Fenn didn’t particularly like it when people handled him roughly. It brought forth disjointed impressions of things he didn’t remember — and was advised best to not recall. The tight pressure around his arm gave him the hazy and incongruous impression of a shackle. As soon as Morus let go, the fae jerked his arm back, as if he’d touched fire, his eyes wide and nervous. A flash of frost crept up his sweater sleeve. It wasn’t his actual magics, but an instinctual imitation of them; apparently, manipulating reality came as naturally to him as breathing. His hands twitched… a twitch that became yet another wince when he realized they had an audience.

“Don’t remember what Guntilde was talking of,” the orcette murmured, brows furrowed, glancing between them with mounting unease. Was it just him, or were flowers around her were drooping?

Fenn jolted, realizing that his seething was having an actual effect on her state of mood, and thus the dream. Hastily, he made up for the mistake. <Mentioned that a really pretty blue flower lives riiight over there,> the fae snipped, bobbing his head in a direction away from them. <Needs water.>

“Oh. Yes, thanks.” With a sigh of relief, she turned away on earthen feet. The plants in her wake perked up.

There. It was easier to be mad when he didn’t have to tip-toe around a doe-eyed dreamer. Though, how long could they keep directing her away like that before she came to suspect — to really suspect — that something was off? Who knew. Either way, as soon as she had her back to them and a good ten paces of distance to not overhear anything, he could help but push back against Morus a little. <That different from what you do?> the fae asked as he pointed to the yellow flowers, sour-mouthed and clearly miffed. He plucked one from its stem, turning it white with frost. <She liked it. You change the dream too, yes? Just indirectly. With words.>

To his credit, Morus held his ground. Fenn could see the slight twitch of his eye, the tightening of his hands, the slight sneer to his mouth. But he didn’t lash out again. The waif crossed his arms together. “But I don’t force it to change. Again, how hard it it to make you understand that you could have easily woken her? Then where would we be?”

The fae snorted and waved the sharp words away with a shiver of his hands and flower, both still sparkling with accidental dustings of ice. <Could have woken, but did not.>

Fenn still struggled to comprehend what was wrong in altering a dream. Wasn’t this like picking pockets? If he didn’t get caught, if he was good enough to get away with what he did most of the time, what what did it matter? What was wrong with having a little fun? Alas, Morus didn’t even have to say anything to continue reprimanding him. As if taking a page from the fae’s own book, he simply stared into Fenn’s gaze, half-lidded blue eyes pushing against bold green. The fae stared back, cheeks puffed up, wings rising stiffly outward as if to make himself seem larger. It didn’t do nearly as much to his intimidation factor as he wanted it to, however.

Eventually, he wilted. <Alright, alright, sorry. Will try to not to do it again.> Not looking directly at Morus, he shook the dream-ensorceled frost from his sweater and cloak, as if to make a nod to his words. <No certainty. But I try.>

A thought struck Fenn; so did a sudden and smug grin, all bright canines and squinched eyes. He lifted up his hand. The frosted flower found itself a place in Morus’ hair.

<Keep it with you. A sign of my promise! Something happen to flower, poof, my promise comes undone,> the fae instructed in as serious a tone as he could. Not laughing was a monumental task, but absolutely necessary here. If there was one thing Fenn had learned from his mentorboss Banrion, it was that fae were practically expected to be dramatic in the deals they struck… and mortal folk tended to eat it up. Besides, it’d be worth actively abstaining from from his instinctual magics if Sir Serious spent the rest of their time together with a dainty buttercup on his head.

It was only then that he realized with a slight gasp that their true flower-lover had vanished from sight. Ears flicking back, Fenn glanced around. <Um. Where’d Gunny go?>

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

Some paces away, beyond the two’s chilly exchange, a lonely glowbug alighted above a brilliant blue bud. Light flickering, it dove down, as if to rest on the bloom. The flower shifted without a warning in a wash of smog and hot air. Its petals darkened; they flexed and unfurled, revealing glistening teeth. The curious bug drew closer. It did not anticipate the snap that followed.

Neither did Guntilde.

The wooden watering can tight in her hands, she stared at the flower, curls bouncing as she shook her head. What was this? “Needs water badly,” the orc reasoned, not able to process why one of her beloved plants made her so uneasy. Cooing softly to it, she approached, her gait heavy with concern and her can beared. “Here, little friend. Guntilde make you better.”