when i go towards you it is with my whole life.

[heorte]

You came to the side of the bed and sat staring at me. Then you kissed me—I felt hot wax on my forehead. I wanted it to leave a mark: that’s how I knew I loved you. Because I wanted to be burned, stamped, to have something in the end— I drew the gown over my head; a red flush covered my face and shoulders. It will run its course, the course of fire, setting a cold coin on the forehead, between the eyes. You lay beside me; your hand moved over my face as though you had felt it also- you must have known, then, how I wanted you. We will always know that, you and I. The proof will be my body. — louise glück

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[heirring]

She has some practice with climbing up into saddles in her skirts; by the time Ellis returns to her, she has her foot anchored soundly in the stirrup and is scrambling up into the seat. There is always this problem once she arrives there of rearranging the fall of her hems (helpful through the riding skirt's front seam may be), but in short order she has managed to settle herself there on the back of the griffon there behind the broad expanse of Butterball's wings in the same way she might any other riding animal.

There are two loops at the front of the saddle; she sets one hand there more or less naturally. The other she uses to pat the space behind her in encouragement.

"Come along, Ellis. There are only so many buckles for you to attend to."

[heorte]

At her prompting, Ellis ascends behind her. There is space, just enough that he might flatten himself against her back, loop an arm around her waist and put his face in against her nape briefly, before encouraging, "Take us up."

Butterball will need little coaxing, he knows. He opts to leave Wysteria to that, as he reaches past her to affix those clips and buckles to the saddle and give each a slight, testing tug. All is secured, safely hooked into place. While neither of them expect a true aerial battle today, Ellis is hardly inclined to take risks. Wysteria performs so many miracles, but she has yet to express an interest or capability in flight.

[heirring]

Thus clipped securely in place and encouraged by Ellis' apparent confidence in her ability to simply do with the animal whatever must be done (something of a rarity, it must be said; he sometimes seems to have a great affection for fussing and worrying over the semantics of how she might accomplish certain things), she lays a hand on the back of the griffon's feathered neck and makes to prod him around between the guidance of her heels and hand.

"Come, come, you silly thing. We can't stay here getting fat on little treats forever."

It does take considerable encouragement to coax Butterball out into the windy platform knocked of out of the tower's wall. But at last, with a great coiling of muscle and an unmotivated sprawl of wings, the beast tips out off the edge and takes them into a lazy plummeting glide. The brief shriek from the saddle's front occupant is a natural response to having one's stomach jump all the way up into one's mouth, but otherwise they're on their way without further harassment of the griffon being necessary.

Passage so far into Nevarran is a matter of days, not hours. And though Wysteria proves to be a perfectly able griffon rider—her bad impulses of erratic steering and the desire to gallop everywhere being someone mitigated by the fact that there are no obstacles to steer around, and parsing their speed is very difficult while in the air—by the time they reach the third day of travel, she has surrendered steering back into Ellis' custody. Sitting so near to the working of Butterball's wings and the great expansion of his ribs around his big lungs sucking down and expelling great huffs of the air has left her considerably more saddle sore than anticipated, and not even deploying her considerable feminine wiles (complaining) to convince Ellis to canoodle in the tent (massage the tight muscle up the back of her thigh while Wysteria lay on her back with her knee to her chest, chattering along the latest gossip pamphlet out of Val Royeaux) has been particularly effective about mitigating that.

So when they at last spot the rift gleaming bright at the bottom of a brush-dense, dry wash of spider webbing canyons, it's Ellis who must steer them safely down to it. Which is good, as Wysteria would have had no idea what to do when a half dozen crossbow bolts come whistling up out of the brush to greet them and Butterball lurches, shrieking in sudden alarm or agony or both.

[heorte]

In the past, Ellis has had some cause to consider that they might find a mage to accompany them on these treks. Or perhaps they should prevail on Tony, who might bring Joselyn along.

Next time.

Right now, Ellis pulls until Butterball veers sharply off to the right, encouraged by the shift of Ellis' weight into the movement. It crashes them into the crackling embrace of dried branches, but puts them low enough to the ground that Wysteria won't scream if Ellis' jumps off, nor be injured should it turn out Butterball has been hit rather than just startled. There is no way to tell whether or not he is sporting an arrow in his chest, only that his wings are presently unharmed.

Minor blessings, hopefully accompanied by the bush holding bandits rather than Venatori.

A second volley of bolts come whistling to meet them. One hits the tree trunk just overhead.

"Flee if you have a care for your life!" Ellis shouts, reaching a hand back to Wysteria. "If you go before the rest of our party arrives you may survive to speak of this meeting!"

A bluff, while Ellis pushes up in the saddle, watching the indistinct, rustling movement across from them.

[heirring]

Wysteria, having shrieked and thrown her arms instinctively up to cover her face as they'd gone crashing into the tree, is primed to reach forward to catch that offered hand. She's had no need to put on her heavy work gloves just yet, so it is just her bare hand in his—clutching hard—, followed by a corresponding tangle of a grip in the only handhold that presents itself from this angle (his mace's belt). Reflexive, all of this.

—As is the way she ducks and flinches when the dry foliage above them suddenly burst into flame, arcane fire licking at vulnerable branches.

So not bandits, then.