lancer | diarmuid ua duibhne (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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middaeg2020-02-10 01:33 pm
ua_duibhne) wrote in middaeg2020-02-10 01:33 pm
Entry tags:
[closed] cut a stout, black thorn to banish ghosts and goblins
Who: Diarmuid and Caren, Diarmuid and Zelda
When: Mid-Feoveuer
Where: The Wildes
What: be vewy quiet we're going qwesting
Warnings: None
i. closed to Caren
[Though the chill in the air has lingered well into the middle of the month, the brightening skies signal to Diarmuid that it’s time to put on his sturdiest boots and get to the quest he’d accepted earlier in the month. It’s been a while since he had a good hunt to lose himself in, even if this is a little unconventional compared to his own experiences. For one thing, he’s left both his spear and Mac-an-Coill at home. Rather, he’s enlisted the help of a predator far less likely to chase down the poor birds like fowl- and far more likely to instead get the better of Diarmuid himself with her quick tongue.
It’s mid-afternoon when he meets Caren at the edges of the forest. The trees around them are still heavy with frost, their branches glistening silver in the sunlight, but the crisp air is refreshing in its own way.]
Miss Ortensia. [He bows his head briefly.] My thanks for letting me borrow your nose.
[There’s also the strange matter of his hair. Diarmuid has yet to notice it himself but Caren might pick up on a few pale strands among the black, initially easy to dismiss as grey hairs until they catch the light. They’re quite undeniably pink. Maybe that witch back at the Coven took his gentle refusal of a date personally. Or, just as likely, he somehow managed to screw up the spell he learned in class the day before.
Either way: yikes.]
ii. closed to Zelda
[By this point, Diarmuid’s hair has come into its full blush pink glory and, while he’s trying to hide it beneath a wide-brimmed cap, there’s no missing the tufts of pastel poking out from the bottom. Particularly as he tips it back to greet Zelda.]
Hunting alone is a tragic thing.
[Each word creates a small cloud of white and the tip of his nose is slightly red but he seems in good spirits. In truth, he enjoys this weather; it reminds him of winters in Erin. The smell of fires, the company and drinks and stories exchanged as the flames crackled and danced through the night.]
I’m grateful for your help, though. They’re not the easiest birds to handle from what I can tell but maybe you’ll have the knack for it.
[Dressed in a thick cloak with a fur ruff, he’s more than ready to tackle both the elements and the tricky task of collecting feathers from the most antsy birds he’s ever had the displeasure of tracking. It’s with a mixture of trepidation and excitement, then, that he glances back through the thicket Caren had helped him to discover the day before.]
When: Mid-Feoveuer
Where: The Wildes
What: be vewy quiet we're going qwesting
Warnings: None
i. closed to Caren
[Though the chill in the air has lingered well into the middle of the month, the brightening skies signal to Diarmuid that it’s time to put on his sturdiest boots and get to the quest he’d accepted earlier in the month. It’s been a while since he had a good hunt to lose himself in, even if this is a little unconventional compared to his own experiences. For one thing, he’s left both his spear and Mac-an-Coill at home. Rather, he’s enlisted the help of a predator far less likely to chase down the poor birds like fowl- and far more likely to instead get the better of Diarmuid himself with her quick tongue.
It’s mid-afternoon when he meets Caren at the edges of the forest. The trees around them are still heavy with frost, their branches glistening silver in the sunlight, but the crisp air is refreshing in its own way.]
Miss Ortensia. [He bows his head briefly.] My thanks for letting me borrow your nose.
[There’s also the strange matter of his hair. Diarmuid has yet to notice it himself but Caren might pick up on a few pale strands among the black, initially easy to dismiss as grey hairs until they catch the light. They’re quite undeniably pink. Maybe that witch back at the Coven took his gentle refusal of a date personally. Or, just as likely, he somehow managed to screw up the spell he learned in class the day before.
Either way: yikes.]
ii. closed to Zelda
[By this point, Diarmuid’s hair has come into its full blush pink glory and, while he’s trying to hide it beneath a wide-brimmed cap, there’s no missing the tufts of pastel poking out from the bottom. Particularly as he tips it back to greet Zelda.]
Hunting alone is a tragic thing.
[Each word creates a small cloud of white and the tip of his nose is slightly red but he seems in good spirits. In truth, he enjoys this weather; it reminds him of winters in Erin. The smell of fires, the company and drinks and stories exchanged as the flames crackled and danced through the night.]
I’m grateful for your help, though. They’re not the easiest birds to handle from what I can tell but maybe you’ll have the knack for it.
[Dressed in a thick cloak with a fur ruff, he’s more than ready to tackle both the elements and the tricky task of collecting feathers from the most antsy birds he’s ever had the displeasure of tracking. It’s with a mixture of trepidation and excitement, then, that he glances back through the thicket Caren had helped him to discover the day before.]
no subject
Her steps are similarly light as she follows after, and as he beckons her into the thicket after a moment's wait, a bit of abjuration magic woven around her gently pushes the branches aside to allow her passage without her cloak or hair getting caught up in the leafless trees.
She... doesn't see anything that immediately screams CRYSTALLINE CHICKENS LIVE HERE, admittedly, but she kneels to get a better look underneath the bowing branches surrounding the thicket. Her voice doesn't stray much louder than a whisper when she asks:]
Do you imagine they are burrowed amidst the underbrush somewhere around here?