fledgendinthemaking

[fledgendinthemaking]

He hadn't meant for it. Like he hadn't meant for so much to happen, lately. But, like all that - tonight had happened. Disastrously.

Fighting the unhelpful, half-mad urge to scrub the blood from his face with what was left of his threadbare sleeves, Tig staggered away from the farm fields and paddocks of Destarin, deeper into the forest. Anywhere further from any beaten path, or any path beaten by mortal feet, at least. Water. All he needed was water, and it couldn't be far. (Could it? Gods, no, please.)

His head snapped up, around, as Tig followed his nose. Given that his nose was a sense rather separate from balance, though, the going was painfully slow. He could manage, still. Could bite down on his tongue, refuse to let his monstrous tongue sneak out to taste the poacher on his lips, his cheeks. His chest, too, soaking through his worn-thin layers. The blood had spattered so far, so fast, so wildly, as that poor stranger wailed and tore away...

He bit tighter, something of those dreadful fangs to it. No. He wouldn't taste human blood tonight. That would surely destroy whatever chance he had of becoming himself again, whole again, and - a throaty, near-animal groan of relief broke through the panic and pain clenched between his teeth as he skidded down a mossy embankment to a splashing, soaking stop. His knees struck riverbed stone and muck. The water he sunk his whole, gory face in was cold, colder than he was, but wonderful. Wonderful, just to be free of the stink, the lure, of that fucking blood. Gasping - as if he needed breath - Tig teetered back onto his haunches. And sluiced another few handfuls up and over his face, for good measure. Should clean his tunic, as well. But... chin up, dripping river, he stared about at the dark.

What would have been dark, if he weren't able to see with these damned sluagh-eyes. He could see, and he could smell, with that sluagh-nose. Hear, with these sluagh-ears. As for what he could see and smell and hear, it was enough. Simply enough to send him bolting and scrambling up the riverbank and away, frantic, through the trees.

It was getting more and more difficult to keep everything under control. Alex had had these vampiric urges for the last decade and a half, so this wasn't anything new, but before he had the devil on his shoulder telling him who to feed on, who he couldn't, how often, and basically decided his feeding schedule for him as if he were a common housecat.

Since he had returned to Destarin, Alex had been doing a fairly decent job at sticking to animals - nothing that looked like a pet, because that would make him too upset, but fish were fair game. Animals in the woods - deer were preferable, and kept him on his toes since they were so fast, and big enough for him to feel satiated. The difference between animal and human was palpable, though, and very much not the same... unfortunately it was only a matter of time before these urges got the better of him.

But while he was hunting in the woods, in the early night, the scent of blood - human blood - hit his nose like an ocean wave. He could feel his teeth swell, feel the veins around his eyes rise. It was so much - logically, there must have been some sort of accident to cause this, but he wasn't thinking logically. He was thinking with his teeth.

Stalking in the night, the dark being no issue for him, he happened upon a young man, covered in blood. Though Alex would never want to hurt a human, his predatory nature was taking over and he was blinded to that fact. He just saw what appeared to be an injured man, and he could help finish the job.

He crouched, staying low, and darted from behind one tree to the next, reddened eyes locked on the figure as he slowly crept forward.

@fledgendinthemaking

[fledgendinthemaking]

It was - no, it...

It must be. Tig might know precious little, but he could tell one oak in the valley from another by bark and branches and bends. Or an ash from an ash, or any other tree from a forest of its own! And he could tell one face from another, forever.

Hers would have been hard to forget, anyhow.

"Priestess?" She was that, still - wasn't she? How could she not be? (How could she lose her wings?) The sight of her had tugged him from the innyard he'd been making a bit of coin chopping firewood for, across the well-trod cobbles and into the street for - just a glimpse of home, and hope, perhaps. If it was her, then - but it had to be her. Even without her robes. Her wings. Except... what would a priestess, or something like one, think of the likes of him? Tig stopped a few steps short, in his ragged, hanging-loose things, the warmth of a woodsman's work fading from his hands. He cupped them together, clutched both to his chest. Just holding that scrap of human-ish heat as close as he could.

"I'm - sorry," Tig fumbled, then fell quiet, eyes averted, with all due respect. As he wavered, a moment. Then a few more. What was he sorry for? When he didn't know what had happened to her. (Something must have. Something awful. Blasphemous, sacrilegious, some sort of desecration.) "Did you... I might be mistaken, I'm sorry, but - were your blessings upon Withermore, once? The villages." Meager, grim places. But not unworthy. Not like he might be, now...

@bellamychevalier

[fledgendinthemaking]

Of course Tig had heard tell of Destarin, before he limped into the outskirts of the place not so long ago. Even before the keep. There were so many tales to tell, after all. They'd all been tall, too. Destarin was where the worst of the worst fled to, the stories went. Here, they could sink to the depths of the darkest underbelly, hide in plain sight among the most terrifying brigands in any kingdom, or slay their hunters with lawless impunity. The most twisted magics could roil unchecked, alongside deranged alchemies and the cults of monstrous gods, and...

The brothels. There had been much talk among the noble squires of Destarin's many, many brothels. Enough that even they, with their aristocratic appetites, would never lack for entertainment. But, as Tig came from a quiet mill, in a quiet village, with a quiet inn where everyone quietly knew that you could find yourself a quiet bit of company, all of it and him common - those squires hadn't talked to him about any of it. (Or anything, really. If they could help it.) They were loud people, though. Even by the standards of what he couldn't help but catch an echo of, back then... the Chapel would have been worlds beyond his imagining, back in the mill. All of it.

Not that he was here to imagine anything. Pink cheeked, Tig was making his very best go of trying to find someone while trying very hard not to look too closely at anybody. A terribly friendly madame who'd been savouring a dizzyingly sweet-smoked pipe just outside the door had given him a disorienting set of directions and descriptions, but, well - here he was, somehow. Before what must be Malas Pitch.

"I'm deeply sorry to disturb you," he rasped, eyes wide - but trying, truly, to avoid staring at those wings. His own shoulders twitched, hard, and rolled. "I only... I was hoping, perhaps, that you'd... be willing to - consider a deal. Of some sort. I'm told you're terribly powerful and awfully wise, in the world, and I find myself in some need of power and wisdom and - other things." Other, worse things. Tig swayed some, shoulders still mis-set. Painfully. Trying to fight the flinch off, he folded both of his itching, faintly scaled hands behind his back, tattered cuffs pulled down as far as they might go. "If we can come to terms, then I promise you: good will come of it." If good mattered to such a being.

@deathsdogma

[fledgendinthemaking]

Every Osferth scene; day 12

[fledgendinthemaking]

It was absolutely, damnably impossible to tell if St. John had any notion of what he held, at all. Perhaps it was just the terror of that - of even a scholar of the strange being entirely and uselessly unfamiliar with any detail of this curse Tig was so desperate to shed - that shot a shiver down the length of his backbone, quick and sharp as a crossbow's bolt. Or maybe it was simply the sight of the thing, a piece of, if not him, some dreaded part of him, in the hands of a man with such a reputation as this undead alchemist, here.

Either way, Tig stiffened his spine and set his jaw, biting down on his own tongue so he could think a moment. Order things. Not let hope get the best of good sense, when dealing with - whatever he was dealing with, here. Gods, on high and below and between the trees. How did you make a deal with a thing like Valentin St. John?

"Help," he answered, leaning in against the din of the... show, still wailing away back there. "Consider that," Tig dropped a pointed look to the feather, "a token of good faith? Or a, a deposit, if you'd rather." This was hardly his language; the talk of knights he overheard more often than he'd ever spoken to. On account of how little interest wealthy knights, the sort who made deposits on things, had in the likes of him. But St. John seemed interested enough, at least. For now. The rest tumbled out of him in a rush, desperate to hold that attention. "Keep it, with the promise of as much... related matter as you can make use of, and every possibility to, ah, further your studies, as you might find - within reason - in the course of our work together. But I need your discretion, and your help," he repeated, in a fretful rasp.

Valentin was not a great man, nor did he even consider himself to be a rather notable one, but he was, if anything, not constrained to the usual passage of time and so what would be but a moment for him might feel like much longer to anyone else. In due time though, an introduction came from the man who approached him. A squire was the claim and it took only for a moment for Valentin to register the untruths that came so readily from the young man's mouth. He did not particularly care to being lied to but he also didn't care too much for the truth, all earth roaming beings with cognizance and the intelligence to lie tended to do so even for the most minute reasons, so the why didn't matter to much to him at all either. The most important part and the reasons he did anything at all were based on whether or not it would be fruitful for him.

The offered item now held before him drew his gaze away from the squire. Pale blue eyes scrutinized it carefully from his vantage point, not once giving way any emotion or indication of interest but he did ask, "What do you want?" He did recognize the feather, he knew what creature it originated from. He could smell it. "Or do you offer it to me freely as a gift?"

[fledgendinthemaking]

And one surprise more. Potentially a terrible one. Wealthy, and from Withermore - such people tended to have ties, to know names. Not his - Tig had no such delusions. But his old Knight Master, the Abbott at the keep, the keep itself... anyone this countryman of theirs might have asked about his duties would have a confusing sort of answer, no doubt. Given that his duties were leagues away. Where he'd died. Meaning he wasn't merely dead and horrifically unnatural, but derelict, indeed, of duty. And that poor village, those poor people he was supposed to have saved, they might have already sent word to the keep, or the court, that the knight who'd been sent their way had... disappeared. Been killed, by the beast that plagued them. Or run. Which was so very much worse.

If only both weren't terribly true.

"Oh, nobody! No-one. I'm - between tasks. For the next while." Hopefully, the stranger wouldn't speak or write a word of him by name. Should have thought of something else, like he had with that vampire, the alchemist. But, loath as Tig always was to lie - and awful as he was at it - a proper introduction to a passerby in the street had hardly seemed dangerous. A chance to just... to be as he was meant to be. For a moment.

And a knight was meant to serve. And, he was as absolutely impoverished as he'd been the night he slunk into town. So. Tig straightened up, stood tall. Just to bow again. Erring, as always, on the side of politeness. "I would be honoured, truly. To discuss terms, even," he added, quickly. Because a knight shouldn't make promises he couldn't hope to hold themselves to. And a sluagh hoped for nothing but their next terrible meal...

With the brief pause, Leopold’s brow lifted in suspicion.  Did the man not know his own name?  Thankfully, he continued onward and by the fae’s surprised bow down to him.  “A pleasure to meet you Sir Tigernmas du Bealach,” the fae commented, a bit surprised to hear the knight came from Withermore.  The King did not tell him he planned on sending another night to Destarin.

“I certainly owe you a debt, not many would have come forth.  You must take your oath very seriously, a gallant knight indeed.”

Leopold thought for a moment, not wanting to take the guard from his duties.  “May I ask what your duties are here in Withermore before I answer?  I do not wish to offend your superior if I took you for my own uses.  Who would I speak to about having you as my personal knight?”  It was not uncommon for an emissary to have someone for protection, Leopold at the time chose not because he thought it would appear better if he could blend in.  Clearly thought after years here, he no longer was able to fit in with the common folk.

[fledgendinthemaking]

He shouldn't. He really, truly shouldn't. But - Tig was already slipping away from the woodpile he'd been stacking for a few coins, keeping the dockside stew pots simmering. (If only he could've accepted his paltry pay in a meal, as the cook had proposed. If only he could eat.) Excusing his way through the line of customers, wincing an apology as the cook shouted after him - so much for those coins - he darted off into the swirl of sailors and sellers and buyers, hoping he hadn't already lost the pickpocket. Who he really, truly shouldn't be attempting to sort out, knightly duty bedamned.

No; no, he hadn't meant that. Knightly duty unbedamned. Not damned at all. If he didn't act like a knight, how could he stay one? In spirit, if - if nothing else.

Long-legged as ever and quicker, even, than he used to be, Tig found himself alongside the cutpurse sooner than he'd expected. Which was unfortunate, seeing as he hadn't quite decided on what he was going to do. So... "Beg your pardon," he began, with a light tug to the fellow's shirtsleeve. Which he kept ahold of, as he continued. Quietly. "What does Destarin do to thieves, these days? Please, if you'd tell me? I'd like to be aware. Before I call somebody one, not knowing what dire needs might have driven them to the act."

The day was hot with the sun high in the sky and the docks were about as busy and bustling as they could get. Days like these were made for easy pickings for Jackson. People were too busy shopping, working and worrying about the heat to think about his greedy fingers slipping into their pockets and relieving them of their valuables.

His pockets were feeling satisfyingly heavy with the things he'd been able to swipe. While his greedy fingers often got the better of him, Jackson had learned over the years that he fared better if he stole smaller items--those that hopefully wouldn't be missed right away. This of course was always easier said than done, given those greedy fingers of his.

He was pretty proud of himself that day, however, for the self-restraint he had and how that had translated into his full pockets. Just one more, he told himself, and he'd call it a day. It was a woman he'd spotted, with her coin purse foolishly tied at her waist in plain view. It took barely a minute for Jackson to brush past her when she was distracted looking at one of the vendors, his fingers freeing the purse from her and slipping it into his own pocket, leaving her none the wiser.

@fledgendinthemaking

[fledgendinthemaking]

EWAN MITCHELL as OSFERTH | The Last Kingdom S3E3

[fledgendinthemaking]

"I'm terribly sorry. I really am." Tig rasped, hoarse from thirst, or hunger - whichever it was, really, that had this curse of his prickling up under his skin, excited by the nearness of blood and meat and bone. All of which presently belonged to the live chicken cradled in his lap. She was an old bird - bound for boiling, for the thin broth her poor carcass would make. Worn bones and stringy meat, she'd hardly fetch a price, at market. (And if she had, he wouldn't have been able to afford her; not a bit of coin to his name.) So she would only be a small loss, wouldn't she, awfully small, to the innkeeper he'd stolen her from. He'd - when he had the money, he would cover the debt. All the same. And the debt some stranger would owe this unfortunate hen? They'd never even know. For the best.

He gave her a pet, slow, gentle, heart clenched and guts squirming. The chicken clucked, unbothered by his sympathy or his circumstances.

Then, taking a deep, needless breath, Tig did as he'd done so often, the past couple of weeks: killed to eat. (Like nearly everything else, at some point! But that was little comfort.) He'd made the death, at least, quick, clean. Quicker and cleaner than what was about to happen. Just a snap, and a loll, her broken neck flopping limply in his hands. His aching hands, the knuckles popping as greyish scales patched up his arms - for he could not be himself and eat. Could not be a knight, and this.

Hunched over the old hen, jaw jolting apart, feathervanes bristling at all his edges, Tig... stopped. Wide-eyed, horror carving even through the awful, gutting hunger. Because someone was watching. And they were full of hot, thundering blood, and he was so, so cold -

Clutching the fading warmth of that unlucky hen to his chest, he lurched back, only to knock aside a clattering, scattering heap of something or other. His half-dismantled shoulders crunched horribly as he swerved into the alley wall and slid down, down, curling inward with a breathless creak of pain. Breathless and speechless, his throat gone coarse and strange as his sluagh-eyes, wide and full of moonlight, staring at who'd stumbled on him and his stolen, dead dinner.

@tannaseldove

[fledgendinthemaking]

Another surprise: it worked. After a moment or two of knifepoint glaring, anyway, but. He'd withstood worse. As they slipped off, the last of those dirks vanishing into the night, Tig took his hand from the hilt of his undrawn sword and sighed in genuine, bone-deep relief.

Only to startle a bit, just a bit, as the noble near-victim spoke up. "Ah, I -" An introduction. To a man of standing, or wealth, at the very least; likely, he had connections beyond Destarin. Which was a worry, if a deeply paranoid one. But if the court or keep should hear his name, his real name, if they found out where he was, far from the quest that had started all this - why would they, though? Could he even remember a host of false names?

"My apologies," he fumbled into a bow, hoping the delay could be excused. "Sir Tigernmas du Bealach, of the court of Withermore. At your service. Are you..." Tig hesitated, coming out of that bow. Not approaching. He couldn't smell any blood, at least. Which probably meant there was none. After all, he'd developed such a nose for the stuff. (Such a beak? A taste, certainly.) "... in need of any further assistance, this evening? Could I - escort you someplace?" In case this fellow stayed unlucky. Then again, what was unluckier than meeting a sluagh...?

Caught in the midst of a small group of bandits, Leopold stood there his breath hitched in his throat.  The slender fae, paralyzed by fear. If the knight had just been fractions slower ill wills could have corresponded tonight.  Leopold’s blue eyes marveled at the bravery as he stood behind the man protecting him.  Not many guards would have intervened, chivalry was feared dead by the man…at least until this very moment.

A gasp left his lips, his attention solely on the individual and the four at hand.  Not only brave, but well mannered.  Who was this man?  Was he a knight of Withermore?  So many questions rushed through the fae’s mind desiring to know more about this man who was his own personal hero.

It appeared the fools were stunned to see the knight and were flabbergasted by his actions.  One cried out to go after him, afterall four to one the odds were in their favor.  Yet, another pulled one to leave.  Perhaps knowing their skills against an armed knight would be no match.

Silently standing there, watching carefully the other two eventually left and now all that was left was this armed man and himself.

“Do introduce yourself,” he stated wanting to know the man he should thank.

[fledgendinthemaking]

Ah. The wait. It was far from unfamiliar; Tig had been waiting on men grander than him since... well, always. A miller's son was, after all, not terribly grand. And a poorborn squire? Even less so, it had seemed. A pauper knight? That had raised an eyebrow, perhaps two. But, by then, he'd been well-practiced enough to amuse himself as the time stretched on. He'd hardly been bothered by the casual disregard of monied, titled, landed types by the day he rode out from the keep on his knighted own, at last. They always had terribly interesting things to look at. Glorious libraries and tapestries woven full of stories, and so forth.

Unfortunately, tonight, the most readily available distraction was shrieking as that host of starving rats gnawed out his guts. And, he was in something of a rush, besides. Always, now, fighting the sliding sands of that hunger. A cold prickle of sweat found his clenched palms and his guts twisted, knotted, ached like they might fray thin enough to snap. Then, the vampire deigned to reply.

And Tig's dead heart sank. If it could.

Before lurching back, very nearly, to life. "Cian ul Cavann. A squire of Withermore." The lies tumbled out of him, eager to be believed. "I don't intend to waste your time," he insisted, and that much was true. Tucking his long fingers up into his sleeve, Tig drew out... a feather. The very same reddish-blonde as his own hair, soft-edged, barred in dark grey. Just a downy little thing, easily concealed from prying eyes in the cup of his palm as he held it over for St. John to - recognize, hopefully. Sluagh parts were as rare as the beasts themselves, and the rare tended to have a certain value to the curious, didn't they? And every tale of Valentin St. John did tell of his curiosity, his scholarly pursuits, the boundaries he was prepared to transgress. But if he didn't know a sluagh when he saw bits of one... well, what use could he be, to Tig's troubles? Less than he'd been hoping, certainly. "I can fetch you more. And other... elements, perhaps. If we're able to come to an agreement." A rather big, unlikely if.

The atmosphere of Scourge House wasn't entirely to his liking, it was, at times, quite loud but it was also someplace he found himself enjoying his time and was capable of ignoring most of the diverting sounds to be able to focus on whatever work or performance was on display. A lot of it was surprising even for him, a level of unique ingenuity that offered the vampire some ideas for his own personal experiments, wanting to try his hand at recreating them and so often would take notes on his observations. Despite his outward busy appearance, scrawling neat but gibberish looking notes -- appearing to be gibberish for as ever he wrote in his own secret cypher of his own making -- someone still deigned it appropriate to approach him.

Valentin did not pause his writing, nor did he look up at the nervous sounding individual, it would appear almost as if Valentin had either not heard a word the man had said or was actively choosing to ignore his words and the awkward bow of his greeting. The reality being that Valentin heard and saw everything and simply chose to respond and react at his own leisure and so it would be a few moments of silence from him, still writing down the train of thought before he finally, still writing, spoke up, "I don't take proposals from strangers," his pen tip continued to squeak against the paper of his notebook, ink blood red and it was only now that the pen tip had run dry did the vampire look up at the being who had approached. Quick was the survey of his pale blue eyes, taking in all the little details he needed to based off the other's appearance and the way he carried himself, the line of his shoulders and the way his expression sat. "Introduce yourself," Valentin stated flatly.

He was used to this, people finding him out, seeking his aid for one reason or another, usually something boring and it was the boring ones who usually ended up dead. The ones who had something actually interesting to the vampire could be put to use. He'd gotten fairly good over the centuries at determining at a glance which ones were boring and which ones were useful. Valentin reclined more comfortably in his seat, not blinking, not breathing, simple mortal actions he had long since abandoned.

[fledgendinthemaking]

A knight served the good of the people. The fact that Tig was, for now, regularly and gruesomely compelled by forces entirely unfriendly to that good didn't change what he was when his mind and body were his own to command. He could not shirk his duty. Now, perhaps, more than ever. He would not.

Which is how he wound up catching the edge of a bandit's wicked dirk against his still-scabbarded blade. Said bandit jolted back with a cry, more startled than harmed; not because a sword had been not-drawn on his knife, which would have been surprise enough. Just, when he'd raised the dirk, he'd done so on an unarmed, richly dressed individual - currently behind Tig, and that sword - not a shabby young knight.

Tig, himself, was rather shocked as well. He hadn't - well, he had meant to interpose, when he saw a sudden bristle and flash of drawn knives and darted up the alleyway. He just hadn't expected it to work. And so neatly. So quickly. With a stern shove, he sent the would-be thief stumbling back... several steps, actually, into the three not-so-gentlemen who'd been hovering, vulture-like, at his back. They, thankfully, were immediately distracted with doing their very best not to stab their comrade on his way by. Even more thankfully, they managed. Last thing Tig wanted, or needed, was blood in the air.

Lowering that still-scabbarded sword, Tig let out the breath he'd been holding. Unneeded as it was. That done, he took a proper stand between this little posse and their prey. "Stow your weapons, and - be on your way. Please," he offered. Diplomatically, he'd hope. "I've no alms or... anything, really, for your pains, except a lack of further pains, to add to them. But I also have no desire to draw steel on anyone." That said - even sheathed, an arming sword could inflict a fair bit of discomfort. At the very least. If it came to that. Gods, though - he'd just... hope it didn't.

@leopold--dawson

[fledgendinthemaking]

An election - he'd read about such things - had kept most of the town out late, celebrating or soothing wounded egos. Even the blacksmiths. But, luckily for Tig, Destarin's sprawling smithies seemed to be one of the first workshops clanking and sparking back to life the morning after all the votes were counted. Now, to find the most sober among them. Doing his gangly best to stay well out of their way, Tig checked with a bleary-eyed apprentice or two, then gave up on that. No better off than most of their masters.

There, though - a steady-striking hammer, close by. He could hear it. The way he could hear such things, these days. Strangely. Uncomfortably. Just another reminder of how tight a hold his curse had on him, talons sunk deep in his day to day doings.

For now.

Clearing his throat, quietly, Tig came to a stop at the far end of this smith's anvil, squinting against the glare from the red-hot steel the craftsman was working. And well, very well. Too well, really, for what might be an... insultingly meager sort of order. But. The sooner he had what he needed, the better. For everyone. "Master Smith," he began, neatly. "If I might intrude? Just a moment?"

@kanaloasteele

[fledgendinthemaking]

EVERY EWAN MITCHELL ROLE — Osferth in The Last Kingdom (2017-2022)

[fledgendinthemaking]

Of all the godsless places Tig had heard or read of, Scourge House was, perhaps, the fairest in terms of advertising; lived up to its name, certainly. Best he didn't stay long, for so very many reasons. First among them being the thick coat of blood on the air. Fresh and old alike - it made little difference to the cursed thing in him. The wails and whimpers that were welling up as the "show" went on didn't help. His stomach churned; so did his monster's. After hours of being well-satisfied by a breakfast caught wild in the woods, it was itching at the back of his skull again, raising gooseflesh. Or sluaghflesh, as the case may be.

Just a little longer, though. It could wait. It would have to; he may, at last, have found who he was looking for. If this vampire, like his entertainment of choice, was everything Tig had been promised.

Promised by rumours caught in the back-alleys and undead-dens of Destarin, yes, but. Desperate as he was, it'd do, as leads went. Anything would.

"Ah - Valentin St. John? I believe?" Tig began, with the most decorum he could manage. And a bow, somewhat belated, perhaps too slight. From onstage, a wail, and the frenzied skittering of rats. Hundreds of them. Standing stiffly at the alchemist's table, back to all that, he licked his lips and started again. "I'm very sorry to intrude upon your - peace. But I was hoping you and I could... discuss some business. That we might have. To mutual benefit. If you would be pleased to hear such a proposal." Is that what it was? More like begging, but. A vampire out to unfetter his kind from their awful appetites seemed, perhaps, the type to appreciate a veneer of normalcy. Two men talking business, rather than two monsters talking questionable alchemy.

@valentinstjohn

[fledgendinthemaking]

It was the span of a sigh, hoarse and uneven and oddly effortful, like all his breaths had become. A single sigh. That's how long he had, head back, eyes shut, before a voice jolted him back to wakefulness. A low, quiet voice, but a voice, and - gods and graces, it was coming from what looked rather like a dryad, standing tall. At least, how dryads looked in the books: pretty, and all bedecked in a fine filigree of her own vines and bright, perfect flowers.

Very pretty, he revised, as she circled closer, willowy arms reaching to graze that - her - oak he'd frozen to.

"Oh." Tig sunk lower as the dryad inspected the trunk. (Her trunk. Was she as old as her tree was? Is that how that went?) Then she asked, again, and, well. He really ought to pull himself together and answer, shouldn't he? Lurching to his tired feet, Tig stumbled upright between those monumental roots. (Her roots. Where had she come from? Had she been here all along, up in the branches or someplace?) Straightening to offer her a decent bow, he swayed, steadied himself. "I'm - yes. I am, quite probably, lost. And I'm very sorry to have disturbed your tree, and I gather, by extension, you. Terribly sorry." There, he had to pause, clearing his throat with a dry rasp-click. Gods, he was thirsty. More than thirsty. Like he was more than tired. Tig took a step back from the dryad and her oak, and then another. Careful, with the gnarled twists of root underfoot. "I don't suppose you could point me off towards Destarin? Perhaps? So I might leave you, leave you both, ah, in peace. Please." Dryads were peaceful. In the books...

Rowan was sitting in her friend Zelda's home when she felt it. She'd been just about to doze off and possibly take a nap when she felt something in the boughs of her tree. Immediately, she jumped up and started running. She didn't care who she bumped into, though most were angry and yelled curses as she ran. She called, "I'm sorry," but kept running.

If there was one thing she knew for certain, it was to protect her tree at all costs. Her mind started racing as the plants started whispering things to her, their voices clear in her mind. Never fear, one said. No threat, said another. It didn't matter if the plants and trees were telling her that her tree was safe, she had to see it for herself.

Her bare feet slapped the pavement and her steps went silent after walking in the grass just outside the forest. As she got closer to her tree, she heard someone talking. She peeked around the trunk of another oak that was next to hers, peering at the person speaking. For a moment, she found herself smiling although her mossy brow was furrowed. Her tree had silently thanked the man, and suddenly the sense of horror she'd felt started to fade away...but not completely. Tentitavely, she stepped out from behind the tree and stood before the man, rolling her shoulders back and taking (what she was hoping) was a confident stance. "That's my tree." She said, her whispery voice was deeper than normal and she found herself quickening her step so that she could walk around it and run her fingers over the bark, making sure it wasn't harmed. Though, if it had been, it would have reflected on Rowan as well. "What are you doing near my tree? Are you lost?" She asked, finally looking at the man leaning against it.

[fledgendinthemaking]

Destarin couldn't be far, now; gods, though, Tig was... tired. Or something like tired, at least.

Drained. The word for it surfaced slowly, bubbling up through the congealed murk his mind had been mired in since he woke in that ravine. He pushed it back under, ugly word that it was, and pushed off the mossy crop of stone he'd swayed into. On he went, staggering some, dizzy with the not-quite-dull ache in his belly and squinting in the high-summer sun dappling down through the trees. It couldn't be far. And there, in Destarin, this would be mended. Where better to break a curse, really! He was lucky, all things considered. Could've been leagues further from a solution. But Destarin was just through the next thicket. Or three.

Or... he'd lost count. Where did one thicket end and the next begin, anyway? With a raggedy sigh, Tig braced himself against the craggy trunk of a rather charming oak, really. Very nice. Great old thing. The sort it was only right to honour, so - spreading a cold, battered hand against the bark, he cleared his throat. (And again, followed by a swig of unsatisfying water from his canteen; he poured a little between the gnarled roots he was balanced on, too. Only considerate.) "Ah," Tig began. Shook his head. "Thank you. For the - shade. That's... very much appreciated, yes. I'll stay a moment, if you don't mind?" He asked aloud, as if the oak might answer; the great tree simply stood, quiet as every god he'd tried to chat with, lately. The flat of his palm clapped to his chest - just as quiet, heartless - and lifted up, passing whatever blessings he had to give to those branches. Then he turned, sinking down to sit with his bony back to the trunk. Just, just for a moment.

@dryad-rowan