#oc: lorsan | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yohohonabottle · 6 days ago

Text

Esperia free hugs tour (Reposted from A03)

🖋️Summary: Merlin and her stand-in get into an argument at the Mystical House. The mage is still mad at Sinbad for having been tricked and almost getting killed trice...*allegedly.* Even though it was the substitute who was mostly at risk. Said stand-in calls out the Magister on the massive L's which leads to a cat-fight and the mage to cast a special type of hex, because pettiness, and then kicks the guy out. Yup, just your typical run-of-the-mill afternoon with a whimsical boss. 📖Work status: Completed, oneshot

🎧 Song reccomendations while reading: ============×=========×==========——————— ● Holistone: Dawn Winery theme/Mondstad theme ● Dark Forest: Winding through Avidya/ Nahida's aranara theme * Interlude: Pink Panther theme/The elevator - Kevin Macleod ● Remnant Peak: The vikings have their tea/Sticks and stones from httyd ● Ashen Wastes: Arabic merchants/Scorching outpost ● Rustport: Cutthroat crew/ Hymn of the high seas and Sinbad's song. Don't know why most are from Genshin, but oh well.

—"I'm taking over! You're too lenient!" –A clear mezzo-soprano barks crossly, earning a soft irritable sigh followed up by a few seconds ticking by in tense silence.

—"Woman, you were fine with leaving me be all this time! So what's with the sudden hands-on approach?" –A low and eerily breathless tenor hisses back sharply in mild vexation as a door upstairs slams and hurried footsteps echo down the flight of stairs, followed by a set of much lighter ones. Soon a woman with chocolate-brown long flowing hair dressed in a long blue vest with checkered puffy sleeves shows up, her cape billowing behind her back.

—"Good afternoon, Dolly!" She slides down the stairs' railing halfway down then hops off and grins up at the young woman standing behind the bar-counter in the lounge. The assistant– a green-eyed redhead named Dolly–waves back happily with a warm smile, chirping a cheery "Good afternoon, Magister Merlin!" with her sweet fruity voice, pausing her work of wiping down the counter with a rag to polish it. Hopping onto one of the high barstools, Merlin runs a gloved hand through her hair, pushing her bangs behind her ear, tone adopting a more sing-song lilt.

"One cup of extra honeyed peppermint tea, please. Add a slice of syrup caramel cake, too while at it--Thanks Dolls!" With a nod, the freckled maid sets to work. Meanwhile, the other catches up, not letting the matter go.

—"Ooh no. You–miss, mister, whatever–Are going to explain. No weaseling out!"

—"He simply can't be trusted at all, alright? He's a scummy, no-good liar, who only cares about swindling people. Period." –The doe-eyed petite woman huffs with a miffed scoff, one hand on her hip before turning back to her slice of cake and taking a swing of her tea, muttering sourly under her breath– "I let him off easy, should've given him a good round of beating. Maybe I'll throw him into the sea next time. That punk."

—"Don't tell me you haven't been set up or kept in the dark before." Pouting at those words in discontent, Merlin pointedly ignores the bat and takes another bite of her cake with a muffled 'Mmhm.' then swallows it down with a big gulp of tea. "...Merlin, come on. You seriously can't be pissy about this forever. You're being needlessly petty. Just let it go already."

Setting her porcelain cup and fork down, the woman snaps her head to give him a pointed glare over her shoulder as she pushes off from her seat. The two little hamsters, having arrived just a minute ago and settled by the counter, look up when their owner's voice rises an octave.

—"That man got me killed–almost–three times in a row! And not only that, but he had the nerve to not compensate us! You saw it all!"

It's one of those days again, where seeing eye to eye with the great, legendary mage appears to be mission impossible. Pirin stands with arms crossed over his chest, back leaned on the wall next to the bar counter, watching the brunette pace as if bored. Meanwhile the assistant, Dolly, quietly shuffles behind the counter, eying the two of them uneasily. In the span of half a week, such arguments became commonplace between the owner of the Mystical House and her disgruntled new 'helper'.

Inhaling a deep breath with a slow roll of his eyes, he smoothly sits down on one of the stools. A glass of iced water is slid on the counter gently and the mercenary swipes it off nimbly, the water sloshing but never spilling, taking a measured sip.

—"You're speaking as if you were the one at risk. When, let's be real here, you can't get harmed or loose in any way." –He deadpans with an arched owl-like brow, unamused. This gets the mage's attention and she halts in her winded tirade to look at him mildly scandalized and bemused. Setting the glass back on the countertop, the snowy-haired lad rests an elbow on it, continuing in a flat tone. —"You know what I mean, don't give me this look. It was me who was, is, in danger most of the time. You‐" He lifts a gloved hand and gestures to her loosely then lets it fall on his knee. "are here, in the cozy confines of your spire. Away from trouble."

—"I–" -The fair-skinned lass opens her mouth to refute, but falters and presses her lips into a thin line of frustration instead, and frowns. Her companion mutely watches her for a long moment before speaking in a quieted voice, firm but not ill-mannered.

—"Furthermore if I recall correctly—it was you who called out and brought me to this world then proceeded to offer me the deal. You stay behind in the Mythic House to take care of 'other important matters' while I play your substitute, in exchange you'll help me find a way out once the journey's done. ...Am I wrong?"

—"No. You're not." Her squared shoulders slump sharply, gripping her forearm with a gloved hand. "My terms stay the same." But I still hate it when I can't refute your points...

—"Good. Then sit back and let me do my job." Neither Dolly or Chippy and Hammie speaks up, knowing better than to interfere. Well, the two hamsters actually opened their mouths to argue in their magister's defense, but quickly decided otherwise when Pirin levels them a stern look. A very clear 'Stay out of this.'

—"Argh! You–! Snide, two-face fiend! Of course you'd play devil's advocate!"

The room feels cold, tension pressing down like a storm waiting to break loose. The felled star remains deathly muted for a long moment, expression emotionless as he holds her angered leer evenly..coldly. —"Two-faced you say?" Chippy warily unsheathes his heavy sword from its scabbard strapped to his back, but his hands are trembling with fear, knowing it means nothing. His bravado doesn't phase the man. One hit of those razor-sharp claws, that's all it would take to disarm and forfeit his life. But he'd still fight to protect his Magister, like the loyal acorn-knight he is. Pirin calmly slides off from his stool. —"A bold claim that is, ultimately, hardly more than a baseless accusation." His steps are even and soundless graceful strides as he crosses the room leisurely. But the tone is one of cold-blood without remorse or mercy as he goes on to point out as a matter-of-faculty.

—"I never acted or claimed to be a saint, not even back in my younger days. Certainly didn't do from the start of this charade either. Quite opposite, actually. On day one, I've made my intent clear to everyone." Composed, neutral, unreadable. The woman regards him with a cautious displeased frown, following his every move. However, he makes no moves to attack, merely carries on past her, intent to leave and pauses. Brown irises meet pearly white. "It's you who's acting high and mighty whilst wearing my skin, 'my lady'. Or 'my lord', whatever you feel like being on each day." And with that he turns to look ahead. This time, his tone is reminiscing and distant, disapproving; disappointed. Sorry. —"You know...Whether or not Esperia burnt to ashes or thrived, it didn't matter to me. Back then, when you called upon me, ushered me out in the world to carry your burden–I only wanted to get out. But, somehow you made me care. Showed me the reason why. Went as far as to indirectly guide me for the first initial steps, taught me to cradle peoples' hopes and dreams like treasures...You set me an example, of not only how to carry your legacy." The magister looks away, and says nothing. That part, she still remembers vividly. When Ryeham was ablaze, people were in peril, and fire Elementals and gruglins ran rampant causing havoc through the two villages.

Back then, the newly incarnated spirit wanted to have nothing to do with any of it, rather stay out of the matter and either passively watch or leave...Until she showed him fragmented visions of the villagers' plight, each life having great value and potential–Not just some fragile, puny bugs that only know how to be at each other's throats and devour everything around them in the process. Managed to peel back the hardened layers of ice, and stone to coax out the kind, gentle wounded soul hidden deep in cynicism. Back in those days, Merlin was the one who in the end convinced the distrustful, weary, yearning heart that it's worth it.

Saving, helping those people, the world and journeying through it whilst holding it aloft–It's worth it.

"Now you only care about wealth and praise, seeing others as nothing but little pawns...As though they're like you–Immune to harm and death, the world nothing, but your playground. You hold grudges, have let glory get to your head and get furious at the smallest of slights and inconveniences. You've become a righteous zealot whom merely wants to appear like a hero, keeping up a saintly mask instead of do as you preach." Turning around, Pirin fully faces the mage with a wan smile, tone soft. But the words, the ugly ruthless truth cut deep–Stirring up deep angered guilt, remorse and self-disappointment.

—"What happened, Merlin?"

Balling her hands into tight fists, she blinks back bitter tears, and smiles wryly, turning on her heel to face him. Beneath the sweet tone, lies a sardonic edge of pained scorn.

—"You have a lot of nerve, friend–Talking about truth. Like some wise arbiter rendering judgement, when you yourself wear a hero's mask." That I've thrusted upon you without question. The air crackles with energy, the storm so close to breaking in full force.

A ball of light slowly manifests into the palm of her hand.

—"Since you took down mine, let me remove yours, no?" The light lashes out in an instant like a powerful blast, hitting him square in the chest–In the heart, forcing the towering walls to crumble and the frost to thaw, inner thoughts unlocked with no way to be locked up again. Not unless the spell is undone.

In a blink, the blazing star is gone.

Somewhere in Holistone, on the beaten down path winding through the village of Northville, a small squad is passing by. Two solders, two archers, along with two shielded hoplites and their captain. Sauntering with easy, languid strides and hands laced behind his head, Valen effortlessly keeps a discreet eye on his surroundings. It has been well over four years since the attack and attempted corruption of the crops in Southville. Everything looks to be in order, peaceful with the occasional fire caused by negligence in spite of the village chief's instructions aside, or attempts at controlled fire and junk disposal going awry. But it barely gets further than that, thankfully.

*Thud.* ...What was that?

—"What was that?" One of the archers looks around, hands moving to grip his bow. Nothing comes in his line of sight. The other solder tries to play it off cool by muttering with a light dismissive shrug of her shoulders.

—"Sounds like someone falling. Probably a drunkard."

Glancing over at the others, it appears he's really not imagining things. Letting his carefree stance drop to one of slight caution, he grips Stormcaller with a hand and gives a dismissive wave before anyone could speak. Don't rush to draw your weapons. The solders nod stiffly in response.

—"I'll go check it out, I won't be long." After a nod from the heavy-armored squad giving green-light to proceed, Valen turns and heads towards the noise. The dirt quietly crunches under his boots as he approaches steadily, straining his hearing for any other sounds. Nothing moves, the sun continuing its lazy descent. Good. So far at least. The noise came somewhere here, near the waystone at the road's fork. Could it have been a crow dropping a stick? No, too heavy. A few more steps forward– The wheat on the right rustle.

Scowling, the high-ranking knight unsheathes the lightning-infused blade and darts straight for the source, ready to strike in the blink of an eye. Only to immediately halt in his tracks with coarse eyebrows raised to his hairline in surprise as the silhouette gets up. Albeit having a bit of trouble keeping balance as though dazed.

—"Pirin? What are you doing here? Hold on, let me help–" Quickly, the former mercenary steps forward and sheaths his weapon. With a faintly pained hum, said man stands still, eyes screwed shut and clutching his forehead with a gloved hand; barely registers Valen's call or approaching steps, the world still spinning for another second. And then he tries to step back with a shake of his head, or forth, but trips over a small rock–Warm, lean yet strong arms steady him. "I got you. Easy, you appear to be dizzy."

—"Thanks, Val. The teleportation made me off-balance for a second." The knight flashes him a charming smile, and offers back with his ringing tenor holding a laid-back lilt that softens at the end. It's been so long since we last spoke.

—"No trouble at all. I'm glad you're alright." Holding him for a few more seconds to make sure Pirin's okay to stand on his own, he carefully lets go and draws back. But still stays by the shorter man's side in case he needs help again, falling back into pleasant small talk easily after confirming to himself no threats are nearby. It's not long before Valen's tone turns chipper, peppered with friendly jests and the occasional flirty teasing, casually looping an arm around the other's shoulder.

And steers him out of the wheat-field, back onto the road while doing so.

—"Aren't you supposed to be on a vacation in Cedar town? The general told me you were rather reluctant to go. Did you come back because you miss me?" What Valen gets back in place of a verbal answer causes him to pause, caught off-guard: Two ice-cold arms wraps around his waist, encircling him into a tight hug as the mage rests his cheek against his chest, letting out a muffled 'hmmf.'

Okay, something is definitely wrong. Pirin? Giving hugs? Hypogeans are more likely to turn good than him getting affectionate.

But, the purple-eyed Solitaire readily returns the hug regardless, huffing a small laugh as he does and gives a light squeeze. It's not the worst surprise to be honest. If anything, the phantom should do this more often, same as smiling and laughing–Better than being perpetually grim or distantly pensive. I can get used to this.

"Are you under a spell or something? You don't usually have the habit of giving bear-hugs like this."

Squeezing back tightly, the 'Magister' remains quiet for a second then at last answers, shedding some light on the situation. Plus addressing his inquiries in a mildly miffed tone that seems to be more directed at the culprit behind this 'misfortune', avoiding his gaze. The simple honesty in his voice catches the captain off-kilter. Two times catching him off-guard in a row? Impressive.

—"Yes–I got into a cat-fight with Merlin by calling him out on his nonsense. He put this stupid jinx on me that forces me to impulsively hug those I deem close, and also talk without filter. I already didn't want say any of this. And yes, yes I missed you–You have no idea." Followed up by an irritable mutter in a slavic tongue under his breath aimed at said mage. "...Диване."

Valen holds back a laugh at the absurdity of this, along with the mild insult per Merlin's address, skillfully maintaining his unfazed poker-face and charming smile as he hums a neutral "I see.." instead.

—"And, I'm guessing that the more close you view someone, the more you will hug that person right away, right?" I admit–It's comforting to know you see me as a good friend. It's hard to believe just how quickly those years slipped away, and it's like general Hogan has assigned him to watch over the scrawny mage just yesterday. Back then, he'd thought it would be another tedious escort mission with a difficult charge. Only to have been proven wrong on so many levels. It was actually an absolute blast–Even made him tempted to become the magister's personal knight! The adventures they've had, from Ryeham to the Dark Forest and Remnant Peak...Time sure can be a harsh mistress, unrelenting in her march.

The quiet uneasy hum-like noise Pirin makes draws the brunet out of his momentary reverie and back to the present moment. The response once again promptly wipes off his smirk, replacing it with a look of near disbelieving surprise, blinking down at his former charge stumped.

—"...Yes. And I would have hugged you sooner but was too woozy. I..don't want to let go, actually. ..ugh, I should seriously shut my trap before I say something stupid." A slow smile begins to tug at the corners of his mouth, amethyst eyes twinkling with amusement, sympathy, playfulness, quiet joy and fondness as he regards his old pal, keeping his arms around the other's slender frame. Ignoring that last little grumble and choosing to focus on the previous words.

—"Well, then don't. It's okay to cuddle for a moment from time to time, and frankly–I don't mind it in the slightest. Not to mention you seem to need it with how stressed you must be, shouldering the Magister's mantle mostly alone." Mostly alone... Technically it's not true since Chippy & Hammie are a constant but. They're not exactly classified as pleasant company in his book, let alone 'friends', are they? And the folks who inevitably end up joining the party for the journey's duration? Strangers too fleeting to get out of the 'faceless ally or obstacle' mental category.

Most of the time the adventure ends much too soon, not enough to get a better look at the person or group. ....And yet here this sassy knight is��Having left a lasting impression that hasn't faded since. Jumped quickly from a faceless stranger to friend and snatched his loyalty, almost as if with the snap of his fingers. Or have I softened? Become too lenient, like Merlin said..?

"Can't believe I fall so quickly...so embarrassing. You just–" Dammit, misspoke! The Graveborn-looking man clamps his mouth shut, and quickly slips out of his companion's grasp like a fish or smoke. "K, I should scurry–See ya!"

—"Vanya–!"

—"Captain Valen!"

—"Sir Valen!" Oop, out of time.

Hurried footsteps approach, and the chestnut-haired swordsman winces at realizing he has made a slight blunder. Whoops, I completely forgot about our mission. Sure enough, a group of worried colleagues catches up.

—"Captain, we heard rustling in the wheat-fields on our way and a voice–"

Turning to face them, he raises one hand in a reassuring gesture for the group to pipe down, running the other through his wavy strands with a mildly sheepish smile.

—"Nothing to worry about, Sam. You probably heard a mouse, as for the latter–I ran into a friend. Turns out he wasn't feeling well and thought he'd lost something in the wheat, but lost his footing." Half-bullcrap and half-truth. The others exchange looks of curiosity and sympathy. Meanwhile Sam scratched the back of his head, mumbling a disapproving "Well, I hope he recovers swiftly..But I think he ought to ease up, mind his well-being a little more." Looks like the team's divided between assuming said friend has overworked himself, is sickly, or had one beer too many.

—"It's alright, he will be fine. Now, how about we go finish our cursory look and go for a round of drinks at Traveler's Light?" A round of collective agreement follows and everyone moves on to make their rounds after divvying up with their superior going patrol the fields. Valen smiles to himself, making a small mental note...

-----------

Somewhere in the Dark Forest...

The teleportation wasn't kind this time either. Thankfully it didn't give him vertigo for very long, all it took was to blink his eyes and shake it off. Rising onto his feet and dusting himself off, the wintery traveler carries on, slinking through the dense foliage soundlessly. Taking a deep breath to clear his mind, Pirin slows down his gait, lifting his head to watch the skies... Each step is an old memory: Resolving the inner Thornguard conflict, curing the roots, overthrowing Eomir and restoring the Lucent tree after obtaining the Sylvan egg, witnessing Lyca's 'crowning' as the new scion of the sacred tree–

I wonder if Lily May has been let out...Still can't believe Lenya is in-charge of the Dusk patrollers. I've..completely lost track of time, haven't I? Hold on–

Up ahead, the voices of children frolicking and soft chatter flows like warm rivers. And a village nestled deep into the rainforest comes into sight, the towering weeping willow at the center standing like a proud beacon amidst the cluster of humble houses, lush gardens, shrubbery and peaceful folks going about their daily lives. The sun peers through the trees, painting the jungle village in a warm dappled light almost like giving it a halo, the soft blues, reds, pinks and yellows of dawn making the place look... Ethereal.

Like returning home.

Stopping in his tracks, the lone wolf finds himself suddenly breathless as he stands before the vine bridge–In the shade of the grove. There's a tightening in his chest and throat, like longing, warmth, joy and pain all in one..strange sweet nostalgia. ...My first 'home'.. How did I get to Lunadorf...? A pull deep in his heart brings Pirin out from his reverent musings and tugs him forward.

Scowling, he huffs a faint 'Seriously?' to himself under his breath, feet already not listening and shuffling towards the village. Oh great, the spell got triggered again. There, by the willow tree–Stand two rabbit siblings, a blond stag and an avian with his trusty teal and blue-plumaged falcon. How can he ever mistake their voices? Hey, w-wait! Hold on–! But it's too late, already breaking into a jog that turns to a run despite desperately trying not to.

The blue-feathered bird perching on her companion's arm stops in her idle preening and snaps her head in alert, turning her head towards the bridge. And lets out a slight screech in happy greetings as well as signaling the approaching of another person. Perceptive as always, the blindfolded Windwhisperer tilts his head, inquisitively listening to his friend's thoughts and smiles subtly.

—"Looks like we have company." –He acknowledges in his smooth, velvety baritone voice, tone calm as ever, causing the others to give a quizzical look. A bit puzzled at Bryon and Elona for a moment, at first.

Lorsan's smug grin falters, now looking confused as he echoes "Company..?" while his older sister adopts a more contemplative stance, trying to figure out who could this new arrival be. Her unvoiced thoughts getting echoed by the towering swordsman whom also looks pensive, teal eyes sweeping over the village.

—"Who could it be?" The group pause in their conversation, the two siblings' ears giving a small twitch, picking up on his footfalls. All four turn their heads to look at the newcomer at hearing his familiar 'dulcet' tone. Or deathly. The former Dusk patroller captain, scion of the Lucent tree and the grey-haired Windwhisperer wearing expressions of incredulous surprise on their faces, shocked to see their 'Graveborn' comrade running toward them as if chased by Glimmerblooms or angry gruglins. Except for Bryon who appears composed if not mildly amused.

—"Lyca! Eironn! Bryon!"

—"Pirin?"–The pink-haired woman and the Stormsword question almost in perfect unison, both appearing as though startled for a second. It really is him.

—"Hey! You left me out! What about me?" –The blue-eyed hare protests with a pout at his name not being called out. And then lets out a small 'oof!' as he and the other three Wilders get enveloped into a bone-crushing hug, almost tackled even due to the momentum. Good grief, he's squeezing like a python!

–"Gah, I can't breathe!" –Poor Lorsan gasps out with a small grimace, squirming to get free and feeling like his lungs are being pressed. When that doesn't work, he lightly swats at the shorter man's shoulder, choking out his laments— "Vanyo–Too tight! Ease up, you'll crush us!" Meanwhile Eironn stays perfectly stiff, unsure of what to make of this encounter or what to do. Getting and giving any form of affection is still very foreign to him, plus the added fact that social interactions aren't his strongest suit...So he ends up awkwardly standing still, brain practically short-circuiting due to overthinking.

On the other hand, Lyca recovers from her initial surprise and hugs back with surprising strength, a big smile on her lips. (The pallid 'Magister' hurriedly loosens his grasp as if burnt or stung and the bard heaves a sigh of relief, then hesitantly returns the embrace as well. Bryon is merely watching the reunion with a faint smile of quiet happiness, having dodged the hug.)

—"Welcome back to Lunadorf! We are so happy to see you again!" Forcing himself to let go and pull back, 'Merlin' offers them a sheepish smile as he steps back, mumbling a quick 'Sorry 'bout this.' (Right as Eironn seemed to have finally made up his mind and moved to hug back but stopped himself with a quiet clear of his throat.) Then clasps his hands behind his back, lightly shifting from one foot to another, embarrassed by his impulsive actions.

—"Heh. Благодаря, и вие ми липсвахте." Thanks to having spent months together on their misadventures, the four Wilders had heard him chatter in this foreign tongue pretty often–Either when livid, exceptionally nervous or any other particularly strong emotion at the time–so it's nothing new. Although Lyca, Bryon and Eironn had managed to take to the language fairly quickly– Lorsan still struggles to grasp it or what's being said.

—"Uhm, Pirin?" –His baffled pout remains in-tact but now a small grin plays on his features, one brow quirked with gloved hands on his hips. Effectively drawing the other man's attention, who realizes he has spoken in native again and gives an apologetic smile. "Mind if you translate, please? I couldn't quite catch that."

—"I said 'thank you' and 'I missed you too.' Sorry for the slip-up." Lorsan, however casually waves it off, not minding one bit. It's not that he's got any issues with him babbling or singing in that language, on the contrary–It fascinates him! It's just that he can't understand very well beyond the very basic 'hello', 'goodbye', 'yes' and 'no'.

—"No need to apologize to us for speaking in your native. We all tend to slip into our default language from time to time."–The hare Wilder tosses a teasing smug look over at his old friend. "Isn't that right, Bryon?" The question bears completely different meaning. Said avian Windwhisperer jabs back in kind with that ever so smoothly light sarcasm of his, returning the favor.

—"Indeed, that is the case."

—"See? Even he agrees." A few seconds pass, and then Lorsan's dazzling smirk quickly turns to an indignant frown– Throwing the other Wilder a surly glare as he snaps back. "Hey! I just got back from voyaging for a bit, and you're already giving me sass!"

—"I don't know what you mean. I simply confirmed your statement."

—"You–!!" Lorsan looks about to throw hands, Lyca only crosses her arms over her chest with an unimpressed scowl as she watches the two of them bicker. Not even a proper week since he has returned home for a brief visit, and he's already back at his childish antics with Bryon again. It's like the five of them are at the Old outpost again, back to that moment of their adventures with the mercenary. The memories flash in her mind, and a fondly mirthful smile settles on her lips unbidden. Some things never change.

"Boys." –She sighs with a shake of her head, leaving the two 'fools' to continue exchanging jabs in the background. (Her younger brother, much to his chagrin and growing frustration, keeps getting outwitted by his fellow Windwhisperer at every turn.) Meanwhile Eironn has absolutely no idea what to do with himself, so he just...defaults to idly practicing his swordplay and listens to his two old comrades with half-an ear in case the clash of wits turns to one of fists. Turning back to Pirin– The new Scion of Misarte's sacred tree gently takes him by the hand with a warm smile, earning herself a curious look.

—"Come on, let's go find you a place to rest. You must be exhausted from your journey." Lyca barely gives him much time to answer before tugging him to come along, throwing an easy-going 'Please keep an eye on Lorsan for me!' over her shoulder at the Stormsword and gets a simple dutiful nod in return. Already her mind is zipping from one place to another as though planning a welcome back party for their short 'ghost'– Lodging accommodations, food according to his specific diet, places to tour, show what's new and improved, the whole nine yards.

A cold gloved hand comes to rest on her shoulder, halting the woman in her tracks. The wistful, apologetic note tinting her companion's voice draws her attention.

—"Lyca. Thank you for the hospitality, but I shouldn't linger very long."

—"Huh? But..How come? Is there a task you need to do or places to be?" Worry. The magister gives a small shake of his head, waving off her apprehension in silent reassurance as if to say 'It's nothing grave.' The magenta-eyed former patrol captain turns to fully face him as he speaks, explaining the situation evenly with a bit of humor. The boys catch up with steady strides, just in time.

—"Long story-short, I'm still not done with my journey as Merlin, rather I...am taking a detour to regroup. Kind of. The enemies are an idea stronger than my team and I figured continuously bashing our heads wouldn't work, so the quest has been put on pause. However I got into bit of a squabble with my boss, aand she put a jinx on me."

—"A jinx? Can you remove it?" –Lyca's younger twin brother pipes up, eying him with the same concerned look as the bow-woman is. Eironn joins in next, stony expression of dutiful stoicism betrayed by the poorly masked apprehension in his counter-tenor voice, already ready to leap into action. Bryon stays pensively muted, listening without rushing to speak up. No one bothers with the fact that the Arch mage is being a woman for today instead of a man like most of the time.

—"We can bring you to grannie Dahnie or grandpa Arden–They should know a way to lift or counter it."

—"Exactly! We can come along with you, too!"

Raising his hands in front of himself with a pained grimace, the spirit waves off their worries and fussing over him. All while holding back from opening his mouth to speak, not trusting himself not to blurt out something in the moment. Simply opts for signaling for the group to calm down. Finally feeling more confident, he goes on to elaborate on the matter, assuaging the Wilders' anxiety.

—"It's nothing big–I'm okay, really! Bit inconvenient getting teleported randomly and having the impulse to run up to people and hug them, plus having a big mouth with no filter...But I can manage! ...somehow."

The four exchange looks, unsure whether to laugh–Lorsan appears to be struggling with holding back a snicker–or get even more worried about their 'faux Wilder' friend.

"But that's besides the point, anyway–She'll lift it off once I get back at the Mystical House. Should've calmed down by now."

—"...I see." –Eventually Eironn mumbles after a long moment of pause to process the information. He still sounds reluctant, evidently voicing his companions' thoughts, getting a quiet affirmative 'mmhm.' from the much shorter male. Looking up at the horizon and the morning sun shining high, Pirin turns back to his rainforest crew with a nostalgic smile.

—"Well, I'm glad I got to see you again, my friends. I should get going." How's it that saying goodbye is so difficult now? It's Lyca who steps forth first, throwing her arms around him in a parting hug, tone a little saddened but tender as she speaks dutifully. Akin to a leader that has to make the tough call of letting go of someone dear. In a way...It is the case, for both of them.

—"I understand. I wish you good luck on your journey, Vanya." Pulling back, she levels the incarnated star a half‐mock, half‐sincere stern look as she reminds him before letting go of his shoulders. "Don't forget to rest properly and take care of yourself, okay?"

—"Dully noted. You too, you know?" The woman chuckles in response. His eyes flicker up at the towering stag Wilder when he takes his turn to bid farewell next, giving him a firm nod in acknowledgement.

—"Take care, Ioan. May your travels be safe." For a second the blond pauses, as though unsure if he should keep it at that or not, before making his decision. "Don't hesitate to call upon us, should you find yourself in need of help. Even if only needing an ear and someone to talk to."

—"Thank you, Eironn." 'The same goes for you, too.' goes unsaid but understood. The vampire's tone takes on a more lighthearted tinge as he adds on, earning himself a faint but amused smile from the graceful swordsman. "Although, I may see you again soon on the battlefield. We've still got some Dead Tide rascals to handle."

"Dead Tide? Who are those?"

"A fleet of pirates ruled by a Graveborn man named Hodgkin. We have an inside joke in the current team of calling him 'Davy Jones in undergarments'. It's a nod to a pirate story Pirin had told us about when we first arrived in Rustport, a coastal town in the Lightbearer Empire."

"Darn it, I missed the adventure!"

—"And a bigger pain in the bum than Cecia could ever hope to be." –He lazily slides in to 'helpfully' supplement, making Lorsan and Eironn glance at him. The former mildly baffled and clueless while the latter merely nods in agreement to his commentary. Finally Bryon takes his turn to offer his goodbye.

—"Farewell, my friend. Do come back to visit when you can, you're always welcome in the Dark Forest."

—"I will...Or, at least, I hope so. Otherwise I'll be sure to write a letter or two when things are a little less crazy." Lastly, Lorsan's turn came. Stepping forth, the bard stands before him with.. an uncharacteristically serious expression. No teasing or smug smirk, no swooping gestures or silly bravado. ...And then the hare Wilder extends a gloved hand.

There's a fond, proud look in his teal green eyes. Pirin takes the offered hand, and gives a firm brief shake with a fiery gleam. Defiance, refusal to fail or be defeated.

—"Take care, Vanyo. May the wind guide you on your path. And stay true to your heart." The much leaner man mutely arches an eyebrow curiously with a fond smile but doesn't question aloud, not wanting to ruin the moment. Just where did this one come from? A moment of wisdom for the carefree Windwhisperer.

—"I will. Thanks Lorsan." And with that, Pirin vanishes into thin air, teleported to the next destination.

Meanwhile, back at the Mystical House—

Three Hypogeans sit at one of the tables, each minding their own business, seemingly unbothered by how oddly quiet and empty the lounge is currently. No other patrons scuttle about, no chatter or utensil clatter, nothing.

Not that Phraesto or Reinier cared about any of that, actually enjoying this bland stillness and deafening quiet--The illusionist calmly and leisurely sipping away at the mint tea he was provided with a mild look of uninterested disdain but too lazy to get himself anything else. So he has simply resigned himself to this warm tasteless leaf water and puffing from that long smoking pipe of his, looking off at nothing in particular. Just look at the fool. There's not a single thought through that scorpion head!

Or maybe he's got high as a kite, off to.. nobody knows where, honestly.

Now Reinier? Ho ho ho, poor dorito-head is so busy obsessing over perfection and symmetry, that it's absolutely hilarious!

For the twelfth time, the shadowy jester all too casually swaps the cups of the fine-china set, placing the green-ornamented one on the plate of the other cup that has green leaves and cherry blossoms on it. The symmetric sin once again fixes them up without a word, appearing composed. And of course, the mischief-maker promptly waits for a few seconds before deliberately messing up the 'balanced order' again to further annoy him. This time no immediate reaction followed from said perfectionist but the tense silence is a dead give away to his simmering irritation. Then Reinier moves the mismatched porcelain cups back on their appropriate saucers with one hand, his own cup of drink gingerly held in the other which leaves his secondary set of arms free.

Head resting in his hand and elbow propped on the table's edge, back comically slouched and legs crossed one of the other, Berial reaches out to yet again ruin the symmetry--However gets harshly slapped by his very miffed fellow Hypogean.

—"Stop sullying the masterpiece, clown."

—"Oh shut up, you bumbling neat-freak. It's just a tea set." -He retorts back at the other's vexed reprimanding hiss with an amused sly smirk, letting out a giggle when the four-armed perfectionist bristles at him.

—"It is not "just some tea set"! It is perfect, balanced, as it should be. Behold— the marvelous symmetry! Truly a most exquisite masterpiece! The very pinnacle of beauty." Berial merely brushes off the tirade, waving his free hand dismissively, spotted tail curled in his lap lazily but doesn't bother with messing up the set again. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Suit yourself, killjoy."

Reinier 'hmfs!' indignantly at his crass dismissal but doesn't argue further, content to gaze upon the 'masterpiece' with proud satisfaction and appraising its so called 'beauty'.

Looking around with a bored scoff, the sinister silhouette then glances over at the Magister and his two little hamsters seated on the sofa in the elevated alcove-like corner of the room. Grinning gleefully, he throws a side-glance over at the other two dark beings and slides in a quick snide jab Phraesto's way.

—"At least I'm not a totally blundering buffoon like Stinger-head here. And I was hoping to see a good performance that day...tsk, pity." The ashen-skinned bulky illusionist glares at him from over the rim of his teacup. Pushing a little bit more, he proceeds to toss one more, not even trying to hide his sardonic mirth and quickly swaps the cups again.

"All that bark for nothing, really. I honestly thought you'd put up a fight instead letting yourself get resealed like that by a kid, Phraesto. So much for 'wanting freedom', eh?"

—"You-! Get back here!" Berial vanishes off in a puff of smoke with a hearty cackle, suddenly reappearing next to the mage like a Jack-o-the box toy, startling the two rodents who jump back with a yelp.

—"Aanyway~! I haven't see our delightful huffy bat all day today, Magister Merlin~." Merlin calmly flips to the next page of the book he's reading, completely indifferent to the talking head sitting in his lap and the decapitated body laying on its side on top of the sofa...curling around his head like a neck pillow, while Chippy shudders with a disgusted and mildly fearful grimace and Hammie frowns, hands on her hips disapprovingly.

"I was wondering where your little helper has gone? It's soo, woefully boring, and quiet here!" -He laments in a dramatically saddened sigh, head inching up and up on the page, obscuring the text as he does, staring at the mage without blinking with a wide gaping jagged grin. The feathery wings on his body flutter playfully and the tail swishes languidly, caressing the magister's neck under his chin.

Yup, being purposefully very creepy to rouse a reaction--Typical Berial. By now their foreheads are almost touching, left glowing pale purple orb leaking trails of 'tears' or 'blood' along with some of the substance dripping also out of his maw.

A few moments of silence pass.

—"Done with your theatrics, Berial? I'm trying to read if you don't mind." And with this remark, Merlin grips the jester's head by the hair, and tosses it over his shoulder. Finishing up reading the page, he then adds nonchalantly, turning over to the next.

"He's teleporting around Esperia to revisit some points of his journey. I placed a spell to help him be less brooding, since he called me a pretentious coward." Oh- ho?

Snickering, the performer slinks from around the mage like a snake, movements comically exaggerated and popping.

—"Now, now, I know you like to play games— But this is awfully devious of you, Merlin~! Color me impressed!" Makes the encounter at Mars Peak comically ironic, and so delectably potent with chaos, doesn't it? Looks like the Magister had already beat him to the nifty trick of being a 'faux Merlin' way ahead of time.

—"He started it. Regardless, you should find him at Remnant Peak. It's the next stop of his free-hugs tour." My, my. You must truly be furious, disclosing his whereabouts so readily like this. Smirking down at the apathetic, almost bored-looking Merlin, Berial opens a portal underneath his feet and hops in.

—"Hehehe-Don't mind if I do!~"

----------------------------------

To say he was confused upon finding himself standing at the Moon temple would be an understatement. Why is the spell following his destinations according to the chronological order of the adventures he had from day one to current point?

Merlin, what's your goal here?

At least the teleportation was much smoother this time around. Looking up at the marble pillars and vine-covered arches of the sanctuary's ruins, the buzzing hum of powerfully potent ancient energy lightly pulls at his attention. Turning to peer up at the central podium stage at the end of the two stairways of the temple, the Pallid covenant warily takes a tiny step forward as if mesmerized under hypnosis. This magic-it's... raw, pulsating and warm, greater than any he's seen, even his own. It's almost scorching and blinding as the very sun in its intensity, somewhere within it-A tranquil knowing smile of millennia-old wisdom, humbling and overwhelming.

The threads... so bright and intricate..

Somehow, all his worries are gently eased away, like swept by a tide and left aside so very far. The purest form of magic, congealed into one being of authority. Warmth, soothing and light yet fond and sonorously harmonic swirls around his form like honey. An amicable, no, affable welcome- Beckoning to walk closer. The presence nearly makes him tear up, feeling simultaneously wary, weary, vulnerable and exposed, lost and at home- chocked.

Stopping just shy of the left stairwell's first step, Pirin slowly bows his head on one knee and closes his eyes, hands pressed together with their backs as if in a form of prayer. A form of deep respectful reverence and greeting, hands forming a symbolic union of light and darkness- two opposites interwoven into cosmic balance. Life and death. Just as mother, grandma and many generations back have taught. No matter whether one agrees, likes, understands a deity or not- Respect should be shown in his or her presence. Even more so when being in that god or goddess's domain.

—"Venus of Dawn."

A light chuckle rumbles in the god's chest, giving a shake of his head- dismissing the greeting. His presence drapes over the exhausted soul like placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

No need to be afraid. I harbor no ill intent.

Ever since the very first day the incarnated spirit arrived on Esperia, brought from the beyond by Merlin, he knew of the child's presence. Along with all the misfortunes and sorrows that the weathered spirit had endured across his four previous lifetimes, each having left a gaping bitter mark etched upon him... As well as what fate has outlined for him for this current cycle and the many others after it. Though, knowing this soul has willfully chosen to hold the role of martyr or sacrifice to lead and aid those around him, does pique his fascinated curiosity. A path most thorned and not easy to walk...

—"Please, no need for such formalities, Pirin." The phantom straightens out, thoughts and emotions flowing like a jittery melody. It can't be helped, it seems. Summoning his goblet of ambrosia, Dionel raises it in a toast. "Come, my friend. Partake with me."

Another goblet appears from thin air, taking on the form of a simple wooden cup with a wavy reddish line around the rim.

A sweet memory of home, the drink being ice-cold freshwater from a mountain spring. It floats over, settling in the young man's gloved hand as he carefully steps forth and climbs the stairs.

Thank you, Dionel. The radiant god of banquets and indulgence simply settles comfortably, choosing to respond verbally to the star's thoughts.

—"The pleasure is all mine. It has been quite some time since I last had company." Doubt and irritation swirl, the Celestial picking up on them with ease but doesn't rush his guest to speak. A brief moment of serene silence passes before Ioan voices what's on his mind, looking into the mug of water in his hands, grey owl-like brows creased into a confused pensive scowl. Ah, yes. The current predicament and the question that had been left hanging since their first encounter.

—"I simply don't understand, why did the mage call out to me? What is it that made Merlin think of entrusting his role to me instead of carrying it himself?"

—"You are viewing the journey as a dutiful burden. Perhaps it would be better to change the lens and consider it from a different angle of perspective?" The star looks up, unsure. The god of song and wine doesn't elaborate on his point, letting his words sink in and be processed, knowing the person in front of him is perceptive enough to catch on quickly. Instead he swirls the ambrosia in his hand, taking a slow sip and savoring it. I see your point. However I still firmly believe it wasn't supposed to be mine to begin with. Dionel only offers a patient, knowing and amused look in turn as he calmly refutes. Look closer, child of the Eclipse. You already hold the answers that you are looking for.

—"I- It was supposed to...? Wait, so I was supposed to become a node in his reincarnations??" Frustrated, stubbornly refusing to face the truth laid at his feet. Denial and fear of failing, letting down those who look up to him.

And fear of getting attached, and the inevitable loss of it all.

The fear of old tragedies repeating themselves anew lurking underneath. The lessons of forgiveness and embracing change being uncomfortable truths for him.

Yet, the experiences and connections borne from this journey in the pursuit of holding the world aloft have inevitably already long left their marks, helped the vex grow well into his role as 'Merlin'. A steadfast kindhearted leader whom holds peoples' hopes and dreams close, uniting them together while resolving crises with a clear mind and piercing through the fog of illusion. A hero.

Such was the Magister's goal from the start-To step back from his endlessly cyclical venture and recuperate, reflect before becoming faulty, loosing sight of the mission; While giving rise to 'newer blood', ushering a new perspective to help himself further improve as well alongside the new legend... And be reminded of his own lessons as well through his observations from the sidelines.

—"Indeed."

An unwelcome presence emerges, causing the Celestial's lips to thin. What is that vile fiend doing here?

—"Aww come on, don't give these looks! Where's the fun, the smiles, the joy? Why so serious?"

—"Why, are you here, clown?" Berial makes a face as though wounded, sinking to one knee with a hand over his forehead, pretending to have been greatly saddened by the mercenary's sharp hiss. Only to fall into the ground and pop back out right in front of him, still feigning being a damsel in distress as he drapes himself over the shorter man's shoulders, wings dangling limply and tail swishing slowly.

However gets zero reaction from either--Pirin because he's not impressed by the bravado and Dionel due to not wanting to deign him with any. The light disapproving scowl of cold disdain is enough clue of the gallant Celestial's thoughts on the mouthy fool.

Oh come on! Really?? Nothing at all? Spoilsports.

—"So heartless.. You wound me, 'Merlin', truly." Turning to look at the deity, the impish demon grins wickedly as he hurls a callous jabbing remark his way. This provocation, too falls flat. "Dionel, old pal- What happened to my warm welcome? Aren't you the god of feasts and cheer, and I your guest?" Then the jester slithers towards his old-time foe, slowly tilting his head as if it would fall off his shadowy body, voice sweetly venomous and mocking. "Or am I not special enough to be invited, hmm? To have the same courtesy as the legendary V.I.P Magister?"

—"I do not entertain the likes of you, Berial." -The Venus of Dawn utters flatly in an even tone, meeting the rapscallion's leer coolly. Doesn't give him the satisfaction of loosing his composure and snapping, no matter how much he's tempted to wring that insolent Hypogean's neck and fling him straight back to the abyss he crawled from after spearing him at least a thousand times. Still haven't forgotten those stunts the buffoon has had pulled off back in the ye olden days. And while back then Dionel would've loved to get back at the clown, now he knows much better than to fly into ire and charge blindly. That kind of action would only feed and encourage the imp.

—"Berial, get to the point. Why did you come here?" The jester blinks, gleeful smirk not faltering as he turns his head three hundred and sixty degrees before slowly turning his body to align and bounces over back to Pirin.

—"Why, a little tweety told me that you're giving free hugs! So I popped by to get mine, of course~! Bet you already gave one to Mr. Sloth drunk, hm?"

... I'm going to snap Merlin's neck when I get back, consequences be damned.

—"I didn't. And I'm not giving you one either, so get lost." Aww, but I'm on your team regularly! I thought we were buddies by now! That's because you're useful for turning the battle in our favor. Not 'cause we're 'old pals'.

—"So much for that free-hugs tour...Tsk, my disappointment is immeasurable and my day is ruined. And here I was, looking forward to it. Alas, this clown gets no love today.. Pity." Taking off his top-hat and twirling it in the air, the Hypogean tosses it up and leaps off the ground to jump inside of the hat. "Well, I have places to be- Tooda-loo~! See you in the next match!" With that, the fiend is gone.

Looking back over to Dionel, the shorter pale man opens his mouth, but before he could say anything-

The spell activates. In a blink, Pirin vanishes into thin air, getting teleported to the next stop of the unintentional 'free hugs' tour throughout Esperia.

--------

Is it just me, or is the teleportation much faster all of a sudden? —Tensing up as if hitting a bump in a road and sharply flaring his arms out, flailing a bit to maintain balance upon narrowly loosing it, he glances up at the skies. Clear deep blue still, the sun beginning its steady descent signaling afternoon is approaching...And it's beating down relentlessly with no remorse, the air vibrating with the unforgiving heat as a breeze kicks up some dust off the dry ground. Right back to square zero.

Taking a step forward and squinting at the shifting sands, the felled star struggles to catch his breath and keep moving in search of a shade to cool off.

But every single step feels weighted down and limbs like lead, throat already parched and scratchy. It took a good three months to adapt to the harsh desert, time that isn't on hand now.

Who knows when the teleportation spell will kick in again?

Wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and continuing to stubbornly push on ahead, the need for water starts to add up rapidly, body desperately screaming for some hydration to lower the temperature. The waypoint is so close yet so very out of reach. Just a little more... Stumbling a little, the snowy-haired vampire stops in his tracks, heaving for breath and hunched over with his hands gripping his knees firmly to keep grounded.

"This...constant...rapid change of climate, isn't doing me any favors..." -He mutters under his breath between panting and swallows before forcing himself to trudge onwards, still not out of determination to make it to the closest waystone just up ahead. The world starts to spin, vision blurring as nausea hits and making sense of his own thoughts starts to become increasingly difficult. Grimacing, he clutches at his head, barely making another step, knees going weak. A clear baritone voice calls from somewhere ahead, vaguely familiar—A figure of a bear-like Mauler approaching cautiously before moving bit more rapidly, as if jogging or sprinting to close the distance. I...I think I might faint.. The world spins and goes out to black.

Several minutes pass in silence and floating in the void, only somewhat aware of the distant voices conversing outside along with the shuffling of people. It's hard to make out a single word, but they do sound concerned or slightly anxious. It's less scorching in here, wherever that happens to be. Some more chattering, warm fuzzy clawed hands grip him by the scuff of his shirt then nimble footsteps, dragging his body along. A ringing feminine voice huffs, the young man replying back something which leads to a brief exchange between them until the bear relents, and the hand turns to two strong arms effortlessly hoisting him up. More dutiful quick steps accompanied by another set not far behind.

And then a very sudden cold sensation follows, water then getting sharply lifted up—

Startled at being plunged into the lake like this, Pirin's eyes snap open and he gasps for air, stiff as a plank, looking around with alarm and lingering disorientation.

—"Soren!" -A very discontent, worried Alsa barks at her brother, making him look over his shoulder at her with a seemingly nonchalant 'what?' scowl. Putting her gauntleted hands on her hips indignantly, the blond pangolin-like young woman goes on to scold him for his callous approach to bringing their friend back to consciousness, scaly tail lowering from how it had straightened out like an exclamation mark.

"Don't dunk him in the water like this! We're trying to wake Pirin up, not drown him!" In truth, Soren was far from intending on drowning the frailer man or harming him in any way.

Problem is, unlike his foster younger sister, he's generally not one to be very gentle, steady or careful and patient to begin with—It only gets worse when he's panicked or agitated.

He had been intending to lower their comrade into the lake and hold him slightly submerged in the cool waters to help with the overheat problem, bring his temperature down...However was already worried upon first spotting the 'magister' while patrolling the clan's perimeter, then got more anxious when he saw Pirin swaying and unresponsive to his calls. The mage was out cold for fifteen minutes, going on twenty without any signs of stirring or coming back, and it made Soren's anxiety spike, fearing for the worst...and then panicked. Good thing Alsa managed to stay relatively composed and help keep him somewhat grounded.

—"I'm not going to let him drown, Alsa. It's fine." Not one for admitting to such weakness, the ursine warrior attempts to play it off cool, act like it's nothing. When inwardly he cringes at his own poor reaction to the situation and equally poor choice of words, ears pinning back a little for a second before perking up and giving a slight twitch. One of them swivels in their friend's general direction. His sibling scowls disapprovingly up at him, and because of his stupid pride, Soren goes on to dig his grave even further. Silently kicks himself for it mentally, feeling guilty and bad for even saying those defensive words. A very indifferent 'See? Problem solved.'

And right away, the secondary chieftain of the Uru tribe briefly tenses up as the pale magister moves like a spring in his arms, wrapping him into a tight hug. Partially out of surprise, and also of out of not wanting to accidentally drop the smaller man into the lake, grip tightening instinctively. Looking down at the fragile-looking fellow clutching onto him like a drowner and shivering, Soren blinks, completely flabbergasted and finally manages to find his voice.

—"What's gotten to you?" Was the stroke that bad...? Probably not, his chalk-pale skin is still somewhat flushed and warmer than it should be but it's not burning or as red as a few moments ago. No sign of delirium either, looks perfectly sober. Coming to stand beside her older brother, Alsa peers down at their companion worriedly with a weak smile of relief on her round face, reaching out a small callous hand to touch his forehead. His temperature is getting back down to normal. That's good, thank the Dusk lord. It's a miracle you managed to recover so quickly.

—"Are you alright, Vanya? How is your head? Are you nauseous?" Meanwhile Soren keeps up his usual stoic expression, hiding his lingering anxiousness behind a veneer of indifference and pretending to be unaffected. A nasty habit he still hasn't gotten rid of fully. However the furred young protector doesn't let go, a subtle clue of how shaken he is from this close call, russet-brown eyes looking over their friend's slim form for any injuries or other kinds of damage then relaxes a tiny bit at seeing none. Affirms to himself that, yes, Pirin is okay and no longer in grave peril. His own quiet and more subdued way of fussing over the delicate-appearing insomniac.

Memories of their adventures crawl their way up to his mind's eye and the tall Mauler can't help but feel a distant pang of odd nostalgia, a warmth. It was one hell of a ride from start to the very end—This outlander coming in on their clan's turf with two talking hamsters in tow, passing the three trials with his aid, be it more direct or less so at times, fighting Orson at Mars Peak and driving the fake Merlin away. Only to get slapped with three twists one after the other, that being the Merlin who had came to the desert was actually a Hypogean wearing his appearance and then Pirin's real identity...That truth in itself was a shocker and felt like a gut punch at first. The last secret was even more of a surprise, how the real Magister Merlin has chosen to stay cooped up in his home and send a double in his place. It stung. Eventually he, Alsa and their clan came to accept the blood-sucker as Merlin, as he proved himself to be well worth the title, as well as a trustworthy friend. Suddenly it made sense as to why the man had been so insistent on being called by his name, or nickname, by them and the kids instead of 'Magister' or 'Merlin'. Sometimes they'd lark and call him 'Little finch' until the goofy nickname stuck, and became common.

As days and weeks blurred together, the little ghost became like a part of the Uru clan. Back then both Soren and Alsa, along with the other orphans had noticed how strangely nervous and fidgety he'd get aside from his general restlessness. However none of them could understand where that jitteriness comes from or why it seemed to get particularly bad around Soren specifically. As for the secondary clan chieftain himself, he had a small hunch but kept silent, figuring it's none of his business to pry and that the man would either explain sooner or later. Or not out of his own reasons.

Gradually that odd restlessness faded away, the inner conflict resolved.

It was on that night prior to leaving, that their friend pulled the two of them aside to the campfire once the kids were sound asleep in their respective tents. Turns out he had gotten a pretty strong crush on Soren the first day he had laid eyes on him, however constantly fought it off as their misadventures went on, not wanting to overstep or be even more of a nuisance.

The revelation left both siblings a bit surprised—Alsa more so than her brother who merely smiled in mild knowing amusement, hunch confirmed. Somewhere along the journey, that crush morphed into purely platonic and deeply familial love, viewing the warrior as a younger sibling and best friend just like Alsa and the clan.

"Throughout this whole journey of playing Merlin, I didn't think I would ever find someone that I'd readily lay down my life for. Even less to find my second family in the middle of a desert, yet here I am."

The primary chieftain had teared up with a sunny, joyful grin, restraining herself from hopping off the boulder bench and throwing her arms around the short man into a tight, warm hug. Soren, for his part only chuckled as he got up to head back— pausing to playfully pull him with an arm into a side-hug and ruffled his hair. Much like how he'd do with his other siblings. The sentiment very much being mutual. Even in present day, they and the Uru tribe got the albino's back and would jump in to fight tooth and claw without hesitation if it comes to it to protect him. "You mess with Ioan, and you'd be messing with the Uru clan.", as Alsa had proudly declared with a fiery determination.

—"I'm.. an idea better, thank you." There's a strained smile on his face, and already both siblings could practically hear his next words. Something along the lines of 'I'm sorry for the trouble I caused you two.' or 'Sorry for worrying you.' So, before 'Merlin' opens his mouth to say those apologies and Alsa starts to dote on him, Soren decides to cut this topic short. Otherwise these two would waste half an hour exchanging pleasantries. Stepping out of the lake, he lowers the other man onto his feet and keeps a hand on his shoulder to steady him. And also prevent him from falling in case Vanya looses his balance.

—"Can you walk?" -The clan defender cuts to the point, disentangling and lightly pushing the vampire from himself.

As much as he's fine with hugs and being on the receiving end of affectionate gestures, right now isn't the time for such things.

Safety and ensuring their friend's well-being is top priority, namely preventing another heatstroke and helping with his recovery from the one he has had not too long ago.

Some of the kids look on from the sidelines with apprehensive eyes, some tentative to approach and wanting to help out as well but fear they'd more likely get in the way, and others have begun to hesitantly come over. Most get relieved and calm down when their big sister explains what happened and that their second big brother is much better now, but still needs to recover a little more. Blinking, another apology bubbles up his throat however holds it back and offers a simple, albeit slightly uncertain, answer instead.

—"I think so, yes." Nodding in satisfaction, the second in command hums a short 'Good.' and begins to head back towards the tents, ushering the other along. Alsa soon rejoins them, only to get pulled into a hug as well. Seriously, what's going on with him today? Not that either of them mind it, it's just rather out of left field.

A look of surprise crosses the short-haired Mauler's features, which quickly turns into her iconic bright, warm grin of happy affection as she hugs back right away with a bone-crushing grip and a fond 'Aww!'

Shaking his head at the two of them with a mildly mirthful smile of reserved fondness, the bear-like toned man gently break up their group cuddling, keeping things on track, much calmer now.

—"Alright, let's get to the tents first. Come on." Alsa quickly lets go, and Pirin flashes him another sheepish smile as he falls in-step with the two of them. It doesn't take long for the upbeat tribeswoman to begin buzzing in their guest's ear, chattering away excitedly about whatever came to mind— What she and some of the children had found yesterday while foraging, the visit they got from Brutus some days ago, filling him in on how the clan has been faring these days, talking about much her brother's cooking has improved (it really hasn't.) and how she managed to get him to sing once again. Despite knowing very well Soren's crowing sounds far more like a fierce war-cry than anything remotely close to actual singing.

It's how it sounded the first time around, and it's not about to change anytime soon for sure. But she still praises it anyways.

—"It still sounds a little intimidating, but it's getting better!" —"Wait, really?" —"Yes! It's so much better than it was the first time I asked him!" At this Soren snorts.

—"It's still the same, don't listen to my sister. A vulture grunts more sonorously than I do."

Reaching the tents, the three of them settle down, picking Soren's due to Alsa's allegedly being bit of a mess and smaller. It honestly didn't matter as it's only her and the Pallid covenant who sat down on the cot, the fighter preferring to stay standing, not one for sitting down. Also in case he needs to fetch something or move around. It's then that the clan's primary chieftain realizes that the shorter man is still in heavy need of hydration, jumping to her feet as if stung and darts off, putting their catching up lively conversation on-hold with a chirped "I'll go get you some water! Be right back!"

Before the vex could protest, she's already a few steps ahead, leaving him to stare after her with a sigh. It's just how Alsa is— Ever the dotting, attentive mother hen of the clan or any group she's in. Fussing over everyone and making sure nobody is left out, falls behind or is left uncomfortable and neglected, doing all of the chores and work while insisting everyone else to sit back and relax. Even more so when it comes to visitors.

—"It's been a long time since I last came to the desert.. I guess my body has forgotten how to deal with the heat here." -His mutter is humorous and vaguely nostalgic as he sweeps his eyes over the oasis with a soft smile, watching the clan's younglings play together or hang out while the more solitary ones wander about and keep some distance from their peers.

Glancing up at his friend, Pirin's tone turns teasing as if joking. However the dark-brown furred leader knows far better, catching onto the half-serious edge. Even long after their escapades, he's still been traveling with him frequently enough to know the other pretty well by now; what with being pretty much a near permanent member of the team besides that sassy, big-mouthed knight from Holistone and the Graveborn earl kid with the flowers along with the crafty sailor from Rustport.

Ask him or any of the other three, and you'd get a fairly long spot-on list of traits that their 'magister' has. Or, what some scholars like to call a 'psychological analysis profile'.

—"Think I can make myself adapt quicker by getting more exposure?" The idea of deliberately standing out in the sun without a drop of water multiple times a day makes Soren scoff, making his thoughts on it evident. Shooting the nocturnal humanoid a stern look of warning, arms crossed over his chest and ears pinning back.

Sometimes, he really wonders just how does this fool's brain work-or doesn't- to come up with conclusions like this one. And many similar ones, each more reckless than the last without a single thought spared about his own safety or health and life.

...With how unpredictable the man tends to be, as well as being heavily inclined to charge right into trouble without warning, every one of the team members had very quickly learnt to keep a close eye on him and to always have at least one of them by his side.

Don't even think about trying.

—"How about you don't push your luck for once, yeah?" Pirin gives a small humorless laugh, looking guilty as charged.

—"Kidding, kidding. I'm not going to pull that kind of stunt." Soren however, wasn't amused nor falling for this. That's what you said the last time.

—"Right. Sure. Whatever you say, Vanyusha." -The nickname makes one of the magister's brows twitch slightly at the corner, a tick of irritation. -"Ludovic sent me a letter two days ago, saying he won't able to make it for our next match." A pause, the gears turning in that pretty head then realization clicks in and a look of astonished surprise flashes across his delicate features, gasping.

—"Noo. Hang on, so you four write to each other to make sure I'm not alone??" Looks like it's Pirin's turn to be befuddled, scowling and fidgets with the hems of his sleeves. —"Mhm." A frown, the bear meeting it calmly with a faint innocent smirk as he hums. Blinking twice rapidly, the albino 'false Mauler' balks, sputtering in disbelief, earning a nonchalant shrug. —"Oh come on! I'm not that reckless! I can handle myself." —"You brought this onto yourself, Little finch. Did you forget the last time you almost died, picking a fight with a group of fishfolk all by yourself? Or when you charged in at some Claws and narrowly got fatally hurt?"

To name a few.

—"I-" Soon enough the pangolin-like Mauler returns with three bowls, one in each hand and the last one balanced on her head. Whatever attempts at refuting his argument Merlin was about to make die down and he gives up.

—"I'm back! Here you go!"

Taking the offered bowl of water from her hand, he tips his head in a nod and drinks up, downing it in one go then hands the bowl back to her. Alsa gives him a slightly worried look, taking the empty wooden bowl when he shakes his head at her unspoken question of whether to go get him more. Reluctantly, the woman moves to sit down on the ground with her own bowl. Soren quietly takes his own bowl after finally relenting and sitting down himself next to her, eyes turned to his own meal whilst keeping track of the conversation, ears swiveling and twitching once or twice at times.

—"I'll probably get teleported to Rustport any moment, but thanks for the water anyhow." —"Teleported?" The bear-like Mauler's ears twitch twice. 'Huh?'

—"Okay, I'll keep this short: Merlin put a silly spell on me that teleports me to the places I've visited prior along my journey, and gives me the impulse of hugging people. Also makes me be fully honest and say things I'd rather keep to myself."

Alsa frowns, bewildered and Soren pauses eating to look up, his ears moving back slightly. Both Maulers aren't very happy with the Magister's actions, and uneasy regarding the spell's effects. Reassuring smile playing on his lips, Pirin lifts his hands to brush off the siblings' apprehension, tone light.

"Don't worry, it's nothing that puts me at risk. It'll get lifted when I get back from my 'tour'."

After throwing that piece of helpful intel, the substitute looks down at his palms as he mumbles under his breath in a lamenting whine. "I really hate repeating myself like a parrot.. At least I'll have to say it one last time."

A tug pulls him out of his musings and he smiles apologetically yet again, then hurries to get his thoughts out before it's too late.

—"Anyway, very glad I got to see you and the kids again, thanks for hospitality— Sorry for dropping unannounced and the troubles! May try to visit again with no spell but no promises, will try to write you letters. Glad to be home for moment, love you, see you—"

Pirin disappears into thin air, leaving the two oldest orphans in the tribe of adopted misfits to stare at where he sat seconds ago. It took them a good several moments to figure out what he said.

---------------------

All it took to find himself standing next to the waypoint crystal in Rustport, was a blink. The waves below this rundown poor coastal town merrily singing their song underneath the gloomy evening skies and salty breeze are a welcome change. What wasn't a nice shift, however, is the equally unforgiving humidity with the added fishy stench that simply follows around practically everywhere.

Immediately, Pirin feels a little light-headed again and overwhelmed- not by another heatstroke, but by sheer sensory overload. The screeching of the gulls overhead, the pungent stink of sewers, decay and not properly washed people, the bustle of the streets--All cranked to a thousand in his ears. The one glaringly massive downside to having a nose and hearing keener than a hunting hound's. Other than that, in a way, this rowdy crime-rife harsh sailors' town is just as stunningly beautiful as any other place on Esperia.

Ridiculous. I spend a day and a half in more peaceful environments, and now I'm overloaded.

..I guess, that's more than enough.

"Oohkay, let's get this silly tour done with." -He mumbles to himself under his breath, already feeling that familiar tug dragging him off to the next target on its hugging agenda.

Without a second's hesitation, his feet begin to briskly shuffle ahead and the felled star doesn't even bother with trying to resist. The legs will go wherever they want to go. Weaving through the dirty cobblestone roads and past the elevator leading to Rustport's upper district, within a few moments the town's gates come into view.

Raising his brows questioningly at the spell's pull, Pirin inwardly groans, already knowing where it leads—To Brineville. To Sinbad.

Oof course it's him. Why did I think I'd go looking for Sonja, Lucca, Nara, or Hugin?

...Hang on a moment.

Aren't they also my allies at least? I mean, I wouldn't go as far as classifying the Carmine Whispers' leader or her guard as a friend per se..but she was a consistent ally. Also Lucca.

Isn't that how Merlin's dumb little hex works? Yanking him around like a ragdoll to friends and family, both old and new to give them a big ol' warm hug? Oh wait, right—crushes count too.

The hoodoo follows his heart, not who the mind deems close or as an aide.

A displeased glower curls onto his face.

The Carmine Whispers didn't so much as grip his heart or interest, merely got tagged as 'cooperators, for now' by his brain and that was that; nothing changed those inner stances, not even witnessing the gang-woman's pains and learning of her tragedies. Same goes for her sister. For all intents and purposes, Nara only got chalked up as a loose cannon to be wary around in his mind.

As for Hugin, the engineer got pretty close to crossing off from 'ally' to 'friend', surprisingly, but still didn't quite get there by the time his adventures ended. Unlike how Alsa, Soren and their clan or Valen and Sinbad pretty much instantly yanked his heart akin to how kindred spirits would. Nevermind that three of these people have attitude, mindset and interests that are completely opposite of his own. On a spectrum from closest to farthest to him in terms of personalities, Soren is the most closest with Valen and Sinbad being a little further and Alsa standing on other end.

Well, the heart sure works in strange ways. And it's so, so very greedy lately.

The clattering, humming and buzzing of Rustport soon give way to the soft sounds of natural wildlife, lanes and pavements traded for muddy pebbled pathways and damp grass. Too bad the stupid spell isn't letting up. With each step along the downtrodden trail sneaking through the dense jungle- like forest, the uncomfortable feeling grows more persistent. It's getting late, and here he is, beelining for the village like some intruder. Try with all his might to will his legs to stop or turn back, Pirin is only met with failure as Merlin's jinx keeps dragging him along without regard or remorse.

What am I even supposed to say? 'Hey so, I know it's late but I just really had to come over here and give your son a hug. I promise I'm not crazy!'

Tch, as if this kind of nonsense would work.

A jolt runs through the vampire like a sharp electric shock, similar to how it did upon hearing the Solitaire's voice back in Southville, and his marching strides break into a full-on sprint.

The modest small widows' village comes into view and a very familiar tall blond with it. It seems that the sailor is headed there to check on his mothers and give them what 'haul' he had scrounged up during the day's hustle.

No, no, no, no- Wait!

——Two cold arms wrap around his waist with a tightly squeezing embrace, making the swindler's heart leap into his chest and hammer as a strong bout of roaring adrenaline sharply flares. Out of knee-jerk impulse, Sinbad quickly reaches a hand for one of his daggers and prepares to throw a hard kick at the person glued to his back like a post stamp. Or elbow the man and give a nasty punch, anything to break free and fight back—barely stopping himself right on time as the stranger spoke in a soft breathlessly faint tenor that he'd recognize anywhere.

More like frantically yelped 'Friend! Friend! Sorry!', grip tightening in tension instinctively. Good god, a warning would've been really nice! Exhaling a huff as his racing heartbeat calms closer to normal, his squared shoulders drop.

Looking down at his pale friend peering up back at him somewhat shyly, the scarred street-rat's face lights up with a mildly confused but otherwise pleasantly surprised smile— Happy to see him again. Even though he chides the little ghost for scaring him half to death by sneaking up like this out of nowhere, earning himself a guilty look in return.

—"By Tritonus, Pirin! Don't scare me like this! I thought I'm being ambushed by a Wight, or some other thug." An apologetic hum greets him in response, the latter looking down almost like a kicked puppy, murmuring another 'Sorry..' barely above a whisper. Something feels off.

Initial spook fully worn off, the tanned orphan's smile falters, quickly noticing the mildly flushed, clammy skin and how it's warmer than it should be. What did you get yourself into this time, Vanyo..?

Scratching the back of his head with a hand, the outlaw disentangles from the hug and turns to properly face the doll-like leaner man, brushing off his apology as he gives him a brief cursory look for any other signs of damage.

—"Nah, it's fine. You caught me off-guard, that's all." Pirin winces as Sinbad places a hand on his forehead, getting a little annoyed at being fussed over like a kid and being worried over. "You seem to be running a fever.. I'm no doctor, but it might be a good idea to get you some medicine before this gets bad. How's your stomach, does it hurt? Any leg cramps or nausea?"

I understand that they're my friends and care about me and all, but seriously!

—"Sinbad, I'm okay! You don't have to worry about me." -He mutters sourly with a light scowl, pushing the hand away akin to how a cat would paw or swat irritably. "I don't have salmonella, or cholera, there's no need to rush back in town for medicine."

Great, now I feel like a jerk.

It's not like the man doesn't have a reason to arrive at the assumption given how often he's seen him jump down in the sewers both during and after their adventures.

First time was to nab the treasures hidden in there and clear out the enemies lurking, second time was when him, Lucca and Sonja discovered the secret passage leading to the Carmine Whispers' base themselves while he had already gone through it, and the third time was to chase down the Don. Gods know what kind of bacteria are in that putrid sewage and anything else nasty, disease-inducing as well. Sighing and playing with the hem of his sleeve, Pirin goes on to elaborate, a bad taste in his mouth at the small outburst he just had.

—"Look, Merlin and I got into a disagreement which led to the Magister putting a hex on me. And, well, it teleports me around the places I've visited previously during my journey—one of them being a desert. So I got a heatstroke and recovered for the most part but not entirely, hence why my skin is still far warmer than it should be, red as a crab and clammy."

—"You had a stroke?" And I thought I'm a trouble-magnet! —"It's not as bad now! I swear I didn't purposefully sit out in the sun!"

Sinbad crosses his arms with a pick in his mouth, clearly not believing his words.

"Okay, I know I've been rather reckless these past few months by charging into scuffles and running in circles around the rhinos near Century Forge. Sure, fine. But I won't deliberately cause myself a heatstroke for no reason. I'm not a masochist."

The scruffy sailor still appears unconvinced but lets the matter slide, letting his arms drop to his sides and rest on his hips as Pirin clears his throat awkwardly. Steering the conversation back to the main point, the magister's stand-in hurriedly moves on to elaborate on the spell; All the while unknowingly waving around his hands and fidgeting with anything that comes briefly into his grasp, physically restraining himself from going for another hug or potential cuddling session and blurting out his thoughts.

All tale-tell signs of being nervous, the look of self-conscious guilt and rapidly reddening face adding to it. Namely, what he's currently doing- One hand gingerly fiddling with the V-line collar of his shirt and lightly digging at the ground with a foot like how a horse would paw, looking off in a direction in their surroundings. A 'gesture' which Sinbad learnt means something like 'Wanna go for a walk?' Kind of cute. The broke mercenary hums a simple ''mhm.'' as in 'sure', nodding along as his companion carried on speaking so to say 'I'm listening.' without interrupting.

And so they go on to saunter down the muddy path leading to the broken pier at the beach with Pirin walking at a semi-brisk gait while he easily keeps up in-step by his side. Not that the usually quiet mage notices, too caught up chattering.

—"Anyway, the jinx also makes me impulsively run up to people and hug them, ergo the 'surprise attack' I gave you. At least Rustport is my last stop and this 'free hugs trip' is finally over with. I'm...trying not to yap a lot, although I can't seem to shut my trap, likely another effect of Merlin's spell besides being fully honest." A small, awkward chuckle. "Най-вероятно и като нищо звуча като дървен философ в момента."

Glancing skyward, the seaside savant calmly slides in a response to the comment's last part a bit absently with a slightly tired lilt to his smooth countertenor voice, mind jumping between a thousand different things in the background. Planning out for tomorrow- what potential escape routes to take if things go south and the state of the two 'job' markets, potential clients and actual jobs he can snag- mapping out scenarios...While also currently listening to the shorter man with half-an ear.

—"You do, yeah. Both actually. No offense." It's not like he doesn't like chatting with the 'magister' or isn't excited to see him again, on the contrary. It's just that today had been particularly long and stressful, and he was sort of on his way home to check on his mothers then crash to get some beauty sleep. So, kind of being low-energy right now. Nothing personal. Eyelids feeling heavy and drooping, Sinbad yawns, covering his mouth with a hand but keeps his casual laid-back smirk intact. The way Pirin winces at noticing his off-key demeanor doesn't elude him, or the self-criticizing assumptions that practically flash across his forehead in massive bold screaming letters.

None of which are correct, by the way.

Naturally, he doesn't say any of them aloud but it's plain as day. Unlike Soren, who doesn't get subtleties and can't read between the lines or read others very well, he can. Looping an arm around Ioan's narrow boney shoulders, he casually pulls the other into a loose side-hug and jovially taps- or more like pokes- his temple. A show of affection, light playfulness and simply larking with him.

—"You know I can practically hear your thoughts, right Lark?" The nocturnal critter blinks up at him blankly as if stumped. Both at the offhanded comment and the nickname. On one of the more rainy days, he and the team had ducked into a 'heart-to-heart' corner near the Golden guest. Pirin had hardly noticed when he'd started to hum, then softly whistle, then quietly sing in his native. Until everyone piped down and remained quiet, listening to the last fading notes of his merry tune. Thus the nickname 'lark' sprung. And the team has been mostly using it since, switching it up with 'Little finch' here and there. A silly nickname Soren had coined up due to how "tiny and constantly startled" he is, flitting to and fro.

—"..I wasn't thinking aloud, was I?"

—"Nope, but you're not being very subtle either." A faint 'ow' escapes from Ioan when he claps him on the shoulder, a short glimpse of a silly, flashy bravado that eases off once again as he explains his current condition. "Let me remind you that you're not an annoying burden on anyone, me included. I'm just tired and today has been rather hectic. This is why I'm not as upbeat or lively like usual. Alright? It's nothing personal."

Still not fully convinced and hesitant, however the flash of relief is a good sign. Thoroughly red-faced, the 'ghost' hurries to look away and holds back an apology, suddenly very shy again. What slips from his lips catches Sinbad by surprise- hardly above a mutter but it's there. And he heard it clearly. No doubt one of the things that Pirin would rather prefer to keep to himself, judging how he immediately tenses up and short-circuits the second he realizes he let that one tumble out like this. Huh. This explains the restlessness recently.

—"I've gotten rather greedy these days. I've been having this crush on Val for a fortnight now or two, and then I go and develop this dumb crush on you the first day we meet. Worst part is that neither fizzled away at all! It only gets worse. ...Oh no." Guess I'm having competition then.

"Forget I said anything. Ignore all this, it's gibberish." Sinbad blinks, casting his companion a side-glance, burly eyebrows raised almost to his hairline. A few seconds pass as his mind works to process said 'gibberish', giving the words attention rather than letting them mostly slip right out the other ear after registering like he's been doing for the duration of their friendly talk.

A slow, teasing smile curls at the corners of his mouth, his grip around the 'finch' tightens ever so slightly, enough to keep Pirin from bolting off. Poor lad freezes up and goes redder than a ripe tomato. Doesn't even notice when or how he veered them towards a nearby palm-tree and pinned him against it loosely, one hand propped on his hip and the other leaned on the trunk over Pirin's head.

—"Really? Didn't think you had it in you. And here I was, assuming you're just restless by default." Jesting, charmingly affable teasing tone as though shrugging the confession off. Larking in good nature, of course. It's all in good fun.

"So, me and Valen, eh? I'm curious as to which one of us you would pick in the end. The charming knight in shining armor who makes you swoon..." -His voice drops to a seductively low note that still playfully toes the fine precipice of light-hearted chaffing. Creates suspense to keep him on-edge, left to guess his intentions.

"Or would you rather get swept off your feet by this rowdy seadog?" Pirin's breath hitches in his throat, pearly eyes wide as saucers in obvious shocked, disbelieving surprise, heart doing a somersault and a skip.

A part of him knows that the roughish, hardy sailor is only merely pulling his leg and fanning the flames, toying with him to rouse a reaction.

Nothing will come out of it.

But that rational conclusion doesn't stop his heart from hammering like a hummingbird's wings or to squeak "Please do." quietly regardless. Shaking his head to shoo away the stupid fluttering, Pirin puts on a frown of half-hearted annoyance which fails miserably as he backpedals and pushes at his friend's shoulders, looking off to the waves lapping at the coarse beach. "I mean don't. Don't do that."

—"Aannywho, that pretty much wraps my tour-Gotta mousy, soo, see you--" With this sheepish, nervous small laugh and a strained smile, he looks back at the dust-blond seawolf and attempts to slip away out of his grasp like a ferret. Deeming the encounter over, and so out of his depth. Unfortunately the ice-cold hermit doesn't manage to get far, barely a meter, before a hand easily catches him by the scruff of his tailcoat and halts his steps. The tactical retreat has failed spectacularly.

Where's that bloody hex when I need it?? Why isn't this surprising in the least. The one time the teleporting jinx can be actually useful, it refuses to kick in or stalls horribly. Makes one wonder if this was also a part of Merlin's little scheme all along. It tugs him back, careful not to strangle, his back lightly hitting against the other's chest. That light-hearted lilt of near sing-song mischief is no good.

—"No, no, hang on. You're not slipping away so easily." Once again Pirin wrestles to compose himself and play it cool, stubbornly refusing to so much as entertain the idea.

—"You're not into men anyways." -He huffs with a mild scoff, desperately fighting to not react to the shrugging, half-joking remark Sinbad offers him back readily. The memory of when the two of them are sneaking in to infiltrate the Water Wights' camp with Sonja, after disguising as fellow guards resurfaces in his mind's eye like smoke plumes. When bribing that last guard with his favorite fish and the crafty street-rat had effortlessly diverted the goon's attention by waving his suspicious questions off with a made-up story of how they had a round or two of drinks at the tavern in the company of pretty women. He's not interested. How troublesome to have this crush..

—"Well, about that. Haven't fooled around to find out yet, so I wouldn't know. We could try, though. And you do pass off as a woman, if someone squints a wee bit. A win-win if you will." Come on, he's just messing with you.

The 'little finch' gives a wry chuckle then retorts back easily, almost as though challenging in a way, keeping matters anchored within the circle of witty and humorous banter. 'Cause that's all there is to it.

—"Please. No, I don't. I'm as much of a lassie as you're serious with this." Immediately, a jolt of regret stabs at realizing the sailor wouldn't back down, now that he's been thrown the gauntlet. And boy doesn't Sinbad bite back. Sinbad's tone of voice turns cheekily flirtatious, smidge more daring and bold as he deliberately turns the doll-like shorter man to fully face him, chest to chest, rum-hued gaze holding a gleam of mischief.

In fact, he goes on to up the stakes, placing a tanned hand at the back of Pirin's head and leans in slightly. Throws the ball right back in his court, giving as good as he gets without so much as a hesitance.

—"And what if I happen to be?" ...I'm cooked. The notion causes his heart to flutter, a sense of excitement and giddiness swirling but he stamps it down in favor of clinging onto denial.

—"Sinbad, quit bluffing with me." -Is what the mage huffs out in lieu of an answer to the challenge with a stern pout, the no filter honesty having at long last worn off. Once again Pirin is back to his usually composed, somber, steely and aloof quiet self, keeping a card or three close to his chest and six more in his sleeves. Recognizing this shift as his cue to step down, the blond young man pulls back, his embrace mellowing to a loose hug. Then lets go, smirk easing up back to one of plain laid-back friendliness. Although his eyes still hold the lingering embers of vivacious and daring teasing, the flirt is relatively toned down to almost zero that's well within affable territory. And besides, the magister's disgruntled hiss wasn't a flat-out rejection but more of a diversion than anything else. Which leaves the door open to possibilities.

—"Fine, fine. I gotcha." -He concedes, raising his hands in placating mock-surrender before letting them drop at his sides. Looking after Pirin's retreating form as the vampire begins to stalk off towards the waypoint crystal in Brineville, Sinbad gives a few moments of quiet before following suit up the path.

Standing in front of the gloomy purple glassy stone, Pirin reaches out a hand and takes a step forward.

—"Vanya."

He pauses and turns to look over his shoulder as the rascal's voice calls out to him. The smile in it is clear. Yep. Merlin was right to call you a punk. It feels like time comes at a stand-still, the world and everything else along with it falling into the background. Just two friends and brothers in arms standing face to face at a small distance. The adventures had ended as quickly as they had started, passed in a whirlwind blur of events, and yet they had still become each other's most trusted confidant. How funny that is.. It's almost like we beat Hodgkin and solved the crisis plaguing Rustport only yesterday. This one definitely feels much shorter than the mishaps in the Ashen Wastes. Or was I so tunnel-visioned on getting the job done that I didn't notice time go by?

"If you change your mind, let me know. Drinks will be on me." -The disheveled sailor half-jokes with a wink and that iconic snazzy smirk of his.

—"Don't make promises you can't keep, my friend. I already know that I'll be the one paying the tab next time we go to a tavern." Like always, given how poor ole Sinbad is always perpetually moneyless.

Said man gives him a lighthearted 'you know me too well' look with a small chuckle and the two of the bid each other goodbye.

Touching the stone, Pirin vanishes.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Here is a translation for the word(s) and sentences/phrases in bulgarian that Pirin didn't translate: -> Диване – Rascal. It can also be used as in 'fool' or for a naïve person. However I used it here more in the context of Merlin doing or saying nonsense. -> Дървен философ - Someone who is only bark and no bite, or just talks empty words while sounding 'profound' or 'deep'. What Pirin mean with it is something along the latter, or like endless yapping. -> Най-вероятно и като нищо звуча като дървен философ в момента. - I'm probably also sounding like saying empty words right now.

#afk journey #afk journey fanfic #afk valen #fanfic #oc #afk eironn #afk soren #afk lorsan #afk lyca #afk bryon #afk berial #afk merlin #afk dionel #afk phraesto #afk reinier #chippy & hammie #afk dolly

6 notes · View notes

middleearthpixie · 3 years ago

Text

In Time ~ Chapter Twenty-Five

Author's Note: I'm posting this far later than usual because today simply got away from me. Doncha hate that???

Summary: The Company of Thorin Oakenshield reaches Mirkwood, where Thorin will offer a deal to Thranduíl on Kili’s behalf, and later on, Amara runs into an old friend who fires up Thorin’s jealous streak

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield/Amara (female OC)

Characters: Thorin, Amara, the Company, Thranduíl, Aiduin of Mirkwood

Rating: T

Warnings: None

Word Count: 4,205

Taggin: @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @tschrist1

As it happened, their luck, did in fact hold out over the fortnight it took for them to reach Mirkwood’s border. Thorin scowled as they stood at the Mirkwood border, where two of Thranduíl’s men stood silent sentry. He didn’t want to be there. After all, the last time he and the others found themselves in Mirkwood, spiders had tried to eat them, elves tried to kill them, and Thranduíl himself had them tossed into then dungeons. If it hadn’t been for Master Baggins, who never did explain exactly how he managed it, snagging the dungeon keys, they might still be in those tiny, damp, woodland cells.

But, the hobbit had freed them, smuggled them out in barrels, in which they bounced about like corks tossed on the river’s swift current, battling not only the elves trying to stop them, but the orcs sent to hunt Thorin himself.

He looked over at Kili, whose eyes practically gleamed at the sight of the wood. It was because of this place he’d met Tauriel, the she-elf who’d saved his skin the first time. Saved his skin and apparently won his heart. Although Kili rarely spoke of her, Thorin had the feeling he knew exactly what went through his nephew’s mind. Most likely the same thing that went through his own mind whenever he looked at Amara.

Which was why they were at Thranduíl’s front door. As much as it would pain him—and it would definitely pain him—Thorin would willingly gift the Seven Stars of Middle Earth necklace to Thranduíl if it meant Thranduíl would give his blessing for Kili to court Tauriel. The same blasted necklace that kept the woodland elves from aiding Erebor in its time of need, that caused Thranduíl to threaten Erebor with what became the Battle of the Five Armies, would find its way to Mirkwood, no matter how much Thorin hated to do it. He had no love lost for Thranduíl and knew the feeling was mutual, but he’d put aside his own dislike and distrust of the Elf King if it mean Kili would find the same happiness with Tauriel that he’d found with Amara.

With that, he climbed down from his saddle and stepped up to the sentries. “Thorin Oakenshield to see Thranduíl.”

“Does His Highness expect you?”

He shook his head. “He does not, no. But tell him I have something he wants and I am willing to discuss parting with it.”

The two sentries looked at one another, then the shorter of the two turned as the doors opened noiseless, and disappeared inside.

Thorin stared down the second sentry. He didn’t like being in Mirkwood. The air was heavy with apprehension and dread, its waters were enchanted with what some considered black magic, and the spiders alone were enough to make him want to avoid the woods with ever fiber of his being, for they were no ordinary spiders. They were big enough to hunt man, dwarf, and elf, and did so without impunity. Even from where he stood, at the edge the wood and vine bridge that would lead them into the Kingdom of Mirkwood, he could see the wispy white spiderwebs in the distance. Just the sight of them was enough to bring back the claustrophobic feeling of being wrapped in one of their cocoons.

He fought off a shiver as the memory of being wrapped so suffocatingly tight, of being unable to move much more than a finger or a toe, rushing to the forefront of his mind. Again, if it hadn’t been for Master Baggins and his sword—which he’d dubbed Sting—they might not have survived long enough to find their way into those dungeons.

“What is taking so long?” Dwalin grumbled from his saddle.

“I am certain Thranduíl is trying to come up with some reason to deny us entry,” Thorin told him over one shoulder, “all the while his curiosity kills him because he knows he’ll not be able to.”

“I say we keep moving,” Dwalin countered. “Why are we even here?”

Thorin grinned at Kili. “Do you wish to explain or should I?”

Kili held his stare easily. “I am not the one who always railed about how untrustworthy elves were. I do believe that was you, Uncle.” He winked. “Tell me, do you still feel that way?”

He asked it with all the innocence one could put into a sentence and Thorin’s grin faded as the others all snickered. “Enjoy your laugh at my expense,” he growled, looking from one dwarf to the next, finally letting his gaze land on Kili once more. “But, remember, I have something he wants. So, I’d think twice about baiting me, Kili, since I’ve yet to actually give him what it is he covets. And if I decide to keep it for myself, you will most likely not be welcome here again.”

Kili’s face went red as the others now turned their snickers in his direction. Dwalin laughed the loudest. “Last time ye blushed tha’ bad, laddie, was when ye mistook an elf-lad for an elf-maiden.”

Now even the sentry grinned as Kili’s face went redder still. From the corner of his eye, Thorin saw Amara shake her head and he almost smiled when she said, “To be fair, it is sometimes difficult to tell them apart.”

Kili smiled at her. “Let them have their fun.” He looked back at Thorin. “I won’t have to eat any words.”

Now, Thorin smiled over his shoulder at her. “I don’t mind eating these words.”

“Mr. Oakenshield,” the first sentry returned, his expression neutral, “My Lord Thranduíl will see you. Follow me. Edyrm will see your ponies to the stables.”

The others dismounted and Thorin didn’t miss how Edrym’s gaze lingered on Amara. Thorin said nothing, but reached out to link his fingers with hers. “She’s with me.”

“Thorin!” Amara whispered.

“What? I’m merely stating a fact. You are with me.”

“I know that, but he does not care one way or the other.”

He shrugged. “I take no chances.”

She said nothing, but he didn’t miss how she rolled her eyes. Well, let her. He cared not. He had no problem making it perfectly clear to any curious elf that Amara was with him. Childish, perhaps, but he rather enjoyed knowing that they would at that moment be wishing they were him. And sane man—be they Man, elf, or dwarf—would want to be in his boots.

They followed their guide into Thranduíl’s palace. Unlike Rivendell, Thorin found no peace or tranquility in Mirkwood. Everything was dark, earthy tones of brown, beiges, red and gold, with hints of green here and there. The air felt heavy and thick, damp from all of the roots and vines that made up the palace walls. The walkways were wide, open of both sides, with what looked like endless drops on either side. Nothing had changed since the last time he stood in the throne room, where the Woodland Realm’s king sat perched high atop his throne.

Unlike the Rivendell king, Thranduíl was tall and lanky, with sleek almost-white blonde hair and wide, almost clear blue eyes. He wore a crown woven of golden twigs and leaves encrusted with gold and brown polished stones that changed color depending on how the light—what light there was—bounced off them. He wore long, flowing robes of gold over green, and two slender fingers on each hand bore rings of the same gold and brown stones in his crown.

Those blue eyes were not the least bit friendly as he peered down at them now. “Thorin Oakenshield. It has been some time since we last spoke. I believe I’d had you dragged off to rot in my dungeon, hadn’t I?”

“The dungeons from which I promptly escaped,” he retorted, unable to hold back his smirk.

Thranduíl offered up a bland smile. “Your hobbit friend had more to do with that than you did, did he not?”

“Be that as it may, I still escaped.”

“And then, of course, there was my visit to your doorstep.” Thranduíl’s voice grew colder, if that was even possible. “When you opted for war over negotiation.”

“I was not myself then.” Thorin cast a quick, sideline glance at Amara, whose hand tightened about his ever so slightly.

The Elvenking’s expression turned sympathetic, but only for a moment or two, then his face slid back into its impassive mask.

“So, what brings you and your—” Thranduíl’s piercing gaze slid about the others gathered around him, lingering on Amara just as Edrym’s did—“company, to my realm?”

Thorin glanced over at Kili, whose color had returned to normal, and said, “I come to you with a business proposition. One I’d rather discuss one on one with you.”

Thranduíl’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so? The last time you were in my chambers, you thought to insult me. Then, you challenged me to war.”

A bit of heat came to Thorin’s face and he fought the urge to look over at his company. He’d said the same thing to Thranduíl that he’d insulted Amara with when they’d first met. “Our meeting last time was a bit—ah—tense, on account of not only had we had the pleasure of dealing with your spiders, but then we were, for all intents and purposes, treated as prisoners.”

“You were, if I recall,” Thranduíl reminded him, his voice void of any emotion whatsoever, “trespassing in my woods. Of course you were treated as prisoners. As for the spiders, they are not mine.”

“Oh, for the love of—“ Dwalin growled, but Thorin cut him off.

“Hush,” he snapped, without looking at Dwalin. To Thranduíl, he said, “Even so, I do have something I think you would be interested in and I am willing to bargain for something in return. But, I’d rather do so privately.”

Thranduíl’s lips disappeared into a thin white line and the slender fingers slowly fanned across the arm of his wooded throne. Then, he nodded. “Very well. Lorsan, show our guests to the dining hall and make certain they have something to eat and drink. Then, you may show them to the guest chambers,” those eyes flicked back to Thorin, “as I assume you will wish to pass the night.”

The last thing he wanted was to try to sleep in this tangle of vines and roots, but since he very well couldn’t say that, he nodded. “Your hospitality is greatly appreciated.”

He turned to Amara. “I will join you all when I’ve finished here.”

She looked up at Thranduíl, then back at him. “Why do you look so serious? Is something the matter?”

“Not at all,” he assured her, catching her hand to give it a gentle squeeze. “I’m about to throw myself on my proverbial sword for Kili and I think I’ll have but one chance to get it right.”

She leaned in and whispered, “Tauriel?”

He nodded. “Exactly.”

“Well, good luck.” She bent to brush his cheek with her lips, a hint of laughter in her voice as she murmured, “Remember, be nice.”

“Am I ever not nice?”

She pulled away, one brow arched, “Ish kakfe—”

“Unfair. You said yourself I was in unimaginable pain and so could not be held—”

“I did and you were. Just tread carefully. Elves are vain and Thranduíl more so than most.” She patted his shoulder and followed after Balin, who waited as the rest of the dwarves filed out of the throne room.

Thorin turned back to the Elven King, who now stood atop his high dais. With extreme care, so as not to trip over his robes, he slowly descended and swept toward him. “What is this about? You seemed quite adamant that you were interested only in war the last time we met.”

“Nearly dying has a way of changing the way one looks at things,” Thorin replied evenly. “I have had time enough to reflect on my actions and the mistakes I made leading up to the battle. And now, I’ve come to rectify those mistakes.”

“Have you?” A hint of amusement wove into Thranduíl’s voice, his gaze direct and unwavering. “And if your terms do not interest me?”

“They will.”

Lorsan led the group down deeper into the palace, where the air felt even colder and damper, and smelled of moss and rainwater. Amara shivered from the dampness, wrapping her arms about herself and rubbing her upper arms to try to warm herself, for all the good it did.

The others didn’t seem to notice the dank chill. Either that, or they didn’t care, for they chatted amongst themselves. She lingered behind them, looking about at how the roots from the trees of Mirkwood wove through one another to make the walls of the palace below.

“Amara?”

She froze at the soft, smooth voice that skimmed over her ears like satin. She knew that voice—or had known it, was more accurate—and when she turned and spotted the tall, slender he-elf, with the shimmering blond hair and eyes that were almost as dark as freshly watered soil, her smile rose of its own. “Aiduin?”

“You do remember me.”

“As if I could forget,” she said with a laugh as he caught up to her and threw his arms about her. “How are you?”

“I was fine but now, I think it safe to say I am even better! What brings you to Mirkwood?”

“She’s with us,” Dwalin growled, coming up behind her. “And it would be in yer best interest, laddie, to take yer hands from her.”

Aiduin’s eyes went wide. “I beg your pardon?”

Dwalin none-too-gently knocked Aiduin’s arms from either side of her. “There. Was tha’ simple enough for ye?”

“Dwalin!” She glared at him over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Thorin won’t like another man putting his hands on ye.” Dwalin glared at Aiduin. “He won’t like it a’tall.”

“Thorin?” Aiduin turned his puzzled look to her. “Oakenshield? You’re with him?”

She nodded, but before she could say anything, Dwalin cut in with, “She’s his intended. So, if I were ye, I’d make myself scarce before he sees you.”

“Dwalin!” Amara gritted through clenched teeth. “That’s enough.”

She turned back to Aiduin. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d decided you were going to strike out for parts unknown?”

“Miss Amara,” Balin stepped up alongside his brother, “you should come along.”

“You all go on ahead and I will catch up in a few minutes.” She gestured to Aiduin. “He is but an old friend and I’d like to catch up with him.”

Balin and Dwalin both frowned, which made her frown right back at them. “Do not look at me that way. Go.”

“Thorin won’t like this.”

“Why? There is nothing to like or dislike. Aiduin is, as I said, an old friend.”

Balin shook his head. “Very well. But—”

“If you say Thorin will not like it again, I’m going to scream,” she replied politely, but firmly. “Thorin will not care. Why should he?”

The brothers exchanged looks and she rolled her eyes. Then, she tucked her arm through Aiduin’s and said, “We have some catching up to do, don’t we?”

Aidiun didn’t look so certain. “Your friends don’t seem to think it wise.”

“It is fine. Besides, I’ve had only them for company for a fortnight. Now it is time for me to spend time with someone else for a change.” She smiled up at him. “So, shall we?”

Aiduin led her away from the grumbling dwarves, and she tried to ignore the nagging feeling that Thorin would indeed disapprove of her going off with another elf. But Aiduin wasn’t simply any other elf. He’d trained in Rivendell with her, before striking out for those parts unknown. How he came to be in Mirkwood was something she wished to know.

“Your friends seem to think you are going to get in trouble.”

She sighed softly. “They worry. They mean well, but at times, they can be overbearing. So,” she looked up at him, “do tell how you came to be here?”

“It’s quite simple. Mirkwood needed a healer. I needed work. Thranduíl took a liking to me and here I am. How about you? Are you still in residence in Rivendell? Or do you now wander like the dwarves?”

She smiled as they strolled along an open walkway, away from the palace and into the woods. It didn’t feel quite so suffocating out in the forest itself. “I wander with the dwarves now,” she told him as they stopped near a small pool. Trees alive and dead were all around, fallen over the pathway, vines doing their best to reclaim them. “Although, wander is not the correct term, I suppose. I’m journeying to Erebor.”

“As their healer?”

She shook her head. “No. Thorin and I… We are to be married.”

Aiduin’s smile faded, but only just. Then, he caught it and it returned in full force. “You are betrothed to a dwarf? I am not so certain I believe that.”

“Why? Why could I not be betrothed to one?”

“Well, because… he’s a dwarf. And you, Amara… you could have any elf you wished. If you set your sights on him, even Thranduíl would be unable to resist you.”

“I am hardly interested in Thranduíl.” She let out a laugh then, lightly punched him in the arm. “But I am interested int what you’ve been doing. So, do tell.”

“Me? Not much, I’m afraid. I told you, I wandered about here and there, and needed work, so here I am.” Aiduin shook his head. “Hardly a fascinating tale.”

“Oh, but to one who’s never been beyond Rivendell’s borders, your vagabond life is utterly fascinating to me.”

“Really? It’s a lot of traveling, sleeping in strange places, and never knowing where your next meal is coming from.”

“Ah,” she laughed, “a true vagabond.”

“More or less.” He leaned against the low wall of woven branches. “Do tell me, how is Rivendell?”

She hesitated, a feeling of homesickness rising to squeeze her heart. “It was fine when I left. I was fortunate in that my replacement was right under my nose, and a pleasant surprise as well. Lord Elrond is the same as always, although he was a bit weary from having so many dwarves in residence.” She looked off in the direction the dining hall, where muffled shouts and laughter floated from. “They are a lively group, you know. Very high-spirited.”

“And how did a dwarf win your hand? This I must know.”

“He and his nephews came to us gravely wounded.” She turned back to meet his gaze. “The Battle of the Five Armies, you know.”

“I heard about it, yes. These are Erebor dwarves or Iron Hill dwarves?”

“Erebor.” She reached up to touch the braid Thorin had woven in her hair, her fingertip tracing along the ornament. “Thorin is their king.”

“A king?” Aiduin’s eyes widened. “Is that so?”

“It is. But he nearly lost his life at Ravenhill. Azog the Defiler ran him through.”

“He is fortunate he found his way into your Healing Room.”

She sighed softly, still tracing the ornament as she remembered that very first day, when the attendants brought Thorin into her Healing Room. “I didn’t think he would survive that night, to be honest. The sheets over and beneath him were absolutely soaked in his blood, it had soaked through his clothes, the mail he wore, and he was so deathly pale.

“But,” she lowered her hand, clasping it with her other one, “dwarves are strong and they are fighters and he held on. No matter what setback he faced, what challenges he had—and there were quite a few—he met them head on and beat them.”

“He sounds very lucky.”

She nodded. “He was. Mahal was on his side.”

“I think it’s more he was in the best of hands.”

A pleased heat stung her cheeks. “Oh, I don’t know about that, though I thank you just the same. But he’s of the line of Durin and Durin’s Folk are strong. I think he would have lived regardless.”

“So,” Aiduin looked over at her, “what brings you all here? I should think you would be making for Erebor.”

“We are, but Thorin’s nephew, Kili, is sweet on an elf named Tauriel. Because of her—“

“Tauriel? The captain of the guard?”

Amara shrugged. “I don’t know. Is there more than one Tauriel here?”

“Well, no, but I thought she was sweet on Legolas.”

“Legolas?”

“King Thranduíl’s son.”

“Oh.” She didn’t quite know how to respond to that, for she didn’t know if Kili knew about Legolas.

“Amara?”

She looked over and smiled as Thorin strode toward them. “How did your meet with Thranduíl go?”

“Fine, thank you.” Thorin didn’t return her smile and in fact, glared at Aiduin as he said, “I thought you’d be with the others.”

“Well, I would have, but then I bumped into Aiduin.” She slid her arm through Thorin’s and said, “Thorin Oakenshield, this is Aiduin Drannor. Aiduin, this is Thorin Oakenshield.”

Aiduin smiled and held out a hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Indeed.” Thorin didn’t take his hand. He didn’t smile. In fact, she could almost feel the hostility radiating from him. “How do you and Amara know one another?”

“We trained together in Rivendell,” Aiduin replied, lowering his hand. “She was Ilyana’s star pupil.”

“Oh, hardly. You were far more skilled than I.”

Thorin’s arm stiffened against her. “We should join the others.”

With that, he turned and gave a sharp tug on her arm to pull her back toward the dining hall. She peered back over her shoulder at Aiduin, who stood there almost dumbfounded. “Thorin, that was rude.”

“Ask me if I care,” he growled, guiding her back along the walkway.

“What is the matter? I was only talking to him.”

“I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

“Didn’t like the way he—“ she rolled her eyes—“and how was he looking at me?”

“As if he was trying to picture you naked.”

“Thorin!”

“What?” He glanced at her. “He was.”

“That is ridiculous. He is a friend and that’s it.”

“I’ve never heard you mention him.”

“Well, I haven’t seen him in years, so…”

“Trust me, I know what I saw.”

By then, they’d reached the dining hall and she yanked her arm from his grasp. “You are being ridiculous, do you know that?”

“Am I? I should think I know a look like that when I see it.”

“You are and I am done discussing it. He's a friend. No more and no less.” She moved down and sank onto the bench beside Dwalin.

Thorin followed her, sitting across from her. “Do you want to know how I know how he was looking at you?”

“No.” She glared at him. “I don’t, really. Because this entire conversation is silly.”

“Too bad, because I’m going to tell you.” He cast a sidelong glance at Dwalin, who shrugged and did not look away.

“I am not having this discussion here.”

“Fine.” He rose and came around to her side. “Walk with me, then.”

Mindful of the eyes on them, she sighed and stood. “Very well. But I think you are being ridiculous.”

“So you’ve said. Excuse us,” he said to the others, his hand coming to rest at the small of her back as he guided her toward the far end of the dining hall, where the room opened to another walkway.

Once they were out of earshot of everyone, he turned to her. “Do you know how I know?”

“How?”

“Because I am fairly certain it’s the same way I look at you.”

She just stared at him, her irritation draining away as she moved to slip her arms about his neck. “Thorin, he is but a friend. And even if he is looking at me that way, you can be certain I am not looking at him that way.”

“I still don’t like it.”

“Thorin.”

“I don’t. And if it weren’t for the fact that we are all worn out from traveling here, I would say we were leaving this evening. But I have to admit, I’m looking forward to sleeping in a comfortable bed this night and one that has no questionable smells or stains or extra dwarves. We can leave at first light come the morning.”

She smiled. The last inn before Mirkwood had been nothing short of a horror, as the innkeeper had only three rooms for the fourteen of them and she and Thorin shared theirs with Fili, Kili, and Bofur. “No. This evening, we should have some peace. Did you know Bofur sings in his sleep?”

“I did, actually.” He sighed softly, leaning in to press his forehead to hers. “I’ve no wish to fight with you, amrâlimê.”

“Nor I with you.” She threaded her fingers through his hair. “And you’ve nothing to worry about, you know. Maralmizu, Mr. Oakenshield. Nalish.”

She breathed a sigh of relief as his eyes softened and he murmured, “Maralmizi, kurdelê.”

Disaster averted.

#The Hobbit #Thorin Oakenshield #Hobbit Fic #Hobbit Fanfic #Fan fiction #The Hobbit fan fiction #Thorin x OC #AU #AUJ #Thorin Fic #Everybody Lives AU #Hobbit Medical Drama #Hobbit ER

10 notes · View notes