It’s strange, really, how achingly familiar new circumstances can end up being.

Kvasir is accustomed to running all manner of errands for the Consortium, accustomed to flitting about every part of Charon for the sake of visiting patients, collecting plants, gathering components or investigating whatever alchemical crimes may potentially storm the nations, so on and so forth. Even though he’s settled in the Oasis, found permanence in a life he thought would forever be devoid of it, the heart of a wanderer still sits within his ribs, still beats, still carries him to the far reaches of the continent. He’s wandered the land a dozen times, been more places for more reasons than he could ever remember, and yet–

This particular venture really is so amusingly familiar; the kind of familiar that not even the divine could pry away from him, the kind he’s taken special care to burn into his memory, into books, anywhere he can archive it. A journey into the forests of the Moonglade, set to go search for a specific kind of flower, all beside his most trusted of companions– it feels so much like the night they first met, back in the depths of the Lantern Light Wood, guided together by a shared search for the same plant.

Their journey doesn’t take them out to the Lantern Light Wood this time, of course– the two of them have been sent out to the Giant Mushroom Field at the heart of Moonveil, asked by the Consortium to investigate a new and… unique outcropping of flowers that had sprung up there; the details had been sparse, merely that they were brightly saturated in color and mysteriously grew in a circle around one of the field’s many mushrooms, unlike any other flower marked down in the biological indexes they’d managed to gather.

"Unique," indeed.

All the same, no matter the difference in reasoning, in circumstance, Kvasir can’t help but feel nostalgic as he walks with Morrigan through the last stretch of the Moonveil Forest, each step a reminder of that night they’d first met, that idle, playful walk through the moonlit depths of the Lantern Light Wood together, their first meeting reforged anew, with different materials, with newer form. A little thrill flutters through his heart as he matches Morrigan step for step, unhurried despite the fact that they’re here on a mission, tail swishing back and forth, languid– he really can’t help it.

The night he’d first met Morrigan is one of his fondest memories– one of those things he looks back on with nothing but joy in his heart, one of the memories he clings to when he feels the most shattered, the furthest away from the world, the furthest away from himself. Looking back to how easily they’d fallen into step together, how eagerly Morrigan had leapt into action for his sake, how… natural it had felt to be by their side and continue being by their side afterward, it all just–

It felt right. 

And this, too, feels right.

“It’s nice to be back here, wouldn’t you say?” he asks, his smile warm, gentle as he looks to the fellblood wandering beside him. There’s a glint in his eye, a softness in his voice, a nostalgia seeping into him inside and out, and he has no desire to keep it contained. “Last time we came out to the Moonglade together was for the moths, wasn’t it?”

A wizard’s work was never done!

Morrigan Moonweaver - in the days before they were reborn, made a creature of their own design and shedding Kaivalya’s visage like a chrysalis - they were once born in the throes of motion. The back of a moving merchant’s wagon, their destination unknown, unimportant compared to the journey that stretched ahead. The blood of a wanderer did not thrum in their veins; it was not an inclination they’d inherited so much as one they chose for themselves. A free spirit. A restless soul. As if no matter how much they drifted, they would never be satisfied, always a hunger for new sights and sensations gnawing in the pit of their gut. They could not simply be still.

Not even now.

The charlatan had found themselves once more in the serene forests of Moonglade. Compared to Zeinav, the towering foliage and stalks of glooming mushrooms ought to have been foreign to the visitor. And yet, oddly enough, Morrigan found themselves struck with a curious sense of nostalgia, for a home they’d never once claimed as their own.

Such sensations were a foreign feeling. Never before had Morrigan ever bothered to put down roots when they were liable to flit away to the next, more exciting destination, at any given moment. That they would find an odd sense of… contentedness in these idyllic woods where the most exciting thing was the brawl between the beetles and the bugs on a nearby leaf, confused them to no end.

The fungi were new, though.

Morrigan was generally wont to traipse about the Lantern Light Woods in the event they visited Moonglade. A different missive brought them to the fields, instead. A curious scenery, with giant stalks of colorful mushrooms as far as the eye could see along the flatlands. Flora that looked as if it had been dipped in paint littered the evergreen grass, splotches of color amongst the viridescent backdrop. A new location, and yet, Morrigan still walked across the fields as if they were right at home.

In a way, they were.

They were with Kvasir Sigurros, after all.

Morrigan blinked, coming back to attention at the sound of Kvasir’s admission, as gentle as a sigh. There was a gentler edge to his wit this afternoon, it seemed. It was no secret Morrigan often likened Kvasir to his namesake - the rose - a rather mesmerizing flower, one whose beauty was only rivaled with its edge. When they first met, a year ago by now - and wasn’t that odd to think about - they had been subject to the wary thorns with which he protected himself, kept others away. His demeanor had intrigued the charlatan. And yet, today, he moved and spoke with all the softness of the velvet petal’s touch.

Morrigan found themselves nodding, running a ring-clad thumb over the ink on the palm of their hand. An image depicting soft, warm light protected by curling leaves.

“I’d much prefer the glamor and beauty of the Lantern Light Woods, though I’m not hurting for a view here.” They joked; humor and wit an easy shield, a first instinct. Yet, there was deeper truth to their words perhaps not even they were aware of.

Morrigan turned and flashed Kvasir a crooked grin, a mouthful of sharp fangs.

“Though knowing us, there will be fun to be had regardless. I must admit im quite curious as to the properties of these fleurs that have piqued the Consortium’s interest. Given their proximity to mushrooms, do you think they possess psychedelic properties? I could make use of that.”

They paused.

“… Has it really been that long?” Morrigan blinked. They remembered the trip intimately; like it happened yesterday… only, so much had happened since then. So much had happened to Morrigan. They nodded once more; a sharper movement than before.

“And before that, Hearth Day.” Their thumb brushed over the only gold ring they wore. They did not mind playing these games - reminiscing might not have been their strong suit but it was something, no doubt, they were sure Kvasir relished. It was a good gauge for how much he remembered on a given day; what details his brain retained.

Some days it was… better than others.

“With your father and sister.” They continued, tail swishing behind them, languid and slow. “Speaking of, I must remember to send them a courtesy basket for their company. Perhaps the fair Madame Sindri Sigurros would enjoy some of the very colorful flowers we seek today in form of a bouquet, hmm?” They wiggled their fingers with a flourish of glitter.

Kvasir can’t help the way he snorts at Morrigan’s comment, the corners of his lips lifting even more, his smile edged with amusement, teeth and eyes alike glinting with it. They do this all the time– throw playful flirtations and half-jokes at one another in an endless back and forth, passing words laced with what might be meaning from one hand to the other, let banter entangle with admonishment and adulation and genuine adoration all in equal glorious part. It’s come to be a comfort, really; Kvasir isn’t opposed to his quieter journeying, or to more professional travel companions, but there’s a freedom to this, to baring his heart through these fragments of simple joy and not having to think twice about the dangers of it.

Really, though, at this point, he’s long since stopped merely baring his heart to Morrigan– the fellblood has it beating in their hand, whether they know it or not. Kvasir certainly won’t be the one to tell them, of course. Not now. Not… not until it’s right, which could be anywhere between sometime in the next year and never.

He hopes it’s tomorrow. He hopes it’s in a million years.

And either way, it doesn’t matter now.

“Ha, ha,” he drags out a slow, sardonic laugh, playfully and exaggeratedly rolling his eye. There isn’t a thing Kvasir can do to will away the broad grin pulling at the corners of his lips, white teeth glinting with mirth as he smiles Morrigan’s way. “How could I ever compare to the radiance of the Lantern Light Woods’ flora and fauna– or to the radiance of my traveling companion? I do stand in the presence of the great enchanter, diviner, and pain in my ass, Morrigan Moonweaver, after all– there’s little I can do to compete.”

Still, though, Morrigan isn’t wrong. About the Lantern Light Woods, that is– although Kvasir will not argue too much on the subject of his looks– Moonveil is lovely, and the Moonglade is the Moonglade, but it would be something special to get to go venturing about back in the forest that marked their first meeting, wouldn’t it?

Ah, well. It isn’t as though the woods are going anywhere, and Kvasir knows a trip with Morrigan can never disappoint.

“Oh, we always have plenty of fun,” he snorts. “Your skeleton may beg to differ, but I’d say we have a good time. And… well, I suppose psychedelic flowers aren’t out of the question. I certainly doubt they do nothing, and considering the many strangenesses surrounding their appearance… yea, I’d be surprised if they were anything particularly helpful.”

It’s a bit sad, admittedly– Kvasir had been rather excited for the potential medicinal properties a completely new and undiscovered flower could hold, and perhaps, selfishly, a little more excited to be one of the first to test out those properties, but it’s sounding less and less likely that these flowers are anything destined for a salve or potion. Ah, well– regardless, he may be a doctor above all, but he’s still an alchemist, and a component is a component… assuming these flowers really do have any properties that are viable for potioncraft, and that they’re safe to harvest to begin with.

Which is… a bit of a gamble, but Kvasir doesn’t doubt the two of them can handle it. It will be alright, as it… almost always is.

He doesn’t linger on the thought for overly long, at least– not as Morrigan sweeps the conversation along to all the meetings they’ve managed to have out in the Moonglade before now.

“...Hearth Day,” he muses quietly, blinking slowly, letting the memory settle, linger– it’s clear, tangible, all the pieces in place, something he can see with ease rather than a tapestry torn apart. Faces he knows, faces he now knows he loves– flowers, conversation, quiet whispers of things he didn’t know, didn’t remember. Slipping away with Morrigan at the night’s end.

He brushes his thumb over the ring on his finger, silvered and simple, crescent moons framing little stars. A reminder of more than one thing.

“...Hearth D– If those flowers are psychedelics, you are not sending them to my sister,” Kvasir says, voice sharp, admonishing. “Gods know she doesn’t need those…”

He drags a palm down his face, grumbling something indiscernible into the thick fabric of his glove– only to pause as he looks between the splay of his fingers, blinking quickly before letting his hand fall from his face. Only a short distance away, cradled by the shadow of a vast mushroom, is a little circle of color– a clear and tangible sign of the very thing they’d been sent out to find.

“...Ahem. Well, seems we may have found them, Morrigan Moonweaver,” he says, gesturing to the ring of flowers in the distance. “Shall we?”

“Pain in your ass?” Morrigan replied, all mock-offense. It was in good clean fun, they knew. “I think you mean delight. Please, there’s no need to hold back on flattery on my account.” Part of them wanted to continue, egg him on, but Morrigan paused – because there was flattery and false humility, and then there was the oddly pleased sensation at the idea that Kvasir had just complimented them, not because he was devoted to the Wizard or because Morrigan had bribed him. And that felt a little too close to… something they’d rather not examine.

“Ah. Merely the moon’s reflection of the sun. A facsimile of the real thing.” They replied turning away so they didn’t have to see Kvasir’s reaction. A good thing they did, Morrigan supposed, because it gave them full view of the enormous mushroom stalk they were rapidly approaching. Shade from the fungal protrusion granted them a reprieve from the warmth. Morrigan hid a laugh behind their hand at the sudden exasperation that overtook Kvasir’s walk down memory lane.

“Perish the thought! We shall ascertain whether they are safe or not first. I shall not send her a psychedelic… unless she specifically requested some, of course.” They tacked on at the end as a joke. The gift basket was real, though. Not just for Sindri, who’d been an absolute delight, but for Austri too, who’d listened to Morrigan privately speak about all they desperately wished to do to help ease Kvasir’s curse. For telling Morrigan about Kvasir’s mother even when it hurt.

… Something to parse out when they were done here.

“Why, I do believe we have!” Morrigan shot Kvasir a sly look. “Unless there’s another ring of rainbow flowers here I’m not aware of.” Hell, they’d say such a thing was an impossibility, but given that this arrangement had spontaneously cropped up in nature, anything was possible.

Not that Morrigan thought anything about this was natural.

They took a breath; steeled themselves. Last venture had seemed normal, if not tense enough, and it had been punctuated by an unwanted visit from Kasra. They had to hope that this might be more peaceful. Even if that meant boring. Then they could make it fun and not have to worry about the danger. Still, despite the fact that this mushroom monolith existed as a middle finger to all that was rational and mundane, nothing seemed out of the ordinary yet. A few butterflies stopped to drink nectar and Morrigan saw flitten dancing in the air. Peaceful. Idyllic.

“What do you say we split up?” Morrigan suggested, eager to get the actual flower-gathering part out of the way quickly so they could do whatever they wanted. “I’ll take one side, you take the other. Don’t worry - I’ll only be a stone’s throw away.”

Only when they had Kvasir’s agreement would the two go their separate ways, each one investigating one side of the mushroom. Morrigan couldn’t see Kvasir but they could vaguely hear him, in the way that man disrupts nature with footfalls and soft, quiet mutterings. They pulled their hair up out of their face and cracked their knuckles. It was time to get to work.

Left to their own devices, Morrigan traipsed around the mushroom stalk, free to collect flowers with wild abandon. They wore no gloves when picking flora; why should they, when poison was no concern to them? Based on the iridescent coloring of the fleurs swaying in the gentle breeze, perhaps Morrigan should have been worried. It was terribly common for the brightest flowers to carry the most potent toxins. And in hues of magenta and bright green and purple, as if painted by an artist sick of monochrome, these had all the proper hallmarks of a potent flower, unsafe for ingestion. Fish would be pleased to learn of the existence of these rings, Morrigan thought; whether they contained a poison or a hallucinogen, it would give the bird a problem to solve.

Morrigan knelt down between tall stalks of grass, brushing their fingers against the backs of velvet-soft petals. Plant life curled around Morrigan’s touch, as if shying away from contact, leaving Morrigan with only the ghost of their softness. A grin grew on their lips as they pulled out a small leather toolkit from their bag, a staple of any good alchemist.^[1] “Alright, little flowers. Let’s see what surprises you hold in store, hmm?” They murmured as they began methodically picking a few at the outside of the ring, snipping their stems, and bundling them within a piece of wax parchment. A single color of each would do. That way, if they had different effects, Morrigan would have ample stock of each. And wouldn’t that be grand? The strangeness of the ring’s arrangement aside, the idea of a copse of rainbow-colored flower species never before seen was an incredible find. The Consortium would be pleased, and more importantly, Morrigan’s hallucinogenic acumen would reach new heights.

Emboldened by the thought, Morrigan continued their work, collecting a few more flowers the color of seaglass sparkling under the sun. Though they were in a different part of Moonglade entirely, Morrigan could not help but find solace in the familiarity this moment brought about. Another time, another forest, another flower. Oh, a fond memory it was. Did Morrigan know, then, the impact meeting Kvasir would have on their life? Surely, they must have, even if only by the intrigue that sang in their blood with every look, every piece of dry wit exchanged. The Wizard of the Wastes had curiosities, followers, allies, jilted one-night lovers. Never friends. And yet. Something that night had felt different. Tangible. Even if all Morrigan knew was the desire to learn more, a calling, an attraction. Another nebulous desire the charlatan chased with no understanding as to why.

And now, look at the two of them. How far they’d come since that fateful night in…

Morrigan frowned, staring at the open palm of their hand.

In the Lantern Light woods.

How silly of them to forget. They’d permanently carved that meeting into their body, after all. At the time, telling themselves it was a helpful physical reminder in case Kvasir needed a visual to physically pull back the memories from where Kasra had tried to smother them. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Morrigan was a maestro of words, but where stories failed, the permanence of tattoos did not lie. This present moment being a good case in point.

_{“Where in the world is your brain today, Morrigan Moonweaver?”} They huffed out a quiet laugh, because humor was the best medicine to alleviate the sudden uneasiness that washed over them, a familiarity on the tip of their tongue. Why did they get the feeling they’d lived a moment almost exactly like this before? Why did the idea that something important might have slipped their mind, even for the briefest moment, make them sick to their stomach?

The wind shifted in the opposite direction, a gentle breeze that rocked the ring of flowers around them. In the distance they thought they heard the sound of prancing bellchimes. No, laughter. Or both. The hairs on the back of Morrigan’s neck stood on end as they suddenly tasted something heavy and potent on their tongue, richer than any liquor, more sinful than forbidden fruit. Even just the faintest brush of it made their head spin, and their arms tremble.^[2]

Magic.

It was only their horrid curse that made them aware of the ambient spell buzzing around them, pesky as a swarm of mosquitos, attempting to find purchase in every single crevice of Morrigan’s skull. How had they been so blind as to miss it? This entire field was rife with the sickly aura of a spell, magic the likes of which Morrigan had never felt in their life. Normal spells seemed to be absorbed in their body like Morrigan’s existence amounted little more to a hollow pit that could never be filled. But this – whatever it was – it was rooting in Morrigan’s head faster than their curse could reject it. The field’s spell was taking hold.

They hissed, clutching their head between their hands as if to block out any further external influence. They had to fight it, whatever it was doing! Lifting their arm up into the air, shaking with the effort, desperate to claw their way to a victory in the battle between the essence of pure mana and that which rejects it. Gold glinted in the light and they caught sight of a ring on their finger. Morrigan normally wouldn’t be caught dead wearing such a color when silver complemented them so perfectly. No, but this had been a gift. A gift from Morrigan’s – their… their someone.

And for a horrible second, Morrigan’s blood chilled with the terror that this spell had made them forget their Medic’s name.

They let out a choked gasp, all caution thrown to the wind. They could stop this. With more concerted effort than they’d ever practiced in their life Morrigan grabbed onto the end of that thread and pushed it outwards, unweaving every single damn string of formulae that had gotten tangled around them.^[3] All at once, it was like a pressure had been lifted; Morrigan’s chest heaved, a bead of sweat dripping from their brow from the effort to maintain the spell keeping this crushing weight away from them. They glanced back at their ring and remembered Hearth Day.

It worked… for now.

But what about Kvasir?

If being in this field was what caused the effect then there was no way he hadn’t been touched by it, too.

… Which meant that once more, his memories were being stolen from him.

I need to find him.

Cold panic settled in and Morrigan whirled around like the devil was on their heels, sprinting around the stalk of the giant mushroom. They’d left him on the other side, they thought – maybe – he had to be here somewhere, he couldn’t have wandered far. Fuck secrets. Morrigan just needed to find him, cling to him, keep him safe, if he was by Morrigan’s side, he wouldn’t lose his mind. Morrigan couldn’t lose him. They could save him, they could protect him –

Motion near the flower ring caught Morrigan’s attention, and hope blossomed in their chest. They just had to keep him safe.

“Kva…”

…

Keep who safe?

Morrigan stopped in their tracks, shaking their head as they tried to puzzle out why they were so urgent. Even though they’d been sent to investigate these flowers on a solo mission by the consortium, there wasn’t any real danger to worry about. Moonglade’s forests were generally about as dangerous as a noble’s pocket dog – all bark but no bite. Which meant this was going to be as exciting as watching paint dry.

Oh, but look at that! It looked like someone else had the same idea as Morrigan’s bosses. Or at the very least, there was someone else in this dreadful place that had an interest in rare flora. Morrigan wiped the sweat from their brow, straightened their hair and their robes, and traipsed forward with all the ease of someone who belonged here. It was difficult to make out much of the man’s features from here; though as he turned, Morrigan had an easier time making out his face. The sight knocked the breath from their own lungs.

It was rare that Morrigan met someone that matched their natural beauty and aestheticism, but the man across the glade was a sure challenger. Tall and slim, and adorned in garb that held inspirations from Zeinav, clearly.

Morrigan’s interest had been piqued. Perhaps this mission would prove to be entertaining, after all.

Raising their voice, tail swishing languidly behind them, Morrigan approached. The clacking of rings doubtlessly announced their presence. “I’d come to this field for flowers, but it seems I’ve found an unexpected gem amongst them.” Their voice was coy; full of promise. “Tell me, friend, what brings you to this neck of the woods?”

---

1. Alchemy Kit
2. Witcher Pitcher Leaf Tattoo
3. Null Zone – the Cooler Mage Slayer IV
Null Zone failed. Effect ended early

More laughter spills from Kvasir’s lips as Morrigan continues their usual banter, the back-and-forth laced with praises and gentle, loving jabs– though the noise becomes a little… strained as the words soften even more, going as far as… selling themself short. Morrigan Moonweaver is never one to sell themself short; they’re all glory, all ego, proud to speak of their accomplishments and prowess and renown, and yet… here they are, deflecting Kvasir’s comment about their radiance, insistent that they are… nowhere near as shining as the sun.

It’s a lucky thing that Morrigan turns away in that moment, because Kvasir can’t help the bewilderment that flashes across his face. He blinks, his movements briefly halting with the force of his surprise, but he’s quick to force himself to recover, continuing to walk with Morrigan as easily as he had before.

He shouldn’t think too hard about these things– shouldn’t entertain the paths such thoughts drag him down. That is… dangerous.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says instead, rolling his eyes– well, eye–, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. It takes a lot to even make Kvasir consider being annoyed with Morrigan. Really, the only thing they ever do to warrant Kvasir’s irritation is go and get themself hurt, but… even then, irritation only blooms in the shadow of his concern. “You know very well Sindri would want to at least try them once. She jumps at any opportunity for a new, ‘fresh’ experience.”

At least, that seems to be the case. Kvasir’s reunion with his sister, regaining of the mere memory that she existed at all, had been terribly brief– he’d only gleaned so much in that time. He knows she loves to see all the world has to offer, loves fawning over the men who pique her interest, loves talking; as far as he can tell, she’d probably love weird and potentially hallucinogenic fungi.

Thankfully, Kvasir doesn’t have to think too long on such a thing– the flowers are of much greater importance.

As is Morrigan’s suggestion that they split up.

“Oh? Well, I can’t say I’m opposed,” he says. And really, it is a good idea– it’ll make the research go by faster, after all. “Do call me if you catch onto anything particularly interesting. I’d like to be sure our assessments are consistent, after all.”

And so as Morrigan starts off to one side of the massive mushroom, Kvasir heads to the other, pulling his satchel open as he walks to retrieve his notebook and charcoal. He doesn’t disturb the flowers right away; no, that would be of no use just yet. Instead, he takes a seat in the grass at the edge of the floral ring, close enough to have a good reference, and promptly begins to draw.

He drags the charcoal over a blank page in the notebook with practiced ease, certain to make sure he has room to fit a second sketch if needed– after all, the flowers come in so many colors, and that can always mean that there’s a purpose behind the variation. The structure seems to remain the same across all of them: petals that curve downward, away from the striking, almost spiky disk florets, pale veins branching partway through the petals, fading out of sight at the halfway mark. There’s a few small differences here and there, but none of them are particularly noteworthy, and certainly seem to have nothing to do with the color variation– as far as Kvasir can tell, any differences are merely the typical odd variations plants always seem to have. Never a bad thing, of course– consistency is good for the index.

He tucks a finger under one of the flowers’ petals, gently lifting it up for closer examination, furrowing his brow as he drafts a quick outline of the petal, the florets, any signs of a seed, only waiting until he has a sufficient sketch before plucking the petal from its place, giving him a closer look at the flower’s core to make note of that too. There don’t seem to be too many unusual features– really, the most unusual thing about them is their garish color, the brightness and saturation an assault on the eyes. Oh well– it isn’t nature’s fault that some of its gifts are unappealing at a glance, and it will always have more beautiful offerings– roya’ara, thunder lycoris, ash roses…

Ah. Come to think of it, it’s been a while since Kvasir went hunting for ash roses– not since…

…Since…

…Since what?

Kvasir blinks, furrowing his brow once again as he tries to call forth the memory, urging himself to piece it back together– ash roses, the volcano, searching, foraging, lava pits, how did he get past the lava pits–

…Right– he hadn’t. It was… it was Morrigan who had– they’d hurled themself from a great height and broken their legs just trying to get to the roses at all. Getting over to them had been a test of Kvasir’s magical prowess; the sheer urgency of the moment had let him tap into a new way to manifest his magic. He’d made a bridge. He’d carried Morrigan over to safe ground, healed them, and then they’d… been on their way elsewhere. Somewhere cold, in search of… something.

Somehow, he knows it had been urgent, knows that whole trip had changed something, been a point of no return. But why…? What happened up there, in the cold, in the mountains…? What had changed, outward and inward?

Why does his heart ache so intensely at the thought?

…No–

Kvasir quickly moves to stand, snapping his notebook shut and shoving both it and his charcoal back into their places in his bag. He’s done enough notetaking for now. Something more… urgent has set in– Kvasir is accustomed to his memories slipping in and out, accustomed to forgetting big and little things alike, but it’s rare that it’s ever so rapid, that he’s aware of it actively happening. There isn’t the ache in his skull, either– that always sets in as things start to fade, as he feels a stranger’s memories overpowering his own, as the God of Remains pulls threads from the tapestry. It always happens.

His heart pounds in his chest as he screws his eyes shut, trying to stitch the scattered fragments back together, trying to at least piece together something, anything– and yet, the memories are… shattered, tiny pieces of glass sitting between the larger shards, chipped away from their original form, impossible to hold in his hands. He knows– knows that he’d been on a mission, a mission to get into the Golden Consortium, the way he’d dreamed for ages. He knows there had been ash roses, and– and beans, ice beans, buried beneath the frozen waters, and that he’d been there with someone, because you’re not supposed to go alone, never supposed to go alone–

Who… who had it been?

Kvasir isn’t sure why, but some part of him knows that he can stop this, that helps waits on the other side of this massive mushroom–

but as he turns to head over to the other side, he meets the ice-blue, beautiful gaze of a stranger.

A fellblood, all in violet, each aspect of their appearance refined to perfection, star-and-moonlight alike dancing in the silver of their jewelry, a celestial waltz captured in earthen treasure. They’re certainly striking– beautiful, even, undeniably–

Their words make his face flush. His heart thunders, jackrabbits in his chest, stricken with a sudden sense of something that feels like… endearment. Amusement. Fond amusement.

“Well, it seems I may have met one as well,” Kvasir practically purrs, a smile cracking across his usually so-severe countenance (is he really so severe? so intense in thought and feeling?), amusement lighting up like an ember in his eye. “I’m here on behalf of the Golden Consortium– just to collect and observe flowers and such. Typical Consortium assignments– and yourself? You wouldn’t happen to be here for aesthetics’ sake– I’d say there’s better flowers out there than these.”

Morrigan Moonweaver did not belong here.

Wanderlust was the curiosity that bore life in their blood; staying stagnant for too long left them with fire ants crawling underneath their skin, an insatiable itch their nails could not reach. Decades they’d spent escaping the dreariness of the White Sand Sea… and if they stood still long enough, the quicksand would catch up to them, and pull them under. Much easier to keep moving, and never have to question whether it was something they were seeking or something they were running away from.

Zeinav was fun… for a time. Then Morrigan had their fun with the Dreamscape Bazaar – a whirlwind of mortal delights and all that was sinful under the sun wrapped neatly within big-top tents. Life. Entertainment. All the stimulation a busy mind and busy hands could want. For a few years they’d soaked up all they could from cutpurses, criminals, and thieves, until they’d had their fill. Then it was onto the next great adventure, the next biggest thing. There was no room in Morrigan’s life for Moonglade’s arcadian fields and slumbering woods, choked with the peace that arose from stagnancy. They could count the number of times they’d visited during their travels on one hand.

So why…

Why did they feel like they were returning to a home where they were not welcome?

The silence that stretched between Morrigan’s greeting and the stranger’s response felt inordinately long. Yet, as he finally found his voice, Morrigan straightened, banishing the uneasy sensation clinging to the small of their back. Yes, it was much easier to focus on the beautiful curiosity in front of them.

One who evidently wasn’t afraid to match Morrigan’s wit with their own.

Morrigan sauntered closer, surprised laughter on their lips and mirth crinkled in the corners of their eyes. Oddly pleased at the returned compliment. Perhaps because it was a compliment from someone so intriguing; a multitude of the forest’s colors contained within a single visible eye, framed by curling locks of thick hair, braided with blooming flowers… every part of him indicated he wanted to hide, yet there was a pleasing undercurrent of sharpness that no amount of fabric and flower could hide. Well. No beautiful flora was without its thorns. It was the pain that made them worth picking.

“Oh? So you’ve been blessed with good taste in addition to your fine countenance!” Morrigan quipped with a ready wink. They wanted to speak more – to talk, to learn, to tease – though the stranger’s response made Morrigan pause.

A curious coincidence.

“The Consortium, hmm? Small world. I wonder if the fates are smiling upon me on this day.” Or laughing, more like.

Honestly, Morrigan wasn’t even quite sure why they bothered with this Consortium nonsense in the first place. Their joining had probably been a passing fancy, a drunken whim; another blackout night lost to the haze of liquor and bad decisions. But nothing tasted so sour as being yanked around like a mutt on a leash, having one’s free will and individuality stripped away from them; becoming a puppet to someone else’s whims. Honestly, Morrigan wasn’t even sure why they hadn’t left yet.

Yet, in that moment, they felt intrigued enough to stay.

Flipping their braid over their shoulder – unable to resist the opportunity to show off – Morrigan smirked. “A happy coincidence for the both of us then, my friend. I just so happen to be a member of the Consortium myself. Serendipitous, no?” They hummed, casting a sideways glance at the haphazard floral arrangement scattered around the mushroom stalk, an exercise in abstract expressionism. Colorful, yes, though possessing little else of substance. Quite frankly, for something that had been of interest to the Alchemists that be, Morrigan was sorely disappointed.

Their tail swished languidly behind them as they turned back to the vulpine stranger, head cocked, like the two were in on a shared secret. “Mm, no.” They mused. “I much think I prefer roses, anyways.”

Oh, it had been far too long since Morrigan had flirted with someone proper. They couldn’t quite pin why. Perhaps because they’d not found the proper bedfellow, or someone interesting enough to entertain. Incorrigible as they were, though, Morrigan found they couldn’t resist teasing.

“As far as chemical properties go, I don’t see why they’re of much interest, either.” They bent down, running their fingers along delicate, soft petals. “They don’t appear to be poisonous to the touch, or inherently magical as far as I can sense. Oh-!”

They stood, holding their arm out, palm splayed upwards, as if inviting the taller gentleman to rest his hand upon their own – as if a knight bowing before a queen, supplicant, waiting. Morrigan had always been a showman. Though there was no accounting for flattery on this level. It felt like playing with fire.

It felt like lighting a candle.

“Where are my manners? I am known far and wide as the Wizard of the Wastes – enchanter, diviner, storyteller, godslayer – creator of miracles and maker of elixirs most wonderful. But you…” They pulled themselves out of their bow, meeting him in the eye. “You can call me Morrigan.”

It’s been some time since Kvasir’s met a stranger out on his journeys.

It’s a strange achievement, really, considering his mind plays host to a dead king fully intent on making everyone a stranger, on making any face Kvasir knows go blank within the halls of his memories, but it really has been a while since he’s gotten to meet someone new by chance like this. Usually, his foraging ventures take him out to more isolated places, and he rarely ever remains in one place for very long, so it’s no wonder he leaves little time for social endeavors; though it isn’t as though social endeavors have much time for him, either.

Still, he’s at least a little bit amenable to exceptions from the familiar, and this beautiful mystery that stands before him is certainly a welcome exception.

…that, too, is... a little strange.

Kvasir is… accustomed to grief strangling his feelings, choking new opportunities before they can come to light– it’s the thing that keeps him distant, lets him laugh off idle flirtations he receives from tavern patrons and some of his patients, teasing back just a little but never making a real move. He can laugh and twirl his hair and flirt back, just a little, but it’s never meant to lead to anything.

No, his heart is usually so mired in yearning for a time gone by, isn’t it? He still carries the devastation of his departure from the Tribe of the Lotus, still remembers ember-like eyes and resignation, still hears his once-fiance’s parting words every now and then. He still carries Mehr’s engagement jewelry on his person, brilliant gold carefully concealed by his clothing, kept by his heart as an eternal memory– though, come to think of it, he… feels no pendant against his chest, no chain at the back of his neck. His fingertips stray to the clasps of his cloak, subtly feeling for the necklace just in case it’s tangled somewhere, but the only thing his fingers brush again is soft fabric and embroidery, sewn-in fragments of gems.

…has he forgotten something? Some great revelation– some epiphany over leaving Mehr’s side? Has Kasra ripped away memories of closure, of finding peace over what he’d lost? It certainly sounds like something he’d do, but…

At the same time, why would he take away something that Kvasir’s heart could easily restore? Something with physical proof?

What has he forgotten?

…and where could the silver ring, so far from the gold Kvasir usually favors, have come from…?

“...”

…he… shouldn’t be thinking of such things, now. There’s something special that overrides his wariness, neutralizes his caution: the beautiful stranger standing before him, who seems as interested in him as Kvasir is in them.

“Oh? Are you a part of the Consortium as well?” he asks, tilting his head. Isn’t that something? Considering how many solo missions he’s been given, Kvasir isn’t entirely surprised at the number of members he hasn’t met; hell, he’s pretty sure Fish and Astrid are the only two– no, wait, there’s Lady Kamille as well. Yes, that’s it. “Oh, how fate has smiled upon us indeed; I had no idea someone so enchanting stood within our ranks.”

A smile that could almost be called coquettish spreads across Kvasir’s face, his sole exposed eye twinkling with mirth and captivation as he continues eyeing up this stranger– this stranger who, for some reason, has cast his old resignations about his feelings to the wind. Even more unusual, really– Kvasir somewhat remembers that his father had said that it was… rare for their kind to seek love again after losing it, or at least that none of the other foxfolk he knew did such a thing.

And yet, something flutters like a hummingbird in Kvasir’s chest, and it… it certainly feels like something more than a passing interest. Something dangerous, something beautiful– like fire, like poison, something that sparkles and carves deep, festers, but blissfully so. It’s hard to describe.

Kvasir’s supposed to fear fire. Fear the destructive force that’s sent so many patients to him, fear the most reckless side of nature, fear what can rarely be controlled.

For once, he doesn’t.

“Roses, you say?” he laughs, tail swishing lazily back and forth, slow, sweet. “My, how coincidental– I’m partial to them myself. Lilacs, too.”

It should feel cheesy to say, like he’s laying it on too thick, the kind of obvious, laughable flirtation another person could easily brush off. But there’s something oddly familiar about it, a rhythm he can’t place– it feels… natural. Easy.

How… strange. Wonderfully strange.

Kvasir’s just about to comment on the flowers he’d been sent to collect further, about to commiserate about just how boring they are in comparison to most other plants he’s seen, but that’s when the stranger– Morrigan, they say– dips down, extending their hand in adulation, admiration, something of the sort. And… Kvasir cannot help himself– he sets his hand over Morrigan’s, fingers curling just so around theirs, and gives them a warm smile.

“Godslayer, hm?” he laughs. “Well, enchanter, diviner, storyteller, godslayer, and radiant beauty, Morrigan– it is wonderful to meet you. My name is K– Kvasir. Doctor Sigurros to some, but I hardly find that necessary. Just Kvasir is perfectly fine.”

Morrigan… what a beautiful, unique name. Theatrical, showman-like. He’ll have to write it down, later.

Kvasir is already quite sure this Morrigan isn’t someone he wants to forget.

“And I am certain I would remember if the Consortium had taken such a fine forest nymph into their ranks.” Gods, they were certain they were laying it on a little too thick, but one could never accuse Morrigan of half-assing anything. Whatever they wanted, they ensured they sunk their claws into. And yet there was almost this layer of… desperation in each word poured out to this handsome stranger. Like if Morrigan could not get the words out fast enough, the man would slip through their fingers like course grains of Zeinavian sand. But what did that matter? It was not as if Morrigan would lose anything aside from a good afternoon - perhaps more - of company.

Calm yourself, Morrigan Moonweaver. You’re acting like a repressed teenager.

“It is a damn shame that I’ve seemed to just barely miss you all this time; about a year and a half I’ve been a proud member of the chemist’s coalition, yet your face is one I’ve yet to have the pleasure of acquainting myself with.” They said, adding a sultry wink as punctuation. “But all the better that now is the opportunity to remedy that mistake, no?”

Morrigan generally priced themselves in knowing most members who frequented the guild’s base of operations in Capitol Landing. Small though their numbers were, Morrigan was quite the social butterfly. It behooved them to keep tabs on their fellow members and build a complicated web of connections. So far the only person that they’d run into a roadblock with was Astrid Stormstone, little bugger she was. Everyone else, Morrigan had fairly solid connections with… which served about as much use as Morrigan was going to gain out of the Consortium.

After all, they’d entered alone, and they’d leave it that way, too.

A shame they’d not met this fine floral specimen in all this time. At their core, people were predictable. You just had to learn what they wanted, and what they were willing to do for it, and use that to your advantage. Yet to meet someone here, who matched them step for step, danced to their rhythm. They wanted to learn more. It certainly would have brought light to the numerous, unmemorable missions they’d done for the Consortium over the past year.

… At least, they thought. Morrigan startled themselves with how much the conviction came with an immediate, unwavering certainty.

Morrigan did not know this man. They found him attractive and interesting, certainly. But getting close to someone else, for a criminal and a liar, was like playing with fire. It unnerved them how little they cared about the risk.

They laughed, startled, that the stranger had so readily returned their attentions. “Flatterer.” They knew they were beautiful, because they put time and effort into crafting a flawless and untouchable appearance. A god who hung the moon and stars in the sky. The way this stranger likened them to the earth’s flowers, so fragile and fleeting yet so perfect; it made Morrigan feel…

It made them feel…

They did not have the word for it, but they imagined it was the way looking in the mirror and falling in love with one’s own natural beauty would feel.

Morrigan wondered if he would feel the same if he saw the mediocrity hidden behind layers of kohl and glitter and lip tint.

“Lilacs, you say? A solid choice. Perhaps we should try sticking the two together and seeing what they’d look like in a bouquet.” Oh, there was no subtext anymore that Morrigan was interested, that they wanted to tease, escalate, learn more. But they could not do so without a name, could they?

“Doctor Kvasir Sigurros.” They repeated. Oh, smart and intelligent to boot. As they uttered his own last name they realized that it had slipped their mind to give theirs, as they always did. Why hadn’t they? Did they want him to think of them as just Morrigan? Nobody wanted to know just Morrigan.

What the hell is wrong with me, today?

They were off their game. They didn’t want to be on it ever again. It was confusing and they couldn’t place why these horrible contradictions were rearing their ugly heads. In for a penny, in for a pound. They had promised Astrid Stormstone that they’d try being more honest, after all. It would be a cold day in hell before Morrigan ever wanted someone to know them as Kaivalya, but perhaps, just this once, it would not be terrible to try being known as a person.

“Ah…” They shook their head with mock humility. “It is merely a formality. I’m not quite sure how much you know of the battle with Ziev, though it is a title my people have bestowed upon me after my participation in the battle.” At the temple’s doors, that was. Morrigan themselves was not even certain that was the truth, but they’d told so many lies, falsified so many stories, that it was difficult to recall where that particular title had even come from.

“Though that is a long story, and not particularly interesting. I am much more interested in hearing about you, sir Medic.” Their tail flicked behind them. “You know they say to fear the man who has perfected one single skill than the one who claims many. So, Doctor, should I fear you, or remain in awe of your prowess?”

Kvasir’s fingers curled around their own; an acceptance.

As Morrigan straightened, somehow reluctant to pull away but knowing that they had to be the first to break contact lest this go on for far too long to be comfortable, their palm lingered… cataloging the feeling of this warmth. Kvasir’s hands were what Morrigan could only describe as purposeful. Delicate, yet no stranger to a scalpel. Morrigan did so appreciate that. Yet, as they moved, something odd caught their eye. At first they thought it might have been one of Kvasir’s own rings, but, no. He had his own, a moon-silver band that looked rather plain, all things considered. Was he married? Morrigan certainly hoped not, considering -

_{“Strange.”} They stared at their hand, fingers splayed, gold glinting in the afternoon sunlight. When did they acquire this little piece? It was not uncommon for Morrigan to buy pieces of finery while they were out and forget about them, though usually they were not this color. Nor this design. It was beautiful, but not the kind of ring Morrigan would buy for themselves. Perhaps Fish had snuck it into their things, but the thief was more likely to take from the charlatan’s stock than add to it. More than that, even if they’d found it amongst their things while getting ready for the day, they’d have noticed it clashed with their outfit and left it behind.

Which meant they’d put it on knowing how ill-fitting it was for them, and decided it was important enough to wear anyways… and Morrigan did not recall this decision.

The back of their skull throbbed.

“Ah. You’ll have to forgive me.” Morrigan waved a hand, remembering that they had an audience - a partner, a partner. “For some reason I am not at my best today. I cannot help but wonder if I am somehow allergic to these flowers…”

Or at the very least, their magic, for sure. Morrigan did so loathe the mana curse which had been woven into their veins, the ink dried on their verdict before their very birth. But why was it rearing its ugly head now? Why, whenever Morrigan tried to follow a line of thinking, did it sink its hooks into their brain? What was Morrigan missing?

“Which brings me to my next point, Doctor Kvasir.” They put a special type of emphasis on his name, shoving away the sensation, desperate for normalcy. “I have a proposition. You are an alchemist. I am an alchemist. Why not put our heads together and figure out this puzzle ourselves? It would certainly be more delightful than suffering this inanity on our own.”

A bright, honest-to-Gods laugh tumbles from Kvasir’s mouth at just how shameless this beautiful stranger already is.

Oh, Kvasir can’t remember the last time he laughed like this– none of the careful muffling, the control, no restraint behind it, just an unabashed, genuine laugh. It’s hardly as though he’s some lifeless, joyless shell in his daily life, of course– far from, really, he likes to think he’s quite good at keeping the mood up–, but he’s used to there being a shield between himself and the world beyond, the distant knowledge that the happiness he has out here often doesn’t last long, that it will inevitably fade away into dust within the hands of a long-dead king, however hard he fights to keep it.

And yet, here, with this clear-eyed stranger, with their striking features, their easy smile and easy words, charm flowing from them as easily as the brook does from its rocks, Kvasir doesn’t even think twice about how easily joy comes to him.

Stranger and stranger still.

“Hah, you flatter me,” he laughs out, eye twinkling with mirth and mischief in equal parts, smile laced with elation and… something else that’s hard to place, all at once. The urge to keep them here– something desperate. Needy. Unfathomably so. “Oh, but I suppose the Consortium has grown quite expansive… still, it’s strange we didn’t meet sooner. Seems we joined… roughly around the same time, if I remember right. Ah, perhaps the higher-ups knew the chemistry between us would outpace their own projects.”

It’s so cheesy, unbearably so, but Kvasir can’t stop himself from saying it. He hardly even feels any shame with the words, either– is this an effect of the flowers? Have they ironed away his sense of shame, cut his filter to shreds, enabled him to say whatever he feels is right to this stranger he’s known for all of a moment? Should he be writing this down?

…and yet, somehow, Kvasir is quite sure that if any other person stood before him, be it stranger or friend, he could compose himself– he could still his tongue. Somehow, it is… it’s Morrigan, and only Morrigan, who’s won this kind of attention.

It’s terrifying.

It’s enchanting.

Since the day Kvasir’s mind became no longer his alone, the day the Archivist King split through his brain and made a home there, their memories overlapping, burning, melding together like wax beneath an undying flame, he has dreaded risk and all that came with it. All he could do was scorch the earth, light a flame over the cords that tied him to all he loved, watch as the life he built burned away into ashes, and as he has steadily attempted to build something new, become someone new, he has promised himself never to play with fire again.

But this stranger– Morrigan, with their unabashed words and their eyes and their unnaturally enthralling voice, face, everything– is ball lightning, a wildfire, a sudden, drastic difference to everything Kvasir has tried to be. He already senses it, even here, when they’ve scarcely done a thing except speak.

Primally, unnaturally, Kvasir prays he catches fire.

He prays the ashes make him anew.

“...Ziev?” he blinks. Now that he does remember– mostly. A lot of it had been quite a blur– so many people in such a vast space, against such an immense threat, spells flying, weapons flashing, so many sounds and things and people… It’s hard to remember everything beyond… the important things. “I… was there myself. To be quite honest with you, Morrigan, I don’t have a very good memory of it. It was… a lot to process.”

His laughter becomes awkward, strained, then, even if only for a moment. At the end of the day, Kvasir is no godslayer, no protector of worlds– he’s a protector of people, a maker of potions and salves and medicines, a writer of prescriptions, a healer, a doctor, a medic. Nothing more, nothing less. To say that fighting Ziev was outside of his wheelhouse would be… an understatement.

“...Anything you wish to ask me, I am happy to answer, my dear enchanter,” he says easily, snapping quickly from the brief fuzz of memory dispersed. “You never have to fear me– I’d hate to scare someone like you away.”

And then Morrigan rises, their hand slowly withdrawing– slow enough that Kvasir gets the chance to focus on the feeling of their fingertips dragging against his own, the brief flash of warmed metal against skin. It’s silly moments like these that Kvasir feels fortunate for setting his gloves aside, for he gets to linger on just how… natural it had felt to hold Morrigan Moonweaver’s hand in his own, how familiar it felt– an alchemist’s fingers, well-groomed nails, and that peculiar, golden ring, so stark in contrast to the silver jewelry adorning the rest of their person.

It’s hard to see much of it, really, but the golden color really does stand out when set against the silver they wear so much of– just… like how the silver on Kvasir’s own finger is so distinct against the rich golds he wears himself.

…is he forgetting something? Has… Did the Archivist King…?

…

“...Oh, no, no, there’s nothing to forgive,” Kvasir says easily, quickly smiling once again. “I understand– if you have a history of allergies, I could always help you…”

But then, of course, Morrigan dips into an entirely different offer: something far more interesting than discussions of allergens and reactions, sicknesses, so on and so forth. An offer to… figure out this mutual strangeness that they’ve both seemingly become aware of– one that Kvasir can hardly refuse.

“Well, how could I say no?” he says, his eye shining. “I think it would certainly benefit us both… and I believe we can start with the flowers, don’t you agree?”

Those flowers, that they’d both come here to investigate– that they’d been sent here by the same organization to examine, to study, to… figure out. And yet, neither one of them were aware of the other’s assignment, of the other’s existence; isn’t that, in and of itself, strange? If the Consortium was going to send two people to investigate the same flowers in the same location at the same time, why not simply send them together…?

...somehow, he can't quite piece together an answer.

Kvasir extends his hand to Morrigan once more, and, should they take it, sweeps them both away to the circle of flowers he'd been investigating; they're the same as they had been, painfully garish, an assault on the eyes, an average flower in every other way. Nothing particularly strange about them, which means there might very well be something strange around them.

"Well, Morrigan, I suppose it's best to start at the beginning," he says. "Our answers must lie somewhere here."

And if they didn't... well, for once, Kvasir thinks he cares more for the company than the results.

Isn't that so very strange?

Ah, Morrigan really did lament not getting the opportunity to meet Kvasir sooner. Come to think of it, this was strange. From what Morrigan could recall, the guild had a proclivity for sending their members out in pairs. Something about two heads working better than one or members should always watch each other’s backs or some other sentimental bullshit Morrigan never bothered listening to. It was hardly as if they ever worked with other people by virtue of the fact most legitimate chemists avoided Morrigan like the plague. It was if they could smell that Morrigan was… wrong. That they did not belong there.

But they digressed. This man - Kvasir - if they’d both undergone initiation at the same time, how had they not run into one another? And if Morrigan had been sent to collect raw materials for study, why send him now? The distrustful part of their brain whispered that it was because the consortium did not trust them, for whatever reason. Perhaps they’d learned Morrigan was skimming materials from the storeroom for unofficial business. Though it was difficult to imagine Kvasir as a spy.

Still, they questioned. Poked and prodded and wondered why their immediate instinct was to dismiss the possibility that Kvasir posed no threat to them. Why they were possessed with the absolute certainty that this couldn’t be true. Morrigan, a serial liar in a profession where trust was poison and truth was a bargaining chip.

Kvasir wasn’t in the game, was all. That was it.

It had to be. Which was likely why Kvasir’s burst of honest, startled laughter was as refreshing as an oasis’s summer breeze. That was the kind of earnest joy people paid to create. And then - because Kvasir was a curiosity Morrigan had yet to crack - he shot back with a retort of his own, with equal fervor. Reciprocity.

Something cracked.

“Ha - chemistry!” Their nose wrinkled in what could only be described as childish glee. A blemish leaking through an otherwise smooth and unruffled facade. They could not help it. Their history was fraught with liars and thieves in equal measure. Smooth talkers and criminals all just looking for mindless relationships. Fame. Money. When was the last time they heard something so utterly silly? Why did they want to hear more? “Perhaps they did have something to fear, then, for I’ve never seen such a spontaneous reaction in all my years of potioncraft.” They replied with a wink.

Truly. There was no way to categorize this nebulous sensation. For all the good their silver tongue did them - practiced words to lure suckers through the door, enchant and delight them, prey on their dreams and dangle false hope in front of their faces - Morrigan Moonweaver had bore witness to a myriad of emotions… love, joy, grief, sorrow, anger, hope, despair. Yet they’d savored none. Always chasing that which they could not place, always running, towards, away, seeking, fleeing. A word for every lie and heroic tale and title, yet none for this.

Curiosity, perhaps. Or intrigue.

And speaking of titles…

Morrigan should not have been surprised to learn Kvasir was actually present at the battle with He Who Commanded Spacetime, the true godslayer. Still. What shit luck they had, pulling that particular card on one of the few people in the world who could easily refute their lies. This was almost bad as that time they pulled a divination scheme on the Witch of Moonglade herself. But then - a miracle.

“You don’t remember?” Morrigan’s brows raised, their tail flicking behind them. “There is no shame in that.” They were quick to assure; secretly relieved that some cruel dead god had sought to grant them this small mercy. “It was certainly harrowing. I myself find that my memory has been colored by adrenaline and fear. Yet I remember Scern’s story with great clarity. Truly… a day which shook Charon to its very core.”

Scern’s story, admittedly, was the only part they’d been present for.

“But enough about such grim matters!” They waved their hand, getting glitter all over the psychedelic flowers. Trying to ignore the way the phrase dear enchanter wrenched at something curled deep in their gut. “Nor I, you.” They murmured. “You’re a doctor, then? Do you have a practice - or is this more a wandering medic situation?” They kept the conversation moving, trying to force away the painful pulsation in the back of their skull. The knowledge that something felt… odd. The accursed mana affliction rolling under their skin, like a boiling concoction reaching its bursting point. The silver ring they’d not missed on Kvasir’s finger.

It… almost looked like one of their own -

“Huh?” They stopped and shook their head. “No allergies that I am aware of.” Aside from, you know, magic. But as far as things that might make their system flare up, Morrigan had no clue. Their parents had taken great care to feed them bland foods that would have no risk of hurting them - spiceless pitta bread, bland soups, oatmeal and nuts - and it was not as if Kaivalya had been let outside without supervision. If they had any allergens, their parents had not taken the time to discover them. Even now Morrigan’s reckless lifestyle had yielded nothing save a bad string of hangovers and poisonings. “And if there’s something new about these plants that’s setting me off, we’ll no doubt find it with proper investigation.”

They brushed off any further concerns with a wave of their hand.

“The flowers are the perfect place to start!”

It was no secret that Morrigan’s own potion education had been… unconventional, to say the least. In a world where ambient magic dictated intention and creation, the old hag Madam Medb had quite the challenge trying to teach her formulae-illiterate student. So she tried the next best thing. Where she couldn’t teach recipes, she instilled in Morrigan a keen understanding of components. Ingredients. If you knew how things worked, you did not need to know the blueprint to put them together when you could make the mental map yourself.

Ironically, this type of investigation was right within their wheelhouse.

They grinned, a smile that was not full of false bravado for once.

“My first step would be to break down the plants to their base components.” They’d been an avid reader of - of -

Of someone’s dissertation which was published publicly through the consortium’s newsletter. A shame they could not remember the author at the moment, but… eh, it was unimportant given the company.

“My wagon has a setup more suited for a thorough analysis, but I do always keep a few tools with me. We could examine their essence and discern whether there’s anything special about them.” As they spoke, they were already pulling tools out from their alchemy kit. Mortar, pestle - funny, where had this sample of pre-picked flowers come from? - a small pot for boiling and a phial of plain water.

“My initial thought is that there is nothing particularly special about the flowers on their lonesome. But when you combine them… perhaps with an arrangement of all the colors… it will create some sort of hallucinogenic effect. Which is likely why they’ve grown in such an interesting pattern.” They tilted their head towards Kvasir, sly, coy. Full of promise. “What do you think, dear medic?”

And to their great surprise - they truly wanted to know the answer.