savannah
you shine in this pitch darkness
that is the butterfly effect
The air of his shop was starting to warm in the setting days of winter. Spring was a whisper on the horizon, promising warmer weather, dreary days, and all kinds of other 'nice things.' It meant more and more individuals would be among the streets, seeing the sights, which meant he would be drawn into his home, more and more and more. So while the shop was warm now, it needed to be set up sooner rather than later. And he knew as soon as the she-beast with the face of an angel trotted back into his existence, his peace and quiet to get things ready would come crashing down like a house of cards during a windstorm.
He did manage to make sure he had enough space cleared up, cleaned up, tidied up and organized enough to be comfortable, that they'd be able to relax while they caught up. He didn't expect her to pry herself from him until well after sundown (truth be told, he was already worrying over where he could set up a second sleep area as he half expected her to crash here - and he was NOT sharing his bed with her. She could get clingy, and that got awkward and uncomfortable for him. A knock on the door alerted him of an arrival, and he frowned in surprise. Where was the flurry of energy? The excited 'honey, I'm home' as she came blazing like a rocket into his life, setting things off and driving him insane.
Something was . . . wrong.
The mage moved towards the door, hood firmly in place in case it was here. He paused briefly, and he could hear the murmur on the outside. Oh, oh dear. He opened the door slowly, his gaze sweeping over her, resting first on the butterfly attached to her, the faintest hint of fluttering wings letting him know it was working properly. His gaze finally settled on her, his different-hued eyes blinking, "Who taught you patience enough to not barge into my home, I must send them a gift basket." He drawls out, even as he steps aside, motioning for her to enter. But his gaze doesn't leave her. It's not until the door shuts securely behind him, and he is forced to lock it himself that decides something is very wrong.
"Go sit among the cushions, Absynthe. I have tea heated already, although I suspect you'll need me to add a dose of . . . something harder . . . to it before you tell me what has been going on. You . . . are not yourself." He is already moving about, the stallion shucking his hood back, the wild colors of his mane as visible as his multi-colored hide, all bright pastels against creams and onyx, "Well, do not keep me waiting." He all but orders, setting a cup before her, and filling it with tea - making his own cup up at the same time, before setting out a tray of milk and sugar, and a large glass of old fashioned mead for himself, and her favorite alcohol he tended to keep on hand, "Tea first, hard stuff later if you need it. Talk."
The mage was not taking no for an answer.
"Speech"
Thoughts
@Absynthe
Notes: <3
