Like two ships passing {Qwinnon}

[Morgon]

Morgon was bored sick of court life.

He considered this, and himself, as he walked in the Seelie Grove, all covered in snow like holiday tinsel. A thin layer of morning fog clung just to the tops of the skeletal trees, like pulled cotton or dryer lint, but otherwise the air was dry and full of early afternoon sun. He breathed it in, wondering if it tasted different now, in what would have been the twilight of a human life. The full effect of immortality didn’t hit you until you’d lived at least one lifetime, and come to terms with the redundancy of each one to follow. When had he become so old? Like every young person, he had never thought it possible. At the very least he had imagined himself having more adventures.

It wasn't that there was any lack for danger, intrigue, or fear in Alanor. Perhaps boredom wasn't the right term, in that case, although what he was feeling verged so close to ennui that he could barely discern a difference. It was just that discovering his identity, his "faeriehood," had turned out to be such a let down. What was he supposed to do with himself? Be content with running Annette's errands (in a state of mingled discontent and arousal), enduring the criticism of the pure-blooded and waiting to come into power? He was not a fighter. That alone seemed to be the deepest of insults to his kind. Was there no place for a man who sought understanding? The Isle of the Eloquent was a haven for such fae, but as soon as he left, his isolation settled about him like a cloak.

Even Amara seemed out of place, when he thought about it. The sea hawk circled widely above him, searching for prey. There were no ocean breezes to float on, here, and no fish beneath a glassy surface, and when she tore her prizes to bloody pieces it was never without the faintest wash of disappointment. These were foreign hunting grounds, and foreign flavors. Morgon would watch her sadly, wishing for the lake around their island, their home.

Home...but he could not stay there indefinitely. Something tugged at him whenever he was gone too long -- a thread around the heart, pulling him back to duty and ritual and the condescending looks of the higher court. It had tugged at him today, and so he was "watching" like the good "watcher" he was. Maybe he’d get to watch Annette’s curved thighs strutting around, if he was patient. That would almost make up for the trouble. Would he ever tire of being teased by her? Morgon’s boot found a rock like a baseball in the snow, toed it out of its icy prison, sent it skidding. Maybe I am getting old, but I’m not getting smarter, he thought wryly. Or if I am getting smarter, some things will never change...

The rock he had kicked came to rest and sank instantly. It left a path like an arrow carved in the snow, pointing approximately in the direction of a figure that Morgon could not place, as much as he squinted. Female. Nimbus, probably, although he supposed she could be human. He didn’t seem to run into many of those these days. Feeling bold in the cold, and more than a little anxious to shake off the stillness of the morning, Morgon strode in the direction of this stranger with his hands in his pockets and the beginnings of a smirk on his face.

“Good morning!” he called, once he was close enough not to appear completely foolish. Then, when he was closer still: “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

[Qwinnon]

Whisper of wind through the leaves, the way it rustled the tree branches already weighted by snow and made some of the white flakes tumble toward the ground, was most entertaining. At least to some that found the touch of winter pleasant. Qwinnon was one of those that did as the chill to the air reminded her of a place called home for many moons. Some days that place was almost desperately missed, but there was not enough bravery left within her heart to return. Alanor offered a comforting peace, for now, even with its whispers of possible trouble. Drow. The word was whispered in hush tones on many tongues leaving her to feel a bit uneasy like the others.

Qwinnon was not a warrior, no. Hadn't the desire to be one. Violence had taken many that she'd once loved and left heartache in its place. Even if some good came of those battles. She was one to always hope that communication would solve the problems before it came to swords, but unfortunately that never happened. And other weapons that had eventually been used. . . well it made a shudder dance its way down her spine. All those years spent around violence and hate, and watching people die, had been escaped when coming here and yet it seemed that such might not be the case. She'd heard of the previous events that had taken place 34 years ago. Would such happen again?

Tri-colored eyes with their mix of gold, green, and sapphire dimmed in their usually happy light. One palm pressing against the bark of the tree she leaned against to feel its solid strength. Her gaze moved from its contemplation of the sky overhead to the base of the tree where slept an animal.

The margay, a small cat similar to an ocelot though with different features slept soundly near the base of a tree. Its head was shorter, its eyes larger when opened, and its black-tipped tail and legs were longer. It was only roughly 22 inches in length body wise with a 15 inch tail. Yet none could deny the beauty of the male margay with his brown fur marked with black rosettes and longitudinal streaks, the somewhat golden shaded pale fur on his belly, the black ears with the white marking circles, and the dark bands that decorated his tail. He was a gorgeous creature that she cared for dearly. Of course, he just like most other animals here, were only mantels. Animals that were not did not seem to exist. . .

Reaching up to flick a tree branch with a finger so that the snow on it fell lightly. Letting the flakes drift down to find its way into her thick brown-black hair which was pulled back in a tight braid that reached to about mid-shoulder. She wore a simple gown of pale rose that brought out the paleness of her skin and the rosy glow to her cheeks heightened by the chilly air. Oddly enough, her feet were completely bare. Walking the grove was relaxing for Qwinnon in that it gave her a moment to think and to escape the droves. Court was not a place where one found privacy often. . . and where one was left without stress. Plus knowledge was what she sought at almost all times, and some seem more concerned with trying to flirt or make ties.

Quiet was broken by the sound of another voice that had her head swiveling in its direction. A male, potentially a Nimbus as she was, who seemed kind and was most attractive, approached after having called out his greeting. She let her gaze move over his figure momentarily though it lingered on his face a good deal as she tried to place it. Though it seemed that this was not one she'd met though she'd only really been in Alanor a handful of months at most.

"Greetings, sir, it seems that I must agree. Yours is a face unfamiliar to my eyes. Though they have been asked to memorize many." The Scottish accent was clear in her voice and hard to miss though she managed to speak eloquently. Only when she got too excited or spoke too fast did it become extremely thick, and a bit hard to understand. "I am Qwinnon, Seeker of the Seelie Court, Lady of Facade Illusion. The sleeping cat is Aodhan, but as he is nocturnal I believe that he is out for a bit. Whom would you be?"

[Morgon]

Up close, the creature was even more enchanting. Morgon took in the whole of her, admiring, without moving his eyes from her face – he was skilled in the illusion of ignoring the body, unless a woman made the invitation to look explicit. His gaze was penetrating without being sharp. Qwinnon’s form was of the sort that he liked best; curved and soft, demanding a caress. He thought he’d love to get her out of the cold and draw the arc of her hip...

Then she was speaking, and that charming train of thought forced off its tracks. Morgon blinked at her reply, his smile spreading, bemused. One could learn so much about a faerie from her words. Her answer was long, as the especially ancient tended to be, and her accent betrayed both location and epoch. He extended his hand, not for a shake, but to take her own and lay a kiss upon her knuckles. “Morgon, he answered. His voice was woodsmoke and whiskey. “You honor me, but I’m no Sir. Just a Segna, after thirty years. The Queen doesn’t find me very impressive.” The words contained no bitterness, only good humored self-deprecation. In his experience, women loved a joke at a man’s expense. He laughed lightly, nodding to her. “You, I think, will fare differently.” The comment had a suggestiveness to it that was difficult to place – in the subtleness of his tone, perhaps, or the glint of his eye?

A shadow passed over him and he took a step back from her, extending his arm to catch his bonded’s sudden dive. The Osprey landed with a shriek. “Amara,” Morgon clarified, smoothing her feathers with his free hand. “She isn’t particularly subtle.” The bird side-stepped up to the nimbus’ shoulder, her wings half-extended for balance. Morgon had to lean his head away from her slightly, to give her room. “So, Fair Lady Qwinnon, what brings you to Alanor? You’ve come at an exciting time...” The remark implied previous knowledge, invited comment on the current state of affairs. Morgon was curious how much this newcomer knew. It was always fascinating, with these older Fae, to hear their opinions on the conditions in Alanor. He himself found the whole political system mystifying, a secret language he could never hope to decode. The many years he had spent researching this place, these courts, the historical figures who still trotted around in their youth – these were spent, not in vain, but with little in the way of return. Morgon knew that his ignorance was still vast.

“And what brings you out in the cold?” A brow lifted at her bare feet, teasing.