Chapter Text
The dra— … Flapjack doesn't follow Hunter into his room that night, but with their connection as strong as it is, the fact the dragon chooses to splay over the roof instead doesn't diminish their presence from the quiet atmosphere of his borrowed bed. They sing for him again, even though he isn't plagued by nightmares tonight. (No, Hunter sleeps far too lightly for those, waking every hour to check the position of the moonlight across the floorboards.) When it touches the top of his doorframe, he finally allows himself to rise, stretching out his heavy limbs and dressing appropriately. His sturdy leather armor is layered between a soft undershirt and an unremarkable beige tunic, and his feet are stuffed into his favorite heavy boots. The satchel is double checked for any missing supplies, and he adds a pouch of extra coin to the innermost pocket. The only thing left is to wait for Raine, and perhaps don his cloak for added security.
Hunter slips down the hall for his usual routine of starting the percolator and stoking the morning fire for breakfast. The only change today is when he steps outside for firewood and finds Flapjack waiting for him, a sturdy log in their mouth which the dragon offers with a croon.
“Uh… Thanks,” he murmurs awkwardly as the gift is gently dropped into his hands, dragon spit and all. Flapjack chuffs as he fights to keep a straight face, amused, and without knowing what else to say Hunter turns back inside. He shuts the door on them, because he knows better than to leave it standing wide open to let the warmth out, but second guesses his decision when they circle the house to the back porch, sniffing at the door which opens through the kitchen. He feels their displeasure at the barrier between them, and even though he doesn't like the idea, Hunter uncertainly opens one of the windows instead, letting them poke their head in to watch what he's doing. He's supposed to be making nice, after all.
So distracted, Hunter nearly catches himself on fire when he tosses the log onto the coals, the coating of dragon saliva igniting better than any other kindling could. Off to his side the dragon warbles in concern, alarmed, and he waves them off. Hunter carefully washes the last vestiges of spit from his fingers, then sets about chopping potatoes, vegetables, and sausage for breakfast.
Want one, Flapjack demands once he feels he’s been ignored quite enough, and eyes the rope of sausage links he’s cutting from. Hunter pauses in his chopping to frown at them.
“Can't you hunt your own food?”
Not as tasty. Flapjack licks their lips, pointed tongue curling around their downy snout hopefully, and somehow he manages not to expose any teeth while doing so.
"There's more food in the barn too. Those would be a lot more filling than one of Camila's sausages.”
Want that too. Still not as tasty. Hunter has the feeling that the dragon is playing with him, and sighs in response to their jovial attitude. (He hasn't even had his coffee yet.)
“She isn't even awake for me to ask,” he stubbornly presses. He can't just go around giving this bea—give Flapjack whatever he wants. It isn't feasible.
You bought those ones. I remember. And the other girl has tried to give them before too, they snort. Hunter's scowl deepens, because he did buy them, to replace the few he'd taken before. But… (He couldn't always buy more, though, he supposes.) Flapjack chuffs eagerly, sensing his indecision.
“You're a menace,” he grumbles, but then finishes cutting his pepperoots and slices a sausage free anyway. “Only one though.” Flapjack leans their head further in through the window, crest rising eagerly. “Catch.” Hunter tosses it slowly, with a high ark, and the dragon snaps the morsel up effortlessly. With a pleased warble they back out through the window to savor their offering, leaving Hunter alone now they’ve collected their prize. (Well, as alone as he can be, with the dragon’s ambient thoughts radiating a their appreciation of the particular nuances of flavor in the sausage.) The witch takes a moment to heat rendered pork fat in a pan, then adds his ingredients and leaves it to fry before heading out to the barn. While he’s thinking of it, it’s probably better that he finish feeding thee now before they demand anything else. Flapjack happily ambles behind him, radiating a fair share of amusem*nt at his expense.
A few fat rabbits later (which Flapjack reqquested specifically), he returns to the house to find Darius and Camila have risen with the smell of food. In fact, Camila is currently stirring his pan of breakfast, Hunter is embarrassed to note. He quietly clears his throat and moves closer, unsure if he should step back in or not.
“Good morning, Mrs. Noceda. Darius.”
“Good morning, Hunter,” Camila cheerfully greets him. “Don't worry, I'm just making sure it doesn't burn,” she assures him, and he ducks his head.
“It only just started, ma'am. I only stepped away to, er, feed the dragon.” Hunter moves past her to wash his hands once more, feeling Darius’ eyes on him as he goes. The older witch has his fingers wrapped around a mug of the coffee, though it doesn't look like he's tasted it yet. Hunter hopes that his silence is purely from the lack of caffeine, and not because the man is upset with him and Raine.
“Good boy,” Camila says, and he's glad it's too dark for either of them to parse how his face heats at the unearned compliment. “I'd bring more of it home, usually, but, well. Everything the Barn could spare was sent out in donations and already distributed. Although… I might be able to move a few things over from our prior amphiptere's portion? She did find a partner…” Camila muses as she sets the lid back on.
“Don't worry about that, ma’am. He's my responsibility,” Hunter quickly assures her, not wanting her to waste her efforts funding his misfortune. (As if she hasn't done enough for him already.) “I’ll collect another paycheck from Eda after the festivities are over.” Granted, it’ll be dismally small, but…
“Still, I know how hard this has been for you. I'd love to help,” she insists. Hunter flounders in place, unsure how else he can politely decline, and ends up with a cup of coffee in his hands for his trouble.
“Mrs. Noceda,” he begins, and she shushes him.
“Just this once. Darius mentioned you have to take a few days off work and I know how stressed you've been about income. I already get a good deal from the local ranchers by running the only veterinary practice in this town. —Dragons aren’t the only creatures I cater to, you know.” Camila pats his shoulder gently with a wide smile, then urges him toward the table to take a seat. He's distracted from countering her again by a ping of attention from Flapjack, followed by the sound of loping dragon feet. Darius hears it too, his pointed ears twitching into sudden alertness, and both witches glance nervously out the window.
“Are you expecting any visitors at this time of morning, Mrs. Noceda?” Darius asks, already standing with a hand held at the ready to cast a spell.
“No?” she answers, confused. “Is someone here?”
“Perhaps they're lost,” Darius decides, sweeping out of the room with a thunderous presence. Hunter sits halfway out of his seat, confused himself. It's probably just Raine, after all, right? Didn't the bard tell Darius he was coming over? (… They did tell him, right?) Hunter tenses further, his fingers tightening on his cup with growing dread. (Oh no.)
“Calm down, Hunter,” Camila murmurs. “Darius will set them off.”
“No, ma'am, it's probably just, ah, our friend Raine. They said they'd come by this morning… I-I apologize. I thought they'd already told you.”
“Oh! Well, good! Do you think they'll want to stay for breakfast? You cooked plenty for everyone,” she muses, looking over the stove thoughtfully as the distant rumble of voices echo from the door. Camila moves to fill the kettle as well, Hunter assumes for Raine as the bard doesn’t prefer coffee, but he’s only half paying attention to what she’s doing. They both still, however, when one of those voices turns sour, and Hunter’s ears quiver nervously at Darius’ low, upset baritone. Outside, Flapjack goes tense and quiet, observing the altercation from the other side of the door, though they spare him enough consideration to confirm it is indeed his bard companion. Yet, to both the dragon and his rider’s frustration, he can’t quite parse what the witches are saying beyond a few terse tones. Hunter sips his too-hot coffee nervously, burning his tongue for the effort, and cringes away from his cup as his stomach roils in protest.
Abruptly, Darius turns away from Raine and storms back inside, leaving the door open for the bard to enter behind him. Hunter jolts upright as his mentor marches in, pinning him with a stern glare, and clutches his cup tighter in alarm. Coffee trickles over the lip and across his fingers, but he’s too alarmed to pay the sting much mind.
“Well, well, Hunter… Guess who’s dropped by for an unexpected visit? Looking for you no less,” Darius drawls, each word dripping with barely contained disapproval. Hunter cringes, his eyes flinching away with a nervous squint.
“Leave him alone, Darius,” Raine cuts in, stepping around the imposing witch with an ease that Hunter could never quite master. “It wasn’t his idea.”
“If I recall correctly, Mx. Whispers, I’m fairly sure we’ve already had this discussion—”
“And as I recall, Mr. Deamonne, I never did agree with your opinions on the matter,” Raine interrupts, leaving Darius spluttering indignantly.
“Why you impertinent little—”
“Darius.” This time, it’s Mrs. Noceda who interrupts him. “That’s no way to treat a guest in my home,” she continues firmly, and to Hunter’s surprise Darius actually looks rather chagrined at her rebuke.
“My apologies, Mrs. Noceda.”
“Accepted. Now, what in the world are you two bickering so angrily about before the sun has even risen? What is this about Hunter? And why are we talking over him as if he is not even here?” she tuts. The witch in question freezes into an agonizing stillness as three pairs of eyes move to him, and outside Flapjack paces across the porch in agitation, accentuating the sudden silence with the squeaky floorboards under his talons.
Darius sighs heavily, thankfully dragging everyone’s attention back to himself, and crosses his arms.
“Raine was saying something about a trip into Emberwick. Apparently planned only yesterday?”
“Well, that sounds delightful to me,” she says, unimpressed with the excuse.
“Camila,” Darius grouses, “I’ve told you why he can’t.”
“No, you have told me why he shouldn’t,” she corrects him. “Which is a very reasonable concern, yes—but, Darius, I do not think that the choice should be yours. Hunter, mijo, you are aware of the risks of such a venture, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmurs.
“And Raine did not guilt or otherwise coerce you into accompanying them, I assume?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Is this trip something you want to do, then?” He hesitates at that question, glancing toward the other two before answering.
“It would be safer if I were to accompany them,” he carefully says, and Darius groans.
“Then they may take someone else! Like their dragon or that deranged shopkeeper they’ve spent so much time with.”
“Eda is busy—with said shop, in fact,” Raine retorts. “One of her best workers is currently indisposed, after all.” Hunter presses his mouth into a thin line, guilt sticking in his thorax at the reminder.
“None of that is our concern.”
“It might not be your concern, but the rest of us seem to have a little more empathy for our comrades.”
“Empathy doesn’t keep him safe,” Darius hisses. “Empathy doesn’t keep anyone safe. Caution does.”
“Do you really think that locking him away somehow will? Think about who we’re discussing here!” Raine counters, tossing a hand his way in emphasis. Hunter twitches, but keeps his silence, much as the accusations pain him. He’s the only one who does, however.
“That is quite enough from you two!” Camila interjects, gesturing warningly with the wooden spatula she’s been using to stir the potatoes. Hunter braces himself warily while the others fall sullenly silent once more. “Honestly, you’re acting like children, arguing over who’s game to play. And it isn’t even your turn to pick!” she huffs. “Darius, sweet as your concern is, Hunter is not a child. He will not be out there alone. You’ve said before that you trust Raine, right?” She pauses and points her spatula at him, waiting for his reluctant nod. “Have you seen any evidence of those people you have been looking for? Do you have a firm basis for your concerns?” Darius looks away from her questions, and his broad shoulders slump faintly from their tense posture.
“Well… No. Not from here. A caravan of trappers was stopped a few towns south of the border, and it was Eberwolf’s suggestion that perhaps they’d been making their way down to this event where there would have been more dragons to pick off, but… No, we haven’t seen any evidence that they’ve made their way here. Yet, anyway.”
“So how long were you planning on hiding him here with nowhere else to go then, hm?” she asks, Darius’ mouth flattens into a straight, reluctant line, and Camila sighs. “Until the celebrations are over? Until every dragon clears out of Ashmarrow? That will only last until the next time you worry that they’re headed our way, and then what? Will you lock him away every few months? Or until you find every last trapper and convict them? That isn’t a feasible solution, Darius.” Hunter felt that familiar guilt churn his gut when her fevered gaze impulsively rakes over him, before locking back onto her guests with barely contained determination. “Hunter is young, but he is not naive. He knows the risks—we all know by now. Locking him away like a dog in a kennel will not improve his wellbeing; he’ll just dig under the fence and none of us will ever see him again. One way or another. Not,” she tells Hunter in a softer aside, “to say that you are a dog, mijo. Pardon the metaphor.”
“S’fine,” he mumbles, his shoulders drawing uncomfortably tighter.
“But…” Darius sighs, seemingly deflating. The subtle expression of defeat isn’t one Hunter is accustomed to seeing on the older witch, and he watches closely, enraptured by the performance before him.
“You’re right,” Darius reluctantly murmurs. “Perhaps I didn’t think that part through.”
“Stubborn man,” Camila says fondly. “Sometimes, you do not. Now, both of you, get out of my kitchen. You may come back when you’ve cooled your heads, or when breakfast is ready, but not a moment before,” she orders, shooing them away with a flick of her spoon. Raine leaves with a gracious bow after Camila pours them a mug of steaming tea, and if they’re at all smug about essentially winning their spat, Hunter can’t see any sign of it. (They mostly look tired, he thinks; in much the same way as he feels, honestly.) Darius, in contrast, obviously pouts just a little as he moves into the living room with his own mug of reclaimed coffee. Hunter taps a finger anxiously on the rim of his cup when it’s just him and Camila left, uncomfortable in the following silence.
“Do, ah…” He clears the creak from his throat as Camila looks over, coaxing him to continue with a quiet “hm?” “Would you like me to go as well, ma’am?” he asks, wondering if his presence will also disturb her. (Perhaps she had forgotten he was here too? His Uncle used to do that, after all. He long ago learned how to fade into the background, when necessary.)
“No, mijo, you can stay right where you are,” she assures him, smiling softly despite her recent aggravation. (She has a much better mask than he does, if she’s hiding the vestiges of her ire.) “These potatoes are almost done, anyway. I want to make sure you eat well before an all-day adventure, like it seems you’ve planned for.”
“… I-if you don’t, er, want me to go— If you have a task I’ve forgotten, or one I haven’t noticed I’ve neglected, then… uh…”
“Relax, Hunter,” she says softly. “You haven’t forgotten a thing. I’m actually glad you’ll be going out for a bit. You don’t do well being cooped up in this house for so long,” she says, somewhat echoing Raine’s thoughts from the previous night. “I hope this little adventure does you some good.” Hunter softly agrees with her, unsure how else to respond to her words. Flapjack takes that moment to nudge his head in through the window, nostrils flaring as he scents the strained atmosphere left behind.
Boy okay? they ask, head tilting in concern. Hunter glances self-consciously at Camila, who by this point has fully taken over his pan of breakfast, and offers the dragon a subtle nod. He’s fine. No one even touched him. Flapjack’s nostrils flare as he considers Hunter’s mood. Dark witch angry? … Bite him for you? they offer dubiously. They had thought Hunter liked him, after all, but if he’s become a threat… Hunter frowns and shakes his head. (That absolutely isn’t necessary.) Flapjack huffs with the impression of a shrug, an if you’re sure implied with the emotion, and the heavy breath just barely startles Camila from where she was distracted at the stove.
“Oh! Ay, precious, hello…” she coos happily, greeting Flapjack with gleeful praise and somehow easing the atmosphere the rest of the way. Hunter relaxes enough to sip his cooling coffee as she fawns over the dragon, and rolls his eyes when, much to Flapjack's amusem*nt, she offers him a link of sausage. Unlike with Luz before, Flapjack accepts the offering from her with a snide thought aimed his way, before pulling his head back through the window, content now that his witch is truly alright. Hunter mulls over the soft smile Camila wears as she watches the dragon depart, and clears his throat on a sudden impulse.
“He, ah. He said his name is Flapjack,” Hunter tells her. He self-consciously spins his mug in between his fingers as she looks over at the pronouncement, smiling even wider. The expression takes years off of her face, leaving her looking all the more like her daughter.
“Flapjack!” Camila gasps, clapping her hands together as she murmurs something he doesn’t quite understand. “That’s adorable. He’s a gem, just like you are, mijo.” Hunter ducks his head at the compliment, too embarrassed to reply, and burns his tongue yet again on an impulsive sip of coffee to hide the expression.
After Camila serves herself and Hunter, the other two witches are once more allowed back in for breakfast. They sit at the table without any lingering tension between them, and despite his expectations they don’t mention their argument at all. Hunter eats silently while observing the small talk which flows around him, the pair apparently cowed by Mrs. Noceda’s wrath.
Still, as calm as everyone appears, Hunter finds it difficult to just forget that he’s the one who incited their argument in the first place. The reason everyone decided to take a stand at all. In response, he swallows his food faster than the rest of the group in order to clean the dishes, wary of doing anything else to stir the pot. Hunter manages to sanitize everything but their plates before he’s interrupted. Raine stops his anxious scrub of the counters with a delicate touch to his arm, guiding him back into his seat before producing a small cosmetic pouch to begin his transformation. The bard graciously explains every little brush and pigment before applying them to his skin. He isn't fond of the necessary proximity or attention, but holds still nonetheless, even as Darius leans in to help. The end result, when he sees it in one of Darius’ pocket mirrors, is almost as miraculous as any concealment stone. Hunter stares at himself in the mirror, impressed by the changes. His skin has been darkened, his scars entirely gone, and they’ve somehow accentuated the shadows of his face until his jawline appears rounder, his nose thinner… It's a bit uncomfortable, actually; like he's wearing someone else's face.
“Can you show me how to do this?” he asks, fascinated. (Is this why face paints are frowned upon in the Empire? He had no idea how much they could change one's appearance.)
“Of course,” Raine agrees, closing the cosmetic bag up. “But that will have to wait until after we return. Shall we?”
“Right. I'll get my bag,” he agrees, gratefully handing Darius back the mirror. He keeps his gaze averted as the item passes hands, and hopes the older witch doesn't notice. (His shoulders burn as he retreats, feeling Darius’ silent, judgmental gaze on him with every step.)
Hunter doesn't let the witch's disapproval dampen his excitement too much, though. After days of sitting on his hands and twiddling his thumbs, he finally has a job to do. Hunter quickly triple checks his bag and hidden weapons, trying to curb a little more of his enthusiasm before he leaves his room. Satchel over his shoulder, disguise in place, and unwilling to make Raine wait on him, Hunter quickly heads back out.
His steps falter when he spies Darius waiting by the door, side by side with Raine, with his heavy arms crossed over his broad chest. Despite his assurance that the witch has been outvoted, Hunter still has to banish a stray wisp of uncertainty at the imposing sight. Raine, on the other hand, has an expression that fits somewhere between exasperation and bemusem*nt.
“Ready?” the bard asks, and Hunter nods. “Excellent. Apparently, we'll have one more on our little voyage, by the way.” Hunter narrows his eyes in confusion, glancing at Darius.
“Don't you still have the last of the festival to watch?” he hesitantly asks.
“As I mentioned before, there hasn't been any sign of the trappers yet. They've had many days to show up, and if they haven't by this point, then the only other time they might strike would be as the dragons are leaving the area. So, for at least today, I'm comfortable enough leaving it alone to assist you on your very important task,” he explains.
“Ah… Well, um, we'll be happy to have you,” Hunter carefully replies, ignoring the tension that settles in his chest. (It'll be fine.)
(In fact… after a little consideration, he wonders if maybe this is an opportunity to show Darius that there's no need to worry about him! This is perfect, actually!)
That determination buoys him through helping Darius tack the horses, loading their saddle bags lightly with their carry-ons and the luncheon Mrs. Noceda puts together for them. The familiarity of readying for a mission—from the reassuring (if uneasy) presence of his mentor, down to the smell of the horses and saddle oils—is a comfort that's been lacking in his routine for months now. (Even if this whole adventure is an unnecessary farce, he can't regret agreeing to go.) Hunter works to keep his face smooth, wary of alerting his mentor as to the path of his thoughts.
Raine joins them as he tightens the final belts, rubbing a hand along the horse's shoulder opposite Hunter. The animal shifts its weight between its feet as he strokes a long line down its neck, gnashing at the bit, and Hunter thinks they seem as eager to depart as he feels.
“Will you be riding with one of us?” he asks them, resting a hand on the horn of his saddle. The bard is thin enough that they could probably both fit on this saddle, though Hunter doesn't feel either of them would be very comfortable with the forced proximity.
“Oh, no. That won't be necessary. Fiddlesticks can carry me quite easily, but thank you,” they say, and Hunter frowns. He almost forgot about the dragons, in his excitement. Hunter glances leerily toward the stable doors, wondering if he should probably… (His mind shies away from the very thought, though. There’s no way he could manage.)
“It won't… look unusual, if I don't… er. Ride my own dragon. Will it?” His hands feel cold and numb for even asking, yet if Flapjack has any opinion on the matter, they don't share it with him.
“No. If anyone notices, they'll likely assume you're letting them rest for the day,” Raine kindly reassures him. Hunter nods, shamefully relieved, and drops his eyes back to the mare. At least saddling her wasn't a wasted effort.
Darius wordlessly mounts his own horse, driving her past the two of them. Raine brushes a strand of the horse's hair over to the other side, adding it to the rest, before they follow suit.
Hunter exhales slowly, rolling his neck to loosen his shoulders; then he's hauling himself into the saddle and turning his mount out of the stable, urging them to likewise follow their companions. The animal blows nervously through their nostrils when it sees Raine astride their dragon, ears swiveling as it stops and steps back, but listens anyway when he taps them forth once more with his heels.
As he approaches, Hunter takes note of the strange saddle affixed to Fiddlesticks’ back. As opposed to a horse's, it sits just behind the dragon's shoulders, and seems crafted of a lighter, more flexible material. The stirrups hang down just past their ribs, but they're attached to a thinner fender than the ones he's used to seeing. (Perhaps to leave more room for wing rotation?) There's also no proper horn, the piece instead replaced by handles on either side of the pommel. Hunter pulls up to a halt just behind Darius as the witch and Raine discuss the best route to Emberwick, and notices a final detail on the clearly custom-built saddle. Burned into the end of the skirt is a small thundercloud with a line of lightning running through it—the same symbol etched into the interior of Raine's instrument case.
“I'm not very familiar with Emberwick,” Darius proclaims, continuing a conversation Hunter hadn't heard the start of, and his focus shifts.
“It's a big town,” Raine replies. “Sort of like Benstin. We shouldn't stand out there too much, either: it's a throughway town, so there are a lot of people coming and going, looking for work or goods or trade.” Hunter glances around the clearing from the corner of his eye, trying not to make it obvious that he's looking. He can sense Flapjack nearby, knows their watching them from somewhere down low, but Hunter can't tell where the dragon has hidden themself.
“Is it safe?” Darius continues.
“Yes. At least, it is in the area we'll visit,” Raine assures him. Darius pinches his mouth, stubbornly unappeased, and sighs heavily through his nose.
“Very well. Let's get this over with, shall we?”
“You could stand to have a little more enthusiasm,” Raine murmurs as Fiddlesticks steps forward into a smooth trot.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Darius returns, the sarcasm as thick as honey in his tone. He and Hunter spur their mounts after the pair before Raine gets too far ahead. “I'll get right on that. ‘Oh how exciting this is! A little adventure into an unknown viper pit! I'm sure nothing could possibly go wrong!’ There, how's that?”
“You missed your calling with the theater.”
“Merkhwile's couldn't afford me.”
Hunter's mare snorts as Flapjack slinks up behind her, finally melting out of the trees with the same fluid grace as he had those first few interactions. They're excitement is obvious in their lifted crest and the way they turn their head to look about. They've put Hunter on their blind side, which leaves the witch feeling some sort of way for sure. Just as before, his belly flip-flops with discomfort at the show of trust, which has the unfortunate side effect of catching the dragon's attention.
Boy nervous? Hunter jerks his attention forward, embarrassed, and tries to focus on their path instead of his wandering thoughts. Flapjack rumbles in amusem*nt anyway, their wings shuffling over their back. Hunter scowls at them and their impressions, and the way they think of him in particular: as something small and flighty, in need of protection. You are small, they point out, sniffing pointedly in his direction. All men are.
That doesn't mean we aren't dangerous, he thinks back, feeling dumb for the silent conversation but unwilling to talk aloud and draw the attention of his party. The dragon tilts their head and considers that with enough gravity to ease Hunter's irritation. (There's something else there, which the dragon doesn't yet let him see. Something cold and angry…)
No. It does not, they eventually agree.
You should be careful around people, Hunter can't help but caution them, thinking pointedly of how easily they leave him in their blind spot. Who knows who might mean you harm.
Only you will I allow in such a position, they counter, though he has the sense that they appreciate his concern. (They really shouldn't trust him like that. He hasn't earned it.)
Fool boy, they reprimand him, huffing sharply. Hunter's horse skitters a step to the side, ears swiveling in alarm, and blows out an excited breath through their flared nostrils. Does not see beyond his own contrition, Flapjack continues as Hunter pulls his mount back under control. Think again. It is not trust for you which compels me to do such a thing. Though you are mine, trust has yet to settle between us, muddled as you are. Once the mare has calmed down, and Hunter can focus on their words, his eyebrows draw together in confusion.
Why risk exposing yourself, then, if you don't trust me? he wonders, though knowing that they have enough sense not to blindly (pun not intended, of course) place their faith in him works to soothe some of his discomfort.
Because there is no risk in doing so, they tell him, and before he can misconstrue the words as an insult, they show him precisely why they aren't worried. The connection, they remind him, goes both ways. (Definitely not a fact which he's been purposefully refusing to think about…)
For all of the fear you harbor about yourself, youngling, no malice have I sensed from you, they chide him. Your worries are unfounded. A dangerous witchling, yes, but only when provoked, as all fledglings should be. Flapjack picks up on his immediate denial of the idea and clicks their teeth at him in a gentle reprimand. Hush. You are not the sum of your actions, boy. Enough with your foolishness. Always the circles. Pace in circles. Think in circles. Never stops. Hunter scowls at them for the dismissal, earning an amused sneeze from the dragon.
You still could have done a lot better, you know, he can't help but point out yet again. Picked someone who doesn't come with so much baggage. Hunter sneers at the thought, focusing ahead of himself to be sure the other two don't grow suspicious of his uncharacteristic silence. He thinks, perhaps, he sees Fiddlesticks look away from him, but neither witch glances his way. At his side he can feel Flapjack mulling over his comments, stepping along with a lazy stride and loose, rolling shoulders.
A vexing partner indeed, they muse, the thought there and gone fast enough Hunter almost misses it. You say such as if there would be many who would want me.
Of course there are. Half of Ashwood alone would probably be over the moon if you chose them. Hunter rolls his eyes at the obviousness of his statement, thinking of the festival and how eagerly people would climb onto the stage, hoping for such an outcome.
To have a dragon is the ideal for them, yes. But the reality is much more than most could handle. All who were chosen this year, who put themselves upon the stage, found their partners in the young and inexperienced. In fledgelings just as hopeful and foolish as they. But you… You are different to those who so recklessly throw themselves into the fray. You understand the world in a way that they cannot. Not yet. You will not look upon the marks of my past and find pity in the sight of them. A flawed thing that was once whole. You will not be distraught by the manner in which the world has changed me, for good or ill. To find one such as you, who not only shares such pain but aims to better themself from the effects of it… Yes, they croon, the feathers around their face ruffling in pleasure, I have waited long for one such as you, young one.
Surely another could offer you more benefits than mere understanding, though? Hunter points out. The mental connection alone would help with that…
That is only the start. The basis from which we shall build upon. There are yet many benefits to discover through our partnership.
Like knowing beforehand whether I'm prone to snap or not? he thinks back sarcastically. Hell of a boon, that, I suppose, being able to brace for it. Or fight back. They snap their teeth once more, unamused by his flippant derision, and Hunter sees Darius’ ears twitch back at the noise.
There is much comfort in a kindred soul. Until you learn this for yourself, then I will enjoy the small pleasures as they arise. They sense the curiosity Hunter wasn't ready to voice, wouldn't consciously consider, and answer him anyway.
There is a another reason I've placed you upon that side, they admit, their thoughts hesitant of his potential reaction. Hunter is immediately on guard, the reigns creaking in his hold, and the mare snorts underneath him at his sudden tension, disliking the squeeze of his knees against her ribs as much as the pull of the bit against her lips.
What's wrong? he frets, only for them to soothe him with a soft mental murmur.
Not wrong, they reply. I only worry how you may react. You have made your displeasure for the side effects of our bond quite clear and I would not dismay you further, they share candidly. Hunter’s nerves spark anxiously, fearing what else they might have to say.
Just tell me, he demands. (What else does he have to put up with? Something so subtle hadn't even noticed it occurring, no less. Memories of growing up among the scouts, hearing tales of mind-controlled soldiers attacking their own men under the beast's influence, come to mind first before he can brush them angrily aside.)
Nothing so sinister, fool boy. Calm your racing heart and put your thoughts at ease. No treachery is implicit, merely a deeper connection than previously considered. Your thoughts are mine to share, as mine are for you—which includes your senses. You see what I may not. Though your eyes might be far weaker than my own, it is of great comfort to have you on guard, to act as the eye I now lack, and know that naught will pass by your gaze.
Hunter can hear the dragon's buried frustration at their own handicap, the admission forced through the lingering veil of their own pride. Hunter considers the revelation, knowing better than most how difficult it must have been for such a proud being to share. He understands, too, why they felt comfortable enough to share it in the first place. The loss of an eye doesn't diminish the dragon in his eyes. As far as he’s concerned, one less eye doesn’t leave Flapjack any less capable. (Any less dangerous.) Hunter also understands it’s an olive branch, of sorts—a way of sharing what is, in essence, a convenience afforded through their bond. A sliver of good in the seemingly endless list of discomforts that his witch chooses to wallow in instead, which they both may benefit from. And though Hunter doesn't exactly enjoy knowing how intrusively this bond can truly delve, he curiously finds himself far more accepting of this sort of development than either of them anticipated. Knowing that he's helping them, even with something so small and inconsequential as vigilance, greatly eases his discomfort of this aspect of their connection.
Under his own discomfort he can almost perceive a thread of Flapjack’s own unease, but the situation does not afford him time to ponder the dragon’s feelings, as Darius chooses that moment to turn around in his seat with a suspicious frown. Hunter straightens in his saddle as the witch looks suspiciously between him and the dragon at his side.
“Everything alright, Little Prince? You're being awfully quiet,” he notes in a slightly strained tone. Hunter tries to reassure him immediately, only to find his voice fails him with a most unbecoming, squeaking, crack at the attempt, an indignity he'd long since grown out of. Hunter clears his throat, ears flaming in embarrassment as Raine turns to look at him in similar concern.
“Fine,” he hurries to say. “I'm fine, sir. Just… ah. Excited?” He clenches his jaw on the admission as soon as it's free, forgetting for a moment the man's displeasure for their venture, and he sweats as Darius purses his lips, looking him over as if he might find the proof of Hunter’s lie. Yet something in the witch's thoughts softens his gaze a second later, and he turns away with a sigh, shaking his head.
“Of course you would be. Well, just remember to keep your head down once we reintegrate into the populace. Astounding as your transformation is, better we don't risk it more than we must.”
“Yes, sir,” he quickly agrees, eager to drop the subject. Flapjack heaves a heavy breath of their own, smoke steaming from their nostrils with irritation at the man's overbearing demeanor, a reflection Hunter is sure they picked up from him somehow. Leery of drawing unwarranted attention again Hunter does his best to engage him more after that, helping Raine keep up the morale of their little troupe for the number of hours it takes to travel to Emberwick. He then falls obediently silent at the first traces of civilians before Darius can command him to, holding his tongue even when Flapjack steps closer under the press of the buildings and crowds. Raine keeps them to the less populated alleyways and byroads as best they can, and it seems that as quickly as the group reaches the town they likewise reach their destination.
The two-story cobblestone complex isn't at all what he'd expected. Wildflowers grow scattered on either side of the worn path. Someone has painted the walls with a variety of unrelated images, such as music notes, food, more flowers, and animals. The windows are in need of a good scrub, the glass fogged with dust and cobwebs, and the door is similarly unkempt, chipped and flaking with a layer of old paint. It’s flanked closely on either side by similar homes, leaving only a few feet between each building, which seems to reflect a theme on this particular street. Hunter is, to put it lightly, unimpressed. (What happened to standards? None of the dormitories he grew up in would sanction a crack in the cobbelstone, let alone so much overgrowth and… color.) A glance at Darius’ barely contained sneer shows he isn't the only one. The two of them pull to a halt at the edge of the… well, “lawn” isn't quite the right word. The edge of the property, he supposes, as Raine and Fiddlesticks continue on to the door. Hunter waits for Darius to dismount before following his lead, wondering if they're meant to head inside or stand guard at the door.
“There's a post to tie the horses to over there,” Raine tells them, motioning toward the right to a rickety, splintered pole that stands straight and incongruous amongst the flowers. Flapjack sniffs at the colorful flora as his witch investigates the tie, begrudgingly determining that it's probably sound enough to hold two warhorses, since it seems well anchored into the ground. Darius hands him the reigns of his own mount once he deems it passable, and Hunter quickly loops the leather around the worn center of the pole as Raine knocks on the door.
It cracks open immediately, as if the occupants already suspected their arrival, and three heads peek out of the entrance.
“Password?” one of them asks, a tall girl with a mane of hair barely caged by a leather tie. Raine sighs and glances toward Hunter and Darius, their cheeks darkening in embarrassment.
“Do I have to?”
“Sorry, bossman, everyone has to know the password. How else are we gonna know if you're an illusionist spy?” the male member of the trio says. He's darker skinned with a small pair of spectacles on the edge of his nose, and a bright white grin full of good humor. Raine groans in embarrassment, dragging a hand down their face, then sighs in defeat. Hunter's ear minutely flicks as they raise their hands up, fingers curled into the palms to create the illusion of mock-paws, and then Raine hisses at them? (Uh. What…?)
Whatever the strange display was, it seems to delight the trio, as with a happy cry the three of them throw open the door the rest of the way and dive outside to wrap Raine up in an excessive hug. (While also hissing…? Seriously, he is so confused right now.) Hunter tenses as the bard ends up dragged into the household, stepping forward before he remembers himself. Darius heaves an annoyed breath of his own, crossing his heavy arms over the barrel of his chest with an air of scornful distaste.
“Well. Shall we?” he drawls, tilting his head toward the open entrance pointedly. Hunter nods, and together they follow their friend inside. Flapjack stays outside, silently promising Hunter to keep watch, and splays out comfortably in the warming afternoon sun. (Hunter considers that, should the horses break their bonds, then at least he might herd them back. An absolute agreement from the dragon is not forthcoming, however, in response to his wayward thought…) Whatever. At least it’s nicer inside than out, more cleanly than the exterior would leave them to believe. He doesn’t have much of a chance to investigate, though, as they don’t make it past the main room, though Raine has already been whisked away into the deeper kitchen.
“Stop!” demands the final member of the strange trio, a small, pink-faced girl with wide ears. Hunter halts politely, looking down into her narrowed eyes to offer her his attention. “Members only,” she gleefully tells them. “You can wait out here.”
“Excuse me?” Darius huffs, insulted, and she laughs like pealing bells.
“Exactly. You're excused,” she grins, shooing them back with flaring hands. “Make yourselves comfortable. I'll be right back with some snacks,” the odd girl says before she pointedly shuts the door in their faces.
Hunter stands in place for a moment, dumbfounded by her clear dismissal. (How dare she? He's here on a mission! Granted, Raine probably doesn't need protection from these… buffoons, but still. How insulting.)
A heavy hand on his shoulder reminds him to keep his temper in check, as Darius demands his attention.
“Come on, Little Prince. Let's have a seat. I have the feeling we'll be here for a while.”
Hunter reluctantly follows the witch toward a table set by the dusky windows, taking a seat where he can properly watch the comings and goings of the populace. He supposes he should have anticipated a measure of waiting, with a mission such as this. (Sitting here with a jittering, impatient leg, he's reminded why isn't particularly good at that part. Action has always been more of his strong suit. He has to work at patience.)
Darius sets down a familiar game board in front of him, saving Hunter from spiraling too far.
“Here. We'll need a way to pass the time,” he offers, and begins to set up the case for a game of Mancala, moving the marbles into position. Hunter straightens in his seat and helps, grateful for the distraction.
“It's been a while since I've played,” he reminds the witch.
“I know. Just as long since I have, to no one's surprise. House rules?”
“Maybe on the second game,” Hunter allows. “Just to remember how to play properly the first time around.” Darius nods his agreement, and then they quietly settle in, preparing for the long wait ahead.
