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

Comments

[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.