They were lost.
Or rather, he was lost. After a while the forest all looked the same—naked branches dotted with the beginnings of leaves, moss covered rocks placed haphazardly about, as if drunkenly flung down by the Gods themselves, and the countless ditches carpeted with leaf mould and mud.
Through it all danced that nymph of a woman, flitting from tree to root to bud like an errant bumblebee, touching and smelling and even talking to the plants. Agronak had caught the hushed whispers on the breeze as Cerisse hunched over a bush, or inspected a patch of bark.
She certainly wasn't lost, darting behind gnarled trunks to emerge with a handful of yellow speckled mushrooms, or reaching into the recesses of a fallen log to pull out gossamer strands of spiderwebs, her fingertips trailing impossibly thin ribbons of sunlight in the air behind them. There was never a moment of hesitation before she knelt in the muck to dig out a bulb, never a flinch when she collected tree sap on her sleeve as well as her jar, never a moue of distaste when handling the smallest inhabitants of the forest floor.
Shaking his head, he declined her offer to set her latest discovery to crawl on his arm. A goggle-eyed snail, rescued from a nest of collected moss, stared up at him from the palm of her hand as one of her dirt-spattered fingertips traced the swirls of its mottled shell.
"You've caught another one with your charms." A hint of meaning to the words, and he was rewarded with the blossom of pink blush under the sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks before she quickly moved away to set the snail down on a distant stump.
It was a delightful diversion, this harmless flirtation of theirs. During their expedition through the quiet trees there'd been the subtle communication of non-verbal messages, a code composed of looks, posture, and proximity. Every now and again he'd make her flush, and she'd suddenly need to scamper over there, placing the cool breeze between them as an invisible buffer. Each time she'd somehow end up near at hand again, stealing glances until he set her off once more.
Reveling in the lightness of the atmosphere, glad to forget about villagers and money and plots for a time, he switched the increasingly heavy basket to his other arm. The load had been considerably eased with the removal of three water filled jars back in the clearing, but the continuous gathering of roots and berries, seeds and stems, had increased the burden to almost the same weight, perhaps even heavier. He had a strong suspicion if he hadn't taken so many opportunities to raise a blush, then she'd not have harvested half so many reagents.
But then, where would the fun in that be?
"You speak bramble-ish?" he asked, watching as she carefully scraped thorns off the thick vines, muttering the entire time.
Shaking her head as she came back, she answered while sorting through the remaining pouches in the basket, looking for an empty one. Pretty soon there wouldn't be any containers left for her cuttings. "Sometimes the plants need a bit of...healing."
"There's a spell to heal plants?" What a strange concept. He wondered if farmers knew about this.
"Not heal them," she frowned, searching for a better word, "soothe them. Sometimes they need to be coaxed, sometimes serenaded, and sometimes scolded. But those kind of plants are best avoided in the first place."
"Angry plants," he scoffed. "How exactly do you chastise a flower?"
"Same way you get it to bloom. Let me show you." Flitting off into the woods, Agronak following behind, Cerisse spoke of the unique language of nature spells. Which wasn't a language at all—the words themselves didn't matter, it was the magic whispering underneath them that did.
Stopping in front of an old rose bush, woody stems trailing off in all directions, she bade him put the basket down and lean in with her. As she cupped the end of one branch he listened carefully. One part of his mind could hear words like bloom and grow as she spoke, but they were more of an impression than an actual sound.
Tingles of magicka ran up and down his body as he watched the end of the branch; a rosebud growing, swelling, then blooming in the span of moments. A dark purple rose, delicate petals edged with black, was plucked with a swift swipe of the sickle.
"Black rose. It isn't really black, but that's what they call it. Not many people care for them—from a distance they look like they're wilted. But up close, their real beauty is obvious," she explained, holding the flower out for his inspection. The colour of each petal was a gradient, from a dark amethyst at the centre deepening out to solid black along the edges. The play of the light on the velvet surface only deepened its shadows and mystery.
"Neat trick. Must come in handy for harvesting." He watched her work the stem into a buttonhole on his shirt. Leaning his head down to better see, as well as bringing it closer to her own, he saw her suddenly flush again.
"No, it's quite useless for that. Potions rely on the magic of the plant—forcing it to grow only traps the magic of the witch." She patted the rose into place as she stepped backwards. She walked off while speaking, her words flowing out quicker, as if she was trying to fill the space between them with an invisible barrier of sound. "It did come in handy when Mama went through her rose period. She had me playing with the bushes daily, trying to get them to bloom just so for her paintings."
"What's her obsession now?"
"Nothing in particular, but it is spring again." Cerisse looked back as she clambered over a low embankment to give him a rueful smile. "Every year it's the same thing. Weddings and grandchildren—she's been driving me and Ria crazy since Sun's Dawn with her little hints."
"Not Gondyn?"
"No, he's 'too young.' She subscribes to the belief Hawkton men don't marry until they're much more mature. Not like that will ever happen with Dyn." She shook her head, indicating her lack of confidence in the theory.
"What does your father think of it?" Agronak inquired. Most fathers had rather rigid criteria for marrying off their daughters.
"Oh, he's got his own schemes for our marriages. I don't think it would matter who we marry, just so long as they speak another language. Until Mordistyr left for Senchal Papa kept extolling the virtues of Khajiiti women. I could probably marry a beggar, so long as he came from Elsweyr and spoke Ta'agra." Cerisse joked with a grin.
"I met a few of those in the Imperial City. Let me see if I can remember their names..." Agronak tapped his chin with his free hand, as if deep in thought.
She laughed at that, a gilt edged noise of delight trailing off into an indelicate snort. A hint of eerily familiar girlish giggles ran underneath her mirth, echoing back from the trees...
The basket hit the ground with a muffled thump, landing in a moist patch of grass. Cerisse's indignant protests over the mishandling of her ingredients trailed off into confusion as he motioned for her to get behind him with one noiseless wave, his other hand brandishing the newly unsheathed sword.
Pulse quickened, the exhilarating rush before battle heightening the senses, he swept the edge of the clearing with his eyes, listening for a tell-tale rustle or snap of twigs. But the forest gave nothing away, wind stirring damp leaves and dry branches in a disheartening veil of secrecy.
"What is it?" Cerisse whispered urgently.
"Spriggan," he replied sharply, trying to keep their conversation to a minimum, wary as he awaited the attack. Unexpectedly it came from behind, a soft swipe of hand landing against his shoulderblade in one chiding movement.
"Don't do that! You worried me," Cerrise scolded as he whirled around, shocked by her foolishness. A faint bubbling laugh was picked up by the breeze to swirl around his ears, frustrating in its lack of direction.
"Quiet. It's still here." The authority in his command failed to make an impression, evident in her impatient little toss of the head as she bent over to examine the contents of the forsaken basket.
"Of course she's still here. It is a forest," she remarked, shaking a small clay jar upside down to make sure the lid held. "Where else do you think they live? Now put that away before you hurt something."
"I'm not sure you heard me. Spriggan," he growled, staring towards a clump of young trees. Did something just move opposite the wind over there?
"Agronak," she called out, the firmness in her voice strong enough to make him glance back to see her standing beside the basket, glaring at him in annoyance. "I will not let you harm her."
The point of his sword swayed a little, her statement so bizarre his arm drooped in confusion. Mistaking the movement as a yield, her posture relaxed along with the fire in her words. "Sheath your sword and I'll call her out. She just wants to meet you."
Stepping closer to Cerisse, maintaining a firm grip on the sword hilt, he lowered his voice while keeping his eyes on the trees. "What are you talking about? Have you any idea what spriggans can do in battle? Stay behind and stay alert."
Before he could head back to investigate the suspicious section of forest, he encountered resistance in the form of two stubborn arms locked around his elbow, attached to two stubborn little heels planted firmly in the spongy ground.
"Agronak." The tone she used on him was similar to the one used to summon a wayward dog or a straggling child, an invisible leash that tugged the attention around. Earnest green eyes looked up at him, matching the sincerity in her voice. "Put the sword away, please. We're safe with her. Trust me."
Against instinct and reason, he sheathed his sword reluctantly, body poised to grab it in an instant. Warily, he listened as Cerisse began talking to the trees in a strange language, the sounds reminiscent of flowing streams and wind swept meadows. There was no magic to it he could detect, just an unfamiliar form of speech designed for a differently shaped tongue.
A young sapling, surrounded by underbrush, began to unfold itself. The branches bent down, revealing themselves as slender arms, the trunk separating into nimble legs. Strange amber eyes opened with another blood chilling giggle. Cerisse's warm grip, still tight against his arm, gave him a reassuring squeeze that did nothing to unwind the tension coiled through his body.
Still speaking words he couldn't decipher, Cerisse held on tightly as she nodded at him, obviously saying something about him to the laughing tree creature. When the spriggan took a gliding step closer towards him he stepped back involuntarily, pulling Cerrise along with a stumble.
"She likes your skin—it reminds her of mountains. She just wants to touch it." Cerisse's explanations were met with such an intense look of abhorrance she didn't press the issue, instead talking to the spriggan with a gentle shake of the head. The creature, small spring blossoms coiling around her chin, replied with a graceful wave of her arms in a large circle—a movement that brought his hand halfway to his sword again, kept off only by a counter-tug from Cerisse—before bounding away in deer-like hops into the trees.
Feminine giggles filled his ears as he watched the spriggan carefully, winding its way past bushes and tree trunks, until it vanished from view—whether by taking root once more, or hiding from sight he couldn't tell. It wasn't until the small snort, certainly not a spriggan-esque noise, did he realize it was Cerisse laughing as she hung from his elbow. Shaking off her clutching arms he glared at her, offended she was taking such mirth from his unhappiness.
"You don't like spriggans?" she inquired, waving for him to collect the basket and begin their journey home.
"No," he answered emphatically, "nobody does. Damn near impossible to kill, crawling with disease, and casters of some awful, powerful spells. Horrible things to fight." He snatched the basket up with a fierce tug, a small clump of mud stuck to the corner flying off to land on his shoe. "Not to mention the constant giggling. It's enough to chill any man's blood."
"Fight them?" Cerisse asked, pausing as she wound between bushes covered with brilliant yellow flowers, petals like ragged strips of cloth bestowing a scent which made him think of rancid butter. "Why would anyone provoke a spriggan? They're so gentle!"
"What?" he spluttered, wiping off a smear of golden pollen clinging to his thigh. "They're vicious, remorseless creatures. I'd call them demons, but the daedra I fought weren't as bloodthirsty. They attack for no reason—other than amusement, maybe, since they never stop laughing."
"Is everything in Cyrodiil rabid?" she asked, aghast at the report. "Or do they only attack for no reason after you've already pulled out a sword? Really, I can't see why anyone would ever fight one. It's much more enjoyable to talk to them. Spriggans tell the best jokes."
"Jokes?"
"Oh, yes. Right before she left she told me a good one about an eagle and a hare under a berry bush..." Seeing the skeptical look on his face she lowered her hands, which had been miming the diving of the eagle into the bush—at least, that's what he hoped she'd been doing. "Well, it doesn't really translate. But it was funny."
With a shrug of her shoulders she began walking up a tumble of large rocks that formed a low hill, marking her path with small muddy footprints as she chuckled with remembered amusement. Following behind, carefully balancing the weight of the basket as his wide feet found purchase on the smooth stone, he pondered again how he'd ended up being led through the wilderness by a woman who preferred the conversation of woodland creatures to courtiers.
And for the first time, he briefly wondered what it would be like to leave her behind.
The prickles, tiny sparkling flares of warm pain, danced across his back, preventing all possibility of sleep. Pacing quietly over the wooden floor Agronak waited for the irritation to subside, staring at the runes on the label. He wondered what it said, briefly considering asking Alabyval to translate it for him. But knowing Synderius there was a very strong possibility the answer would range from the embarrassing to the salacious—perhaps it was better if he didn't ask.
The bumps had subsided, leaving behind only a mild itch. Except he had a new problem to contend with, his skin having taken on a scaly quality as it healed. Convinced the salve was working, he now put it on in the evening before bed, preferring to itch and squirm in the privacy of his room rather than at the breakfast table.
Leaning his hands against the windowsill, he planted one foot far behind the other, arching his back in a welcome stretch. The day's toil had left his body worn but satisfied, a comfortable fatigue after so much time spent cramped in a jostling carriage. The muscles in his forearms protested their exhaustion, worn from carrying the heavy basket as well as the tasks in which he'd engaged this evening.
With a smile he switched legs, trying to deepen the curve in his back. In a clever bid to stay away from Ria, whose motives he still wasn't sure of—but certainly didn't care for—he'd volunteered to help Cerisse with her 'kitchen witchery.' Out in the summer kitchen, a small stone building with a massive fireplace, high walls, and a ceiling covered with suspended bunches of dried plants, he'd spent the evening watching as she prepared salve, altering the purpose of each formulation with the addition of certain ingredients. It was simple alchemy, with only a touch of nature magic, but the results were most effective; at least, so she'd told him.
Being tasked with peeling the thick bark off a gnarled root mass, the tendrils curling around themselves in awkward knots, it had taken a large preparation of all purpose salve, a mixture of burn unguent, and a small pot of gel for Hjoldir's bad eye, before he'd finally finished his assignment. Finally free to observe he'd stood behind her, listening to her instructions while offering to help stir. As soon as his hand had joined hers on the old wooden spoon, handle curled from constant use, she'd flushed crimson and given him a new job.
Standing up, interlacing his fingers and stretching them far overhead, the muscles in his arms sent out a grateful chorus of relief. Peeling had been bad enough, but it had been the large mortar and pestle, into which the carefully peeled roots had been placed with a handful of tiny purple seed pods, which had fatigued his arms so much they trembled when he tried to hold them straight. The roots had quickly mashed under the heavy grinding of the pitted rock, but the seeds, oh, the seeds. At first he'd wondered if she wasn't mistaken, convinced they were too tough to crush. But then one had burst open, turning into fine powder in a matter of strokes, leaving him no choice but to resign himself to the continual lifting, twisting, and grinding with the heavy pestle.
He still found it interesting she'd had him spend so much time working on those tasks when she'd not used any of the results. As he swung his arms from side to side, shaking out the soreness, he came to the conclusion she'd merely used the work as a distraction, keeping his hands busy and his body away from hers.
Crossing his wrists, pressing his palms together, he pushed his arms out towards the window, a delightful stretch growing between his shoulderblades. He could see the thinnest edge of Secunda, now a mere suggestion of moon, as it sat over its larger brother Masser, so fat and almost full it didn't seem able to raise itself, lower half hidden from view by the horizon. Tomorrow would be First Planting, evidence of the festivities already present in the covered dishes in the kitchen, results of Danai's bustling work. He found himself looking forward to it—the holiday always heralded the arrival of spring in his mind, a welcome visitor after the particularly dull winter season he'd had.
The distant barks of the hounds startled him from his musings. Leaning forward to get a better view, Agronak spotted them chasing a flying stick across the field, holding a brief tugging battle over it before Dar trotted back victorious. Tail held high, he delivered the prize to a crouching cloaked figure. It wasn't until she tossed it again, slice of moonlight illuminating her face, that he recognized Cerisse.
Odd she was still awake after such a long day, odder still she was outside with the dogs in the moonlight. Though what he found oddest of all was her game brought her closer and closer to the edge of the far forest, trailing cloak and twitching tails playing about until the trees swallowed them all from view.
The dry log, newly tossed onto the blaze, sizzled with a high pitched whistle of smoke, a last protest before it kindled into flame. Settling back down, picking up the leather bound book (he sincerely hoped it was merely leather, and not some sort of reptilian skin—the scaly look of it did nothing to ease that worry), Agronak gave Morag a friendly pat. Opening one age-clouded eye, the dog sighed heavily in response before resuming his demanding schedule of intermittent naps.
It was a beautiful day, clear and fresh, the kind equally at home in spring or fall—the sort of weather that warmed the cheeks while nipping at the ears. A walk would be a nice diversion, though Agronak wasn't sure where he'd walk or why. The occupants of the house were all distracted in their last minute preparations for the evening meal; Danai ordering everyone out of the kitchen on pain of strongly applied wooden spoon, Hjoldir out doing something to the grounds (Agronak had a strong suspicion that something involved watching the plants grow while puffing away on his well used pipe), and most of the family either grooming or fussing, focusing on the former unless ordered by Evie to worry about the latter. Only Alabyval remained relatively calm, holing himself up in his study with a stack of books and an air that suggested he'd brook no distractions.
Feeling about as underfoot as the hounds, Agronak had sought out a quiet spot in which to hide, not wanting to spend the morning surrounded by overly lush painted roses. Chancing upon this small room—he'd call it a library were it not for the fact every room barring the kitchen and dining room looked like a library—he'd settled himself on the comfortable bear hide in front of the fireplace with a selection of books, those he'd found written in Common, and his hasty breakfast of bread and fruit.
Morag, wandering past in search of warmth and softness, had found both stretched out along the length of his leg. So the time had passed, him skimming through the varied assortment of literature, which included everything from texts to a particularly steamy, albeit unfortunately slender, volume of erotic poetry, the pleasant sound of burning wood accompanied by the heavy snoring of the hound beside him. It was remarkable how companionable the presence of the old dog was, causing him to toy with the idea of getting one upon his return to Crowhaven. There'd never been room in his life for a pet before, especially not in the Arena. There'd been Porkchop, true, but the boar was Owyn's by rights, the blademaster so gruffly besotted with it the fighters had taken to calling it his love child—though only when safely hidden from earshot, usually at least one district away from the cantankerous Redguard.
"So that's where you've been all day. Rather clever—can't see you sitting there when walking by, hidden from view by the furniture." A brisk rub was given to Morag by way of greeting as Gondyn drew near, settling onto the old sofa Agronak had found more comfortable as a back rest than a seat. "Ria was looking for you earlier."
Offering a questioning grunt Agronak closed his current book, a ridiculous tale of a rather dense Bosmer in love with a Redguard, before turning his head to look at Gondyn. There was good natured amusement on the Breton's face, but then he perpetually seemed to wear that expression.
"She thought you might be able to help with her braids." A slight nod was given towards Agronak's hairstyle by way of explanation. "Women get so unhinged by the strangest things. Reesy sleeps in late on First Planting, you'd think Ri Ri would have learnt this by now. But every year she wears a hole in the hallway with her constant pacing."
"Why does Cerisse sleep so late today?"
"You can call her Reesy, everyone else does," Gondyn offered with a wink. Agronak's wordless reply of a skeptical glare made him chuckle. "Fine, keep her happy if you want, but it takes more than a nickname to allow her to fight back."
"Allow?" While Agronak had no doubt there were as many unwritten rules between the Hawkton siblings as any other family, the word felt out of place.
"Witch rules—don't you know them? Rather restrictive code. I certainly wouldn't sign up for it." Clearing his throat, Gondyn launched into a feminine falsetto while waving his hands up and down in a parody of magical motions. "Visit no evil upon others, lest thee wish it thrice upon thyself. Shouldst evil be set upon thee, mete back all but a grain, so that it...ah, well, you get the idea." Giving Agronak's shoulder a friendly pat Gondyn stood up, stretching his arms out in a welcoming gesture towards the doorway. "Reesy! Good to see you up so early. I was afraid you'd miss the sunset again."
"Dyn," came the cold reply, "Mama is looking for you. The carriage is coming up the drive and you forgot to put the wheat sheaths over the door."
"Dust of Orcrest!" Gondyn's unusual exclamation, hastily given as he ran towards the hall, brought a smile to Agronak's lips. The variety of curses in High Rock might not be colourful, but they certainly were perplexing.
After receiving Cerisse's assurances he not worry about putting the books away, Agronak followed her towards the front hall, complimenting the complicated knot of braids weaving in and out of themselves in a crown around her head. She didn't acknowledge his remarks with words, continuing in her low voiced reminders of her brother's family's names, but the hint of smile curling on her lips and the delicate hand that reached up to give the braids a reassuring pat let him know she'd heard him well enough.
Arriving in the front hall, Agronak hung back to observe the last minute preparations. Cerisse was unceremoniously grabbed by Ria with a command to inspect for stray hairs trying to escape her woven arrangement of braids, a similar style to her sister's. Gondyn hastily worked to secure a cluster of wheat, tied in the middle with a bright green ribbon, above the doorway while Evie alternately scolded, fretted, and critiqued his hanging technique. Alabyval caught Agronak's eye and gave him a rueful smile, establishing that this sort of low key chaos was a commonplace occurrence.
Morag's gruff bark, taken up by Dar, was the note which signaled the end of the fussing. In a swift movement Gondyn patted the arrangement into place on the hook, hopped off the borrowed chair and swept it into place against the wall. Evie pulled open the door, unleashing a chorus of greeting upon her eldest son and his family as they stood on the threshold.
An unusual ritual followed, one Agronak attributed to the day's celebrations. In turn each member offered a small grouse egg to Evie before touching the door frame, exclaiming zot (enthusiastically in the case of the children, subtly by the parents), then entering to a whirlwind of hugs. As they were swept around in a circle of welcome, he politely greeted Rodyrick (Cerisse's eldest brother), Cyovta (his Yokudan wife), and Lara and Elyn (their children).
As if it wasn't crowded enough, Hjoldir appeared to begin directing the visiting driver about the arrangements of the luggage. Hanging back to let the family have their initial visit, Agronak remained a mute observer, occasionally able to make out snippets of talk as they all spoke together; Evie giving a flurry of instructions about the rooms, Alabyval chatting amiably in a foreign tongue with his eldest son, Cyovta graciously admiring Ria's hair, Elyn's shrieks of laughter as he was held upside down by Gondyn, and Cerisse calmly correcting Lara's mistaken use of the name Auntie Reesy.
Pulled from his quiet vantage point, tugged by a warm hand further into the familial circle, Cerisse gave Agronak a proper introduction to Lara, who struck him as a somewhat serious child, a couple of years older than her laughing brother. She studied him blatantly, green eyes peering up from amber skin, a striking combination of her blended parentage.
"Orcs aren't grey," Lara stated with finality, having come to some internal conclusion. "So what are you?"
Brushing off Cerisse's protests about the rudeness of the question, Agronak answered with a forced gravity to matched the tone of the question, trying not to chuckle. "I'm an Orcperial."
"A what?" It was Cerisse's turn to hide her amusement, smile tucked away in the corner of her mouth.
"I'm half Orc, half Imperial," he explained to both of them.
"Half Orc," Lara murmured, contemplating the answer. The interruption of Elyn, his constant clamour for the attentions of Auntie Reesy meriting Lara's bossy reprimand that it was Auntie Cerisse, halted any further discussion about bloodlines.
"Auntie Cerisse, where's the whilloken?" Elyn's question shattered Lara's gravity, the girl's face lighting up with excitement. Joining the continuous requests for the whilloken, they both pleaded with Cerisse to produce one.
After receiving promises they would be gentle, Cerisse reached her hands out into the air to pantomime a search, plucking and discarding imaginary creatures with little comments about them being too small or too big. With a wide smile she cupped her hands and brought them in to her face, soft whisper of magic producing a glowing ball of light and corresponding shiver down Agronak's spine. Entrusting the spell into Elyn's waiting hands, the children walked off, excitedly discussing which game to start first with their new playmate.
"Quite the imagination," Agronak commented once they were out of earshot. "There isn't much you can do with a light spell."
"You're right, there isn't." The answer came with another tucked away smile of amusement, some further meaning hidden behind her words.
The disposition of luggage and lodgings completed, Evie herded everyone into more comfortable quarters in the salon (which Agronak previously mistook as the library proper, what with the walls completely covered in built-in bookshelves). Over light snacks and lighter conversation he learnt more about Rodyrick, or Roddy as his family referred to him.
The leader of Tamborne, ancestral city passed on from Evie's side of the family, Rodyrick had taken Alabyval's place as ruler—though by law and custom, Evie was still technically guardian of the inhabitants, her son merely acting in her stead. As the talk turned to updates about the city—troubles, plans, and achievements being discussed—Agronak grew further interested in the conversation. It was one thing to be placed in charge of running a town; he was finding it something else entirely to do it.
Movement in the doorway caught his eye, the giggling figures of Lara and Elyn a blur as they ran past, seeking out a place to hide. Agronak's musings about the active imagination of the young turned into stunned confusion when the small ball of light flitted into view, illuminating the hallway while moving in a bobbing fashion that made it look as though it was seeking its quarry.
"Whilloken are not light spells," Cerisse spoke softly, having caught sight of his perplexed gaze. "Whilloken is the Yokudan name for fae."
Before Agronak could press for further clarification Evie stood hastily, exclaiming about the lateness of the hour. That seemed to be the cue for the adults to begin...something, he wasn't entirely sure what. Cerisse headed off in search of the hiding children and wandering whilloken while Rodyrick and Alabyval left for the study to better discuss Tamborne business.
A less than subtle nudge from Gondyn sent Ria closer to Agronak, wearing a bright grin as she asked which he preferred—painting, or flowers. Not understanding the context of the question he hedged, suspicions flaring. There was certainly some conspiracy at work between the siblings.
"Well, I can help you with your wreath," Ria offered. "I'm very good at decorating them."
"I'm fine, really. No need for a wreath," Agronak answered, rising from his seat on the delicate wooden chair—a spot he'd chosen merely because none other had been available, spending the entire time carefully distributing his weight on his legs while worrying he'd crush the furniture.
"Of course you need one. Everyone must have a wreath." Gondyn added from his resting place, lounging indolently against the shelves. "Ri Ri—Ria, sorry—is an expert at fiddling with them. She'll get you set up with a fabulous one."
There it was again, that little eyebrow wiggle of his, an omen Agronak had come to distrust. The innocent smirk on the young man's face, green eyes twinkling with merry amusement, boded no good. Not that it portended doom, but generally it meant some sort of mischief lay in store.
"Fabulous if you like flowers," Cerisse cut in, giving her siblings suspicious looks as she herded in the rogue children, "lots and lots of very feminine flowers. I'd suggest you decorate your own."
"Aren't you going to paint your pot first?" Elyn asked. The glowing whilloken had settled into his curly hair, looking very much like a tired pup gone to sleep in a nest of ragged blankets. Mentally shaking his head Agronak tried to remind himself that light spells, even ones with a Yokudan name, did not nap, no matter how odd the magic.
"I'm not much of a painter." Agronak replied. Anything smaller than a brush for use with whitewash or a canvas tinier than a wall and he found himself all thumbs. That gentlemanly pursuit in the leisure hours was one he'd quickly abandoned, despite having heard it was normally a natural talent for fighters to possess. Apparently most guild halls had painting clubs formed by its members, influenced by Master Oreyn's love for the hobby.
That wasn't an acceptable excuse to offer. Between the chatter of the children, Evie's attempts at organization, and his guess it would be easier to work with plants than paint, Agronak ended up in the group of those who would make up the wreaths. Elyn's gracious offer to paint a pot in his honour was accepted with a small measure of relief.
Still unsure why he needed a circle of dry plants or a claimed clay pot, Agronak followed Cerisse into the library—the last room he'd guessed would earn the title, adorned with naught but two tall bookshelves, locked glass covers preventing easy access to the books. A round table in the centre of the room held an assortment of dried flowers arranged in vases, small bundles of wheat stacked up in a precarious pile. Mystified by the various pins and ribbons also present, Agronak ignored them in search of something much more pertinent—a strong chair.
The only drawback in claiming a seat first was it left him at the whims of the others. Ria took the spot to his left after what he thought was a small lurch caused by a hasty shove from Gondyn. Keeping a watchful eye on her siblings, Cerisse settled to his right, picking through the wheat, comparing them to each other with a practiced eye. With exaggerated manners Gondyn escorted Lara to the table, putting on a small show as he pulled out a chair for her.
It wasn't until Cerisse placed one of the braided wreaths on his head did Agronak understand they weren't for décor so much as dress. Protesting that he didn't wear food, he was quickly inundated with explanations from the others at the table as to why he had no say in the matter. As the various Breton customs associated with First Planting were told from all directions—half myth, half ritual—Ria showed him how to place and pin flowers into the wreath using the thin copper pins available.
It was a definite departure from the habits of Cyrodiil, the holiday there celebrated much as the others, with drinking, feasting, and dancing. Here it had a much more solemn undertone, laced with religious import and fertility symbols. The custom of bestowing eggs as greeting by visitors was said to be a way of showing the gift of friendship would likewise hatch and grow. No explanation of zot was offered.
Even the various flowers on the table were said to represent some aspect of the new season—everything from hope for a bountiful harvest to forgiveness for past sins apparently present in the dry petals. Seeing no way around it, he became more willing to participate when he understood they'd be making similar headgear for those missing from the table. With too much to remember, Agronak decided to simply put one of each flower into his wreath, just to cover his luck.
Lara, having already finished decorating a small circle for her brother, stared at Agronak from across the table. With lips pursed in a studious expression, she finally spoke. "The top half."
"Excuse me?" he asked while trying to somehow handle a slippery pin, a delicate black rose threatening to crumble into dust, and the braided wheat at the same time.
"If you're half Orc, it must be the top half, because you're so big." Her explanation resulted in the accidental crushing of the rose, victim of his sudden amusement. The other adults at the table were laughing just as hard at Lara's carefully thought out pronouncement, the poor child completely confused as to what they found so funny.
Reaching for another rose necessitated stretching an arm above Cerisse's work. Seizing the opportunity, Agronak bent his head towards her and whispered, making sure no one else could hear him. "Other half's just as big."
With a startled noise, somewhere between a mewl and a shriek, Cerisse dropped her wreath to the table, hands flying up before stilling themselves. Glancing furtively around, her face now a brilliant scarlet, she began to cough—albeit in an odd, garbled fashion. Still making that sporadic hiccup of a cough she stood up and quickly walked out of the room, managing to murmur about water during her brisk trek to the doorway.
Catching Gondyn's highly confused expression, Agronak fought to suppress his grin as he offered a simple explanation. "Hawkton women," he stated with a mild shrug.
"Ah." The subtle nod conveyed complete understanding—at least, on the part of the young man. The remaining ladies at the table were still oblivious, exchanging darting looks that suggested it was the males who were crazy .