Quality Time

[NightSteel]

The last few days had been alternately slow and fast.

The bard Darrin relaxed, leaning against a dusty attic wall, reflecting. He and Quincy had managed the willpower, thus far, to stay in each others' presence for several days straight. They walked, talked, ate, even slept together, mostly. Well, not *together*, but always in the same room, always within sight of each other. She seemed to have a problem with taking a bath in his presence, but it was a point he didn't press. He didn't seem to have any qualms with the idea himself, though he kept his underbreeches on and simply spoke to her as she sat upon the shore. During other times of, er, personal business, he simply looked the other way, and expected her to do the same for him.

Lion had taken a liking to Quincy; the little mouse stayed mostly by her side while the elf washed, hiding near to her when the calls of birds of prey sounded. He was brave enough to accept food from her, too, if she gave him any, and he had begun to display more talents. He'd taken to pushing a little wooden spool across the attic floor, discarded up there long ago. He disappeared into the old things stored up there for hours at a time, but always came back.

After the first day, Darrin had taken to waiting until Quincy slept to study her collar. His method of 'studying' it disturbed her--the way his hands glowed while he was divining its Pattern. He really had no way to explain that one to her.. It was magic enough, he supposed, though it was no spell. It was just something that he could do, a way of thinking and concentrating and focusing his own Pattern that was passed down to him.

In his 'spare time', which was to say, the time Quincy was asleep or otherwise not actively engaging him, and he was wakeful, Darrin wrote or drew in his book. His writings were about the things that came to him while he studied the object; recording them would help cement them to his memory. As for drawing, it was Quincy's turn to be drawn; for obvious reasons, she was the most convenient subject. It was this that he had just paused in doing, his charcoal hovering over the paper.

[NightSteel]

The previous night had been.. rather a pain. In the shoulder, to be precise.

The evening had started out normally enough. Well, if one could consider the summer heat of a desert in a temperate region's spring normal. The bard had walked to the Rememdium with Quincy, in search of Ariane. They'd found her there, of course, tending to the Governor.

All the red-haired elf got out of it, though, was a dislocated arm.

Quincy had re-set it under his direction, the healer from whatever land and the good Doctor both having ignored him, and he had struggled back to his feet. His shoulder still hurt--when rotated, he could feel the sharp pain associated with damage that would become more permanent, if he didn't do something about it.

So, though he was loathe to do it, whether Quincy followed him or not, he returned to the Broken Dagger's attic to retrieve his Moon Drops. A wasted few days would be nothing, compared to permanent damage to his shoulder.

That, as expected, fixed him right up. But before leaving, he shrugged on most of his things again; his vest of many pockets, his weapon belt with his pouches, and the newly empty Moon Drops. He would not be caught out a third time.