opened their eyes again, their face only burnt with shame, all the fool for thinking things would be different this time because Kvasir’s life was hanging in the balance.

Morrigan’s nose wrinkled, thankful for the biting chill as an excuse as to why their face was now a bright purple.

Morrigan pounded on his chest, as if forcing any speck of healing light they might possibly possess through.

Again.

Still, nothing sparked to life. Morrigan’s face contorted- just as they raised their hand up, ready to try again-

Kvasir’s eye snapped open.

Morrigan froze as the healed picked himself back up as if absolutely nothing had happened, as if they hadn’t just given Morrigan the worst scare of his life. Morrigan gaped at him as he brushed off his coat, an apology falling off his lips.

“I- you-“ Morrigan, for once, struggled to find the right words. “Absolutely not. In case you’ve forgotten, Mister, you just had a nasty fainting spell. We can come get the beans another day.” They said firmly.

Kvasir simply stared at them. Morrigan swallowed, unsure of what else to say. Were Kvasir’s eyes always that… color? Like molten gold? What was going on right now? Resolve crumbling the longer Kvasir stared at them, Morrigan’s foundations faltered. Dread nestled in their chest, along with the realization that something was horribly wrong, and they had no idea how to fix it.

“We should go find an inn. Make sure you’re feeling okay before we progress any further.” Morrigan said, softer this time.

There's an eerie juxtaposition between the words freely leaving his lips, the look in his eyes, and the stance he adopts.

Clear enervation still furrows deep within him, buried within his bones, roots of pure exhaustion wound so deeply within him that it would rival the oldest trees in the forests of the Moonglade. Frigidity interlaces with sleeplessness, woven into him like rot seeps into the crevices of a tree's bark, too stiff and not alert and eerily calm all the same, the struggle of his body barely reflected by the wideness of his eye. It shines sand-gold, Zeinav's horizon captured in one lone iris, clear and heedful, circumspect as an eagle, watchful as a predator.

His voice bears no trace of its prior uncertainty, sharp as a scalpel and precise as one too; the fragility of his words has drifted away like a feather on the wind, his voice clear and cutting, no longer difficult to hear beneath the whistle of the wind, the whisper of snow. He is no longer distant, faraway, carried forward by dying determination and loyalty and little else; he's all too present, now.

"Oh, Morrigan," he softly laughs, shaking his head, sunlight solidified in his one visible eye, any traces of forest-green long eclipsed by sunflowers and marigolds, harsh and bright and vibrant, sitting strangely in his iris. The way he laughs is soft, but there's no sweetness, no rosewater syrup against black tea-- it's practiced. Rehearsed, an echo of an attempt to sound similar, a parrot's poor attempt at mimicking the sound, the fondness poorly replicated. "Dearest, you worry far too much. All the heart attacks you've given me, gallivanting around and collecting injuries like herbs, and you'll fret so over a little loss in consciousness? I assure you, I was merely a little tired."

He rises to his feet, the motion too swift, too effortless for a man who'd just collapsed so brokenly, legs only stable because he's giving them no other choice, a withering marionette suspended by tight-wound strings, life and false energy poured into his muscles, his ligaments, his bones and skin and mortal blood. He lifts a hand before him, curling his fingers inward and watching the way they flex with all the rapt attention of a king surveying a subject's new offering, as though he's a guest in his own body.

It's wrong.

It's all wrong.

A placid, easy smile curls across his face as he walks over to Morrigan, leaning in just a little too close as he speaks, teeth flashing too brightly beneath the absence of the sun, eye burning that sickly gold. For a moment, there's a ghost of what could be the embers of amusement, before all that remains are the ashes of carefully practiced serenity, smoothly layered, smoothly set.

"I'm all better now, Morrigan. We can keep going."

The words are a suggestion, gentle on paper, an offer.

They're spoken like a threat.

This is not my Kvasir.

It was not the ice that had Morrigan frozen still as the medic turned like a stiff-limbed doll, molten gold still blazing in his eye, a broken sun that regarded Morrigann with a sharpness that Kvasir never had. And then-

Morrigan.

Kvasir did not call Morrigan by only their first name, ever. There were amused nicknames, terms of annoyed endearment, titles upon titles spoken like someone who was entertaining a particularly yappy puppy. It was attempting to assume Kvasir’s normal demeanor, movements slowly going more natural with each twitch of his ears and the amusement in his eyes. It was a lovely act, one that might have fooled someone who knew Kvasir a little less, or someone whose entire life was not a carefully constructed performance.

Unfortunately for this… thing masquerading around in Kvasir’s body like an ill-fitting suit, Morrigan was neither of those things.

It was a good thing that Morrigan had previously been beside themselves with worry that they had the excuse of wiping at their blotchy face to quickly assess their options.

What was happening right now? Was this some sort of beast, a body-snatching mimic, or a vengeful spirit that had possessed his body? Maybe something happened to him along the way and Morrigan missed it. Without knowing exactly what had caused this possession, there was nothing they could do about… this. Which meant that Morrigan needed more time, and more information.

Not-Kvasir got to his feet, leaning in close enough that Morrigan could see his sharpened canines as he smiled, an attempt of something attempting to disguise poison as honey. It was then that he made his demand that Morrigan follow, and Morrigan was forced to make a choice.

A confrontation here without understanding exactly what they were dealing with would only hurt Kvasir, and if this thing was dangerous, hurt Morrigan as well. Morrigan may have been accustomed to acting the fool, but there was no point in doing something so stupid when it would not yield any results.

There was no choice but for Morrigan act ignorant, to play the part of the same doting fool. It clearly had Kvasir’s memories- enough to attempt such an offensive mimicry- but there were still many things that Kvasir did not know about Morrigan, and vice versa. That knowledge would come in handy right now.

Morrigan suppressed a shudder of revulsion as the thing attempted to speak more with Kvasir’s voice before smoothing over their features. An act was something they could do. They lived and breathed the character, bodied it just as Madam Medb had drilled into their head.

And for Kvasir’s sake, they had better play the part well.

Morrigan tilted their head to the side, skipping forward with gleeful abandon the way they normally would, throwing their hands in the air with another splash of glitter, as if they were simply relieved for his speedy recovery.

“It is exactly for that reason I worry, friend.” Morrigan said, a teasing lilt in their words. “If you are unconscious and I am injured, then who will be the one to carry me?”

They did not turn their back to it.

“Though I am relieved for your speedy recovery. Your talent for healing even yourself is seemingly unparalleled- almost as powerful as my own!” They clapped their hands together in praise. All the while, they watched its reactions, waiting for any tic or trait that would give away its thoughts.

“But you’re right.” Morrigan said. “We should not dally here when we have beans to pluck, hmm? I hope you are not too cold- I suspect we will be digging fairly deep for the components we need.”

It took all of their willpower not to lash out at the thing parading around in Kvasir’s skin.

"You're too kind-- correct, all the same, though. We should be going."

So Morrigan Moonweaver is every bit the fool Kasra had assumed they were.

It's difficult to develop an opinion of someone when all your experiences with them are secondhand, filtered through someone else's biased lens, presented through memory and memory alone, no conscious experience of your own to drink in all the minutiae of their mannerisms. It is strange-- delightfully so, to be certain-- to finally get to see the world through his own eyes again, to wrestle through each and every attempt his chosen vessel makes to stifle him. It's merely staving off the inevitable, at this point, but mortals do so love their petty, pointless fun.

Kvasir's body lacks the power of Kasra's own, the command, the grace, but it will do. He can feels the cells of this body withering with mortal brevity, transience locked into every thread of this delicate little tapestry, but it is a small price to pay to get to observe the world beyond the bias of Kvasir's memories, to observe Morrigan Moonweaver beyond the roseate and lavender shades his fondness dyes them in, their ventures always framed in pastel hues no matter what sorrow may mar them.

Kasra cannot say whether or not it is a universal experience, or if it is exclusive to him and him alone, but the ability to perceive the way color drapes itself over his vessel's memories fascinates him all the same. The remaining conscious memories of Kvasir Sigurros are a veritable rainbow, a maelstrom of color and emotions swept all together, coalescent in the chaos that the ever-growing gaps sprouting between them creates. For the longest time, they've all been spiraling together into the same deep shades of azure, of viridian, dark and resigned and nearly monochrome as his resolve melts beneath the weight of despair.

Oh, but then this strange, foolish charlatan marched into Kvasir's life, and lit his memories back up with colors Kasra had bleached from his brain-- colors that hadn't been seen since before the day Mehr Mirzadeh looked Kvasir in the eye and spoke those fated words.

"It's only a matter of time until you forget me too, isn't it?"

Ah, hope had tasted sweet that day.

And now this clear-eyed fool has wrenched it back away.

Now Kvasir clings to life, to his memories, to his existence with a fervor unlike any other, spite carrying his pen across the page as he scrawls that wretched mantra: My name is Kvasir Sigurros, my name is Kvasir Sigurros, my name is Kvasir Sigurros, and I am not a god, I am not a god, I am not a god. All because of a few chance meetings with a few strange people, all because of some bright-eyed liar who resuscitates all those dead feelings of being wanted, all because of chance. Kasra has never been a gambling man, and he won't stand for the clink of dice against the stone of his lost and ancient tomb.

The Archivist King has every intention of returning to his place amidst the bones of his people, no matter whose body he has to drag to the heart of the desert to get there, and he will not let anyone or anything stand in his way.

But for now, he's all easy smiles, all practiced echoes of Kvasir's own behavior as they travel through the snow in search of these frosted-over lakes; it isn't perfect, far from, but it's enough to fool a fool, and that is truly all that Kasra needs right now. He keeps up a steady stream of casual chatter going as they travel, nothing substantial, nothing of any importance-- merely sifting through the recesses of Kvasir's memories and searching for fragments of things he'd wish to discuss, a halfhearted endeavor to keep the spirits light on their way out.

Kasra doesn't count how long it takes them to find the lakes at the mountain's base, but he does know it feels like far too long.

"Alright, Morrigan, I do believe we've found our place," Kasra says, voice almost too sweet all the while. Disgusting. How does his vessel manage to act this way all the time? "We'd best be careful as we go forth-- wouldn't want to catch any nasty creatures' attention. Let's be careful as we look through the ice lakes, yes?"

Morrigan and not-Kvasir walked side by side, Morrigan dancing around in their usual manner, performing the song and dance that someone with Kvasir’s memories would expect. The impostor was good, hitting all the right marks, the saccharine sweet voice of someone who would let Morrigan get away with much simply because Morrigan willed it to be. But it still walked like something that was unused to mortal legs, calling Morrigan the entirely wrong name.

There were many things that this impostor knew objectively, but it did not know how to be Kvasir. The culmination of traits and smiles and warmth was absent, and though it tried to sound impossibly fond in that way Kvasir spoke when he was indulging Morrigan’s antics, there was none of the familiarity.

Yes, there were many things that this impostor did not know. It didn’t know about the way Kvasir would have entertained Morrigan’s bullshit at the drop of a hat, or the way he would laugh after Morrigan threw glitter into the air.

It did not know about the knife contained in Morrigan’s sleeve, glittering pale and invisible to anyone that happened to catch a glimpse at Morrigan’s arm.

“Yes, I agree. I hear that dangerous beasts roam these mountains and have a particular fondness for Ice Beans. I, of course, could take care of them with a flick of my wrist-” Here, they waved their hand- “But what would be the fun in completing a quest for the chemist’s guild with magic?” They boasted, inviting not-Kvasir to compliment them as the real medic would, or to slip up in a concrete manner, a way Morrigan could latch onto.

Truly, though. Nasty creatures. Morrigan had to suppress a laugh. As if any of those mindless beasts could compare to this impostor in human flesh, one whose true intentions Morrigan had still yet to gleam. What was its game? Did it mean to lure Morrigan to the frozen lakes, where it would murder Morrigan, eliminate any witnesses? By acting like Kvasir Sigurros, Morrigan could only assume that it wanted to assimilate, take his place and eliminate the unlucky bystander.

“I should prepare my potions for when we get close.” Morrigan said after a moment’s silence stretched too long- one Kvasir might have filled with more gentle ribbing about Morrigan’s beast slaying capabilities- before reaching into their bag, pulling out one of their rounded vials, holding it in the air to make sure not-Kvasir got a good, long look at it.

A silver liquid.

Identical in color to the Eagle’s Sight potion, one Kvasir had glimpsed Morrigan drinking back in the Ash Lands when in search of the Ash Roses. If this thing had Kvasir’s memories, it would simply make the assumption this was the very same elixir. Morrigan caught not-Kvasir’s eye, still a sickening shade of gold that swirled like lava against the stark white of their snowy surroundings, and winked. “For when we get closer. No layers of ice will be able to prevent me from spotting my rightful prize!”

They did not drink it right away. Rather, they shoved it in their pocket, careful not to let the glass shatter. The numbing poison, which was designed to appear as innocuous as any of Morrigan’s other potions, was merely insurance. Morrigan may have had no conceivable combat skills to speak of, nor a spell that could rival Kvasir’s magic, but as they’d told lady Kamille before, even a fool could get lucky and strike a vital spot with a dagger.

Here was another thing Kvasir Sigguros did not know- Morrigan was quite adept at designing poisons.

Morrigan’s smile grew as they approached not-Kvasir, linking their arm around its own and pressing themselves against its side. “We should make it there in no time, if my internal map is correct.” They said. “But you should lean on me for support, yes? In case your body is still weak. It would not do for you to fall and wreck that pretty face of yours.”

Their words were casual, spoken with their usual candor, but the knife against their arm weighed heavily. There were a great many things Kvasir did not know about Morrigan, including the lengths they would go to protect him. Even if it meant hurting his own body, assuming this vessel was still rightfully his, to do so. They hoped to any gods that were listening that it would not come to such means, but they were prepared.

Little did they know that eventuality lay in the hands of the cursed divinity that they were currently clinging to.

There are a plethora of observations Kasra has already made about Morrigan Moonweaver.

One, and most fortunately for Kasra, they seemed completely incapable of keeping their cards close to their chest-- they seemed to rattle off every thought that burst into being in their skull, not to mention their announcement of their intention to use that Eagle's Sight potion of theirs, the very same thing they'd brought with them in the previous trip to the Ash Lands. It's the same shade of silver, the same consistency, swirling around in that little vial in the same swift, contained motion-- unsurprising, the same tactic as last time. One might think they would consider using their resources for other potions for a trip to a land like this, but the God of What Once Was is steadily learning to keep his expectations low when it comes to Morrigan.

Two, and rather unfortunately for Kasra-- Morrigan Moonweaver was the kind of person who was going to be unfathomably difficult to erase all traces of from Kvasir's memories. They are exuberant, bombastic, vivacious in every little gesture they make; begrudgingly, Kasra can understand why Kvasir's journal compares them to starlight incarnate so often. They're charming, disgustingly so, bright and brilliant and magnetic, and even the Archivist King in all his divine wisdom hasn't the faintest clue of how he's going to manage to force his vessel to let go of them.

Mehr had been one thing-- Mehr had been weak, discouraged with the promise of a withered romance, a garden left to rot beneath the blinding rays of the sun's incandescence, leaving all their memories to rot in turn.

Morrigan, he suspects, will not be so easily turned away.

It is a problem, really. A problem Kasra is going to have to be prepared to solve in any way possible; he'd prefer diplomacy, naturally, prefer to simply... ward Morrigan off with a few ominous words, with a promise that it would be easier for them and Kvasir alike if the two of them simply never met again after this, the promise that Kvasir is going to forget them anyway-- hell, if he has to, he'll lie. Lie and say they're simply being used as a crutch, as something to guarantee that the medic has something tangible to hold onto before his memory continues to cave in.

Still, if that doesn't work... there are always other options, and this vessel has quite the reserve of light magic at its disposal.

His fingertips buzz with it.

And then, suddenly, Morrigan is pressed against his side, another dumb smile on their face, honeyed words spilling from their lips with ease. Ugh. Damn you, Kvasir-- how much longer will he have to play along with this?

"Ah, yes, why, certainly," Kasra says, forcing a smile. In truth, there's a thousand things he would rather do than stay nestled by this strange, exasperating fool, but he knows the way Kvasir's heart melts for this strange man, the way he relishes in every bit of physical contact he can get with them, as though the warmth of their arms or the brush of their fingertips is the highest honor he can receive. If the minor inconsistencies of mimicry haven't given him away just yet, then that one, at least, certainly would; Kasra knows better than to do something quite so drastic. "How sweet. As always. I... appreciate you."

It's a direct echo of the last words Kvasir had spoken to Morrigan as himself before Kasra had forced his way into the forefront of consciousness, beating what little resolve the medic had left in the whirl of biting wind and snow into dust so that he could slip through it.

He wonders if they'll realize that, later on, when his true intentions shine through.

And so he leans against Morrigan's side, resisting the urge to flinch away from the touch of a stranger, trying to mimic all the ease Kvasir would embrace in doing such a thing as they walk together, in search of the frosted-over lakes that would yield these... Ice Beans these two were searching for. Kasra merely focuses on that, distantly turning over thoughts of his next move in his mind, only pausing as soon as snow yields to ice, softness into solidity.

"Here is... one lake, I believe," he begins, eyeing Morrigan with curiosity, waiting to see what they would do. "What of that potion of yours?"

Morrigan could feel this thing’s discomfort as they leaned up against it, physically holding itself from recoiling at the touch. Morrigan paid it no mind- if they closed their eyes, they could almost pretend that this was simply two loved ones strolling through a park on a winter’s day, that Kvasir was not possessed by some unknown being, and wasn’t here to make jokes with or laugh about the way a stray snowflake drifted to land on their nose.

No, Kvasir was somewhere unknown, and it was up to Morrigan- the one without any real means to remove this unwelcome parasite- to take care of things. The odds were stacked against them, this creature holding all the cards. It was a good thing Morrigan liked to cheat.

“And I appreciate you too, Kvasir Sigurros.” Morrigan echoed the empty sentiment, untangling their arm from not-Kvasir before shoving their hands in their pockets. Their fingers did not shake as they grasped the vial. A truly lucky circumstance indeed that this thing happened to underestimate Morrigan, enough to let them stay close, acting as some lovely little snake charmer leading Morrigan to their untimely demise. They’d reached the first of the ice lakes by now- what was this thing’s plan? To murder Morrigan by turning Kvasir’s own magic against them, or let one of the monsters do the job for it?

Morrigan wouldn’t let that happen.

Morrigan pulled the potion out of their pocket, uncaring whether not-Kvasir saw it or not. It clearly recognized the ‘Eagle’s Sight’ potion, as it had not asked what Morrigan was intending to do with said elixir. As they grasped it in their hands, they turned to not-Kvasir with a dopey, love struck smile on their face, and threw their arms around him in a warm, affectionate hug.

Behind its back, it could not see the way Morrigan’s thumb uncorked the numbing poison, or the way that they smoothly slid their near-invisible dagger from their arm, dipping the blade in the vial. It most certainly would not feel the quick slice at the small of their back, right at the vulnerable part of Kvasir’s spine.^[1]

They remembered that particular spot from one of Kvasir’s medical stories, ones he liked to share during quiet parts of travel when he thought Morrigan wasn’t listening. But Morrigan was always paying attention, cataloging those tidbits away in case they ever needed them. If memory served, this particular spot would render Kvasir’s body’s legs useless, all with that thing being none the wiser.

The cut was made with surgical precision. Kvasir would have been proud.

Not-Kvasir’s legs would go limp as Morrigan released them, and he would fall to the ground, unable to understand why his body had suddenly quit on him. Morrigan gasped in shock as Kvasir’s body did so, sending a quick mental apology to their friend… wherever he was.

I am sorry, Kvasir.

Hopefully you will be able to heal this damage when I free you from… whatever this is.

“Oh my gods, what happened?” Morrigan gasped, eyes wide in over exaggerated shock- the kind of concern that they’d shown when Kvasir collapsed the first time. This time, however, Morrigan stayed a couple steps away. “Kvasir, what’s going on? You’re clearly not alright- we should get you up and back to Bleakfort if you’re in no condition to be moving forward!”

---

1. Numbing Poison

It takes every ounce of divine power within Kasra's limbo-bound soul to not let out a sigh of relief as Morrigan steps away, their arm slipping readily from its place entwined with his own so they can fumble with that potion of theirs, still focused on this idle little journey to search for plants. All the better for it, that way-- the longer this charlatan's priorities laid with guild entry and botany, the longer Kasra had to contemplate the move he wished to take, his next step across the board so all the pieces fell into his hands. It was a careful game, and certainly not one he intended to lose; it was all just a manner of dragging out his turn, ruminating over the finishing move for as long as he possibly could, all until the proper decision made itself known.

Of course, every game has its stranger moves, its little distractions, and such is true for the moment Kasra glances over at Morrigan and processes that vacant, adoring look on their face-- oh rapture, oh joy, what is it now?-- and then their arms are wrapped tightly around him in a loving embrace, with all the gentility and care he'd reserve for the man this body truly belonged to, still not knowing--

Ah.

It's a very mortal thing, paralysis.

He hardly has any real experience with it, but he knows how delicate human nerves are, how readily they seem to disengage-- he still remembers the gentle chiding of Sahar's sweet voice on the days where he'd rest his head too long against her lap, the playful swatting of her calloused fingers against his cheek-- "Off, love, my leg's falling asleep"--, the way he'd tilt his head back to look at that sun-worn face, drinking in every line, every color, every component that constructed her unique beauty and then still ask her to describe what it felt like when her limbs started falling asleep. She'd let out that unabashed laugh, swat his forehead, and give the same answer every time:

"Pins and needles, ya hayati. Pins and needles."

Perhaps she was lying. This feels like nothing of the sort.

He feels nothing at all.

Kasra isn't sure when it happened, how it happened, but one minute the ice feels stable beneath borrowed feet and the next he can feel nothing at all, a shock of numbness jolting through them, as though permafrost has claimed them and refuses to let go. No warmth returns, nor will it-- whatever command his brain sends to his body, no matter how urgent, those stolen legs completely ignore, petulant and useless as they remain still against the snow.

That lone, visible golden eye goes wide, sick sunlight burning with shock at this body's refusal to answer, this body's refusal to obey-- he can't move, no matter how his hands scramble against the snow, trying to push himself back up, trying to find purchase, trying to force himself to stand when he can't-- it's a nightmare. It's a nightmare, sewn together through the transient stitches of mortal existence, and no matter how he tries to unravel it all, the threads are wound too tightly. He's never felt so painfully close to mortality in his long, long life and un-life, in the convoluted existence of a god no one remembers.

"I... can't..."

It's ironic, really, that this is the closest he's gotten to truly mimicking Kvasir's voice.

His gaze snaps up to land on Morrigan, sun-gold burning like sulfur, toxic and furious, all-consuming; it's a far cry from any expression Kvasir Sigurros would ever send Morrigan's way, even in the throes of deepest anger, deepest concern. No, this is rage, as vicious and hot as the White Sand Sea, teeming with echoes of monsters, livid, seething. It takes a moment before it evens out, the realization dawning over Kasra's face-- he's given himself away. Oh, he has given himself away, and he has done so readily, mortal vulnerability shattering every carefully-constructed piece of this charade.

This... this doesn't have to mean defeat. Not yet.

A bitter laugh spills from borrowed lips.

"...you are sharper than I gave you credit for, charlatan. I suppose you deserve my congratulations."

At first, there was confusion as it tried to figure out what happened to it, sounding so vulnerable that- for a second- Morrigan wondered if they’d guessed wrong, if this truly was Kvasir the whole time and they’d just critically injured their dearest friend- but then it put the pieces together, figured out what had happened to it, and it’s face contorted in a snarl of pure, unmitigated hatred that Morrigan never hoped to see on Kvasir’s face, a look that promised those hands- ones that should only be ever used to heal- would have been wrapped around their throat right now if it could move.

And then it spoke, voice bitter with unrestrained hatred, glaring daggers with its molten golden eye, colors swirling so violently that Morrigan thought it might rupture and bleed ichor everywhere. Its fury was not unexpected, though Morrigan was surprised to see it break its cover so soon. They raised their eyebrows, crossing their arms as they regarded this body-snatching monster, considering their next moves.

They should have felt fear- this thing was powerful enough to take over Kvasir’s body, and hated with the fury of the sun itself. And yet, even though their heart was hammering in their chest, their own anger overrode any desire they had to run.

Their stance shifted, tail flicking behind them in thought. When they spoke, there was no more of that whimsical exuberance in their voice.

“Hm. I thought you might have played along for longer. That’s… disappointing.” They hummed. “But I suppose acting isn’t your strong suit.” There was a possibility it just hated acting as Kvasir as well. That would imply that this was not random chance- this was a purposeful possession. But why? Morrigan was acting confident, but on the inside, their mind was a miasma of confusion and unanswered questions, and the pile only kept growing.

They bit back a laugh at being called out- so this thing had figured it out, sifted through Kvasir’s memories and saw through all the paper-thin lies. Hearing it out of Kvasir’s mouth, in that horrible tone, stung a bit more than it should have, but Morrigan pushed that hurt aside. “Admittedly, it was probably an oversight on your part to not expect that someone you believe to be a criminal and a liar would not be good at lying.”

They shrugged.

“But I am more than willing to skip this song and dance if you are.” They said, watching carefully for its reaction- piling insults, digging at its pride. Morrigan Moonweaver could recognize a vainful creature when they saw one. If their mistake- underestimating Morrigan- was clearly enough to send them reeling- then this would not make it very happy.

Good. Morrigan wanted it to get angry, to slip up and reveal more than it meant to.

“Since your intelligence clearly seems to be in question, let’s start with an easy question for you.” Morrigan smirked. There was none of the warmth and affection they reserved for Kvasir. This was more like a shark swimming in the water, waiting for something to come by that they could latch onto. “What are you, and what have you done with Kvasir Sigurros?”

It is in this very moment that Kasra decides he does not like Morrigan Moonweaver.

Dislike is too kind of a term, truly; it implies budding distaste, mere annoyance, all the regard one would give a particularly tenacious gnat that won't stop perching at the edge of a delicate document. Gnats are useless and pesky and may not go away, but at least they are quiet-- at least their hubris is unconscious.

It takes true, deep audacity to make a jab at the intellect of a god-- a god of archives, of preserving wisdom and ancient knowledge, no less--, but Morrigan does not seem to think twice about it. Kasra will give them no pass for not knowing of his divinity, either, for he expects that they will not retract the statement even when that little detail becomes known. Oh, no, this little liar hardly seems the type to grovel, hardly seems the type to regret once they're in too deep; and quite frankly, Kasra is certain he's likely angered them too much to even evoke any regret within them to begin with.

Wonderful.

"I truly do not expect one like yourself to recognize my name, or even whom and what you are addressing," he says simply, bitingly, as though ignorance would be the only reason Morrigan would not know his name, as though centuries of sand and time and desperation to forget haven't buried all traces of him. "I went by myriad titles, in my time-- the Archivist King, God of Remains, God of What Once Was, Seeker of Lost Things, Patron to the Tribe of the Sand Fox, but for the sake of convenience, as well as for ensuring you do not burn out those sparkly little brain cells of yours, you will refer to me as Kasra."

The bitterness of unfiltered speech sits naturally on his tongue, none of the faux-sugar he'd spun in a shadow of Kvasir's sickening behavior to be found. It's easier, this way, to speak as himself-- to assume the divine mantle he'd stepped so easily into all those centuries ago, glory perched on his shoulders like a proud bird of prey.

"As for my vessel... I am merely doing what I may with him. Observing you. Deciding what I must do about you. You are a vexing creature, charlatan, and I have... puzzled over how to account for your presence in my vessel's life for quite some time, now."

A second chuckle falls from his lips, the amusement less fabricated, a genuine edge to it-- as though he's deriving some sick, genuine delight from the turn this has taken. And truly, he is; this is far favorable to prancing around, pretending to care about some deceitful little fool, parroting all of Kvasir's own painfully mortal actions as if they didn't make him feel deeply ill.

"Now, though you have been so quick to resort to barbaric tactics... I am hardly so fond of such things. I was always a scholar first, you see," Kasra tilts his head, sulfuric gaze alight with that same predatory edge from earlier, the smile stretched unnaturally across his face taunting. "I favor... diplomacy. I am certain we can talk this out in a way that benefits both of us, and even perhaps serves my vessel well at the end of the day. The best thing I believe you can do, both for yourself and for me, is leave-- disappear from his life entirely, without warning, without a word. Finish this little journey of yours together, and then be done with it all-- be done with him. You would save me quite a bit of trouble, and... certainly save yourself some explaining."

The predatory edge to that smile is knifelike, as though the promise of the kill has already fallen into place between his jaws.

"After all... Do you think he knows, yet, little 'wizard,' what you really are?"

A god. A bloody fucking god, that was what was currently taking Kvasir’s body for a joyride. It wore his face, spouted off fancy titles like they were supposed to mean anything, and saying that Kvasir was his to use as he pleased. Morrigan sifted through their memories of Kvasir, trying to remember if the medic had said anything about being a host to a celestial being- did he know? There was no way he could not, but if that was the case, then why not tell Morrigan? Didn’t he trust them-?

Why would he? A small, vengeful part of their mind that now sounded suspiciously like Kasra’s voice. You have given him no reason to trust you, given your own lies.

Lies that Kasra had been all too willing to point out.

Morrigan’s shoulders stiffened slightly at the word wizard, spat in a mocking tone, as Kasra admitted he was not quite sure what to make of Morrigan. Accusing them of lying to their ‘vessel’ as if he had any ground to stand on. They were… aware that their own weaknesses were all too obvious, that they acted much like a child clinging to a security blanket by pretending to be something so great. It was obvious. And yet, hearing Kasra say it…

Morrigan sneered down at the God of What Once Was, covering up that small, insignificant vulnerability with derision.

“Someone give the man a medal, he figured out my dark secret!” Morrigan laughed, spreading their arms in the air. “It’s not as if I’ve never cast a spell around him.” They swallowed, throat suddenly feeling thick despite the confidence in their expression. They didn’t want Kasra to see it, but his pointed jab made them falter, striking true at that small, vulnerable part that Morrigan kept concealed behind overconfidence and vanity. There were plenty of people that knew Morrigan was nothing more than a hack, and none of their opinions, their pity and their scorn, had ever bothered Morrigan before. They did not matter.

Kvasir mattered.

Then again, Morrigan would not be able to hear his opinions much longer if they could not figure out a way to get rid of this parasite. Kasra could dangle bait in front of them all he wanted. Their lips curled into a twisted grin. “And yet, even without a single spell, I have still forced a god to grovel at my feet. Tell me, has-been, when was the last time you looked up at someone rather than down at them?”

They were tempting fate, Morrigan knew. If Kasra had access to Kvasir’s magic, then he could smite Morrigan right now for their insolence with only a single beam of light. Kasra obviously wanted them out of the picture, for whatever plans he had in store for Kvasir.

Morrigan laughed now, a cruel, twisted sound. “Barbaric tactics? Allow me to tell you what I think, Archivist King, God of Remains, God of What Once Was, Seeker of Lost Things, Patron to the Tribe of the Sand Fox. You are positively seething with rage that you were outsmarted by this fool of a confidence man. I bet that smarts, doesn't it?”

Their thoughts turned to Kasra’s offer to Morrigan, simply allowing them to disappear from Kvasir’s life entirely. No doubt he thought this was the more merciful option than ending Morrigan’s life entirely.

You would save me quite a bit of trouble…

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed. “And just how many people have disappeared from Kvasir’s life?” How many of Kvasir’s loved ones had Kasra ripped out of his hands, undone the stitching from the fabric of Kvasir’s life until there was no one left? The message from his offer was clear. Whatever his plans were for Kvasir, he needed the medic to be isolated, heartbroken, alone.

Morrigan tapped at their chin at thought as if considering the answer, but they already made up their mind when they spoke next. “Hm. No, I don’t think that I will. As I’ve said before, I’m a bit like a leech in that regard.”

It really comes as no surprise that Morrigan would elect to make this as difficult as possible.

All those decades of careful practice with composure, all that time of being known as a calm, stone-faced king, and now some petty, mortal tiefling who can't even cast a proper spell has set even Kasra's golden blood to boil, molten as the magma that poured from Mount Drakolt. He isn't sure what it is that makes them so particularly infuriating; perhaps it's the look on their face, the way they wear shades of smugness beneath their fury and disgust, as though they're so high and mighty for having fooled gotten a divine being to fall for a harebrained, dirty scheme, as though they're some mere pickpocket and noble in the alleys of some meaningless city.

In the same breath, though, it takes a special type of desperation to do something like this-- to wound someone you claim to care for so deeply, in a way that would be permanent to anyone without Solaria's magic flowing through their veins. Kasra would applaud it, had he no need of his vessel's body. Their drive would be worthy of respect if it belonged to any other person.

"You are quite the audacious creature, aren't you?" he says dryly, as unimpressed as ever. "Seething is a very human concept. I am above such things."

This, naturally, was a lie.

Seething was an understatement, really; his body still burns with anger, any such talk of diplomacy only present as part of this grand facade. Kasra's offer had been a false courtesy, really; a so-called, careful "peace" offering for the one person who's witnessed his presence within his vessel's body, a chance for the charlatan to walk away, to escape from this divine game before they became an irrevocable piece within it. One less piece on the board meant one less bit of trouble for Kasra, and one less step to checkmate; he didn't care precisely what happened to them, so long as they were out of the picture, but oh, drastic action was so tiring, even if it did grow tempting.

Kasra tilts his head at Morrigan's question, surprised by the fury painting itself across their face; did this strange individual truly care so much about how much he'd undone? How quaint. As stubborn of a creature as the tiefling is, he'd hardly expected them to be quite so invested in every little thing Kasra had done to his vessel.

"Just how many people have... disappeared from his life? What a harsh assumption," he says, tone laced with what could almost be more of that droll amusement, "You make it sound as though it is all my doing, little wizard. Goodness, no, I'm hardly so active as that. It isn't as though he had many people to leave him behind to begin with, and the ones that may have did so of their own volition. You are so very, very quick to assume the worst from me, aren't you?"

Kasra leans forward, as much as the paralysis will let him, eye glinting dangerously, stark gold against the backdrop of alabaster and grey. The stark-white strands that cut through Kvasir's feathery black wisps of hair seem all the more prominent in this moment, unnatural in their presence, a snowbird's stolen down against the wings of a raven, a further testament to all the little facets of Kvasir's appearance that Kasra has forcibly injected himself into. It's eerie, nearly as eerie as the smirk painted across his stolen face.

"I promise you one thing, charlatan. I will pry you from his memories one way or another, and there is an easy way, and I am being so kind as to offer it to you. Running along and leaving my vessel behind is truly the best thing for both of you-- your secrets leave with you, he gets to cling to this pure, untainted image of you until his last memory fades, and I get what I need from him, no matter what transpires. The other option is far more unpleasant for both of you; I can't imagine he would much like awakening to find he's caused you any harm."

The threat morphs into a laugh at the edges, a sweeter idea than a mere promise of violence slipping into his mind: what could be better than simply warping the truth, after all?

"Oh, I suppose that matters little, anyway, though. No matter what happens to you, charlatan, my vessel will simply go looking for another... crutch to lean on, in due time."