It's a nice enough morning for a woodland stroll. Last night's frost left the leaves pleasantly crunchy underfoot, though they'll turn to a slippery once the sun melts it away. She'd worry for Trevor, halfway up a tree in the overnight cold, if she didn't know 1) he'd had plenty of ale to warm him and 2) his cloak's as good as snuggling up to a sheepdog.
Sypha tucks her own hood tighter around her neck, but leaves it down so she can listen. She follows the road out of town, stopping now and then to investigate tracks at its churned-up edges. Her role is Scholar, not Hunter, but no nomad grows up wholly ignorant of trailsign. A cluster of waist-high alder saplings shows signs of recent damage, and it's as she stoops to inspect them that the hum reaches her ears.
"Aha!" lifting her sleeves away from grabby branches, she hops into the brush and follows the sound. At first it's only a tune, the melody all tumbled together like riverwater. The closer she gets, the easier it is to pick out notes, to gain an appreciation for the song, to discern words.
She finds the singing tree a stone's throw from the road. Figures: Drunk Trevor wouldn't have staggered too far in the dark. Sypha elbows past a bush and presses her hands to the tree's bark, squinting up through the branches.
"Good morning," she beams, "It seems I've treed a dryad!"
Ah, there she is. Trevor lets his song fade out as he peers down at Sypha, her blue cloak and blond hair distinctive amongst the forest colors. Despite his hangover, he smiles broadly at her, and if she can't see it it's audible in his voice.
"A dryad? Those shy creatures don't suit me at all. Perhaps I'm a woodland siren! I've lured you to your doom with my voice." He shifts a little to see her better, nearly losing his balance in the process and tumbling down onto her, which would be a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy.
"Whoop. Let's not do that. Have you brought a rope?"
"That is not even a thing," Sypha tells Trevor, or at least the soles of Trevor's boots, i.e. the only part of him clearly visible through the branches. She plants her hands on her hips. "Sirens are strictly aquatic!"
The tree gives an alarming rattle, followed by a bitten-off shout from its, um, occupant. The combination has her wondering if he's somehow still drunk, but for all Trevor's grace in battle, Sypha's seen him drop crates on his own head. If anyone alive could scale a tree while wasted and break an arm coming down perfectly sober, it's this man-shaped disaster. She hides her own smile in a sigh.
"I have, but now I'm afraid that if I try to throw you one end, I might end up knocking you out of the tree," her gaze slides away from Trevor's boots and settles appraisingly on the lower branches. "Hang on, I'm coming up."
thanksgiving ate me instead of the other way around!
"I'm an undiscovered species," he calls back down, sounding jovial. "We only sing for rescuers."
Then Sypha announces she's coming up, and he doesn't think that's necessary but he's perfectly happy for the company. He's a little worried about her climbing in sandals, but she does everything else in sandals -- his next comment may seem out of the blue but the thought train makes perfect sense to him.
"We need to get you some good boots, but yes, do come up. It's a lovely view!"
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if the mood was 'trashfire dumpsterman' then you succeeded with aplomb
Sypha tucks her own hood tighter around her neck, but leaves it down so she can listen. She follows the road out of town, stopping now and then to investigate tracks at its churned-up edges. Her role is Scholar, not Hunter, but no nomad grows up wholly ignorant of trailsign. A cluster of waist-high alder saplings shows signs of recent damage, and it's as she stoops to inspect them that the hum reaches her ears.
"Aha!" lifting her sleeves away from grabby branches, she hops into the brush and follows the sound. At first it's only a tune, the melody all tumbled together like riverwater. The closer she gets, the easier it is to pick out notes, to gain an appreciation for the song, to discern words.
She finds the singing tree a stone's throw from the road. Figures: Drunk Trevor wouldn't have staggered too far in the dark. Sypha elbows past a bush and presses her hands to the tree's bark, squinting up through the branches.
"Good morning," she beams, "It seems I've treed a dryad!"
sorry for the delay! i exist again!
"A dryad? Those shy creatures don't suit me at all. Perhaps I'm a woodland siren! I've lured you to your doom with my voice." He shifts a little to see her better, nearly losing his balance in the process and tumbling down onto her, which would be a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy.
"Whoop. Let's not do that. Have you brought a rope?"
no worries, the holidays are a TRAP!
The tree gives an alarming rattle, followed by a bitten-off shout from its, um, occupant. The combination has her wondering if he's somehow still drunk, but for all Trevor's grace in battle, Sypha's seen him drop crates on his own head. If anyone alive could scale a tree while wasted and break an arm coming down perfectly sober, it's this man-shaped disaster. She hides her own smile in a sigh.
"I have, but now I'm afraid that if I try to throw you one end, I might end up knocking you out of the tree," her gaze slides away from Trevor's boots and settles appraisingly on the lower branches. "Hang on, I'm coming up."
thanksgiving ate me instead of the other way around!
Then Sypha announces she's coming up, and he doesn't think that's necessary but he's perfectly happy for the company. He's a little worried about her climbing in sandals, but she does everything else in sandals -- his next comment may seem out of the blue but the thought train makes perfect sense to him.
"We need to get you some good boots, but yes, do come up. It's a lovely view!"