It is my honest opinion, reading your stories, that Amatu and Wraithvine are becoming as close as brothers. Even if they are not by blood, the bond is obviously forming. -- Anon Guest
[AN: Amatu and Wraithvine are vastly different in ages.]
Sometimes realisation creeps up on a mind like a nervous houseguest at a party where they only know a couple of people. Though in this case it isn't awkwardly asking where the bathroom is. In other times, just like now, it hits like a lump of rock falling from the depths of space.
It hit Wraithvine just as ze was making certain Amatu was comfortable. The lad had caught something from a fellow visitor at the last inn, and succumbed on the road.
Having a Wizard as skilled as Wraithvine on the task leads to some interesting perks. Such as ready access to the spell, O'Brien's Pocket Tower[1] where one could access almost anything one needed and, as a bonus, alter the time spent within versus the time spent in the prime material plane. Currently, time inside the dimensionally-transcendent tower was going much faster than outside.
All the better to meet the prophecies on time.
Wraithvine put the healing soup on a side table and gently shook Amatu by the shoulder. "Awaken, Hoenigh. You have soup to eat." That was when the realisation hit. Care of a slip of the tongue.
The word was old. So old that it had changed pronounciations and spelling several times since Wraithvine last used it. It meant, loosely translated, little brother.
Damn.
Ze was far too old to be adopting people at random, and it had happened again. Wraithvine sighed and tried to carry on as normal. As if ze had not just claimed a person who already had family as family.
Then again, these were Halflings. They were renowned for their hospitality and welcoming anyone and anything into their fold. Ms Baumkyn had raised a half-Tiefling, half-Aasimar as her own. She would adopt an Elf older than most civilisations in the known world.
Amatu, half-awake and supping soup, paused. "Did you just call me 'honey'?"
"Not quite," allowed Wraithvine. "It's old Elven. Very old Elven. For..." ...shit fuck crap arse tits... "someone close to the heart."
"Mmnngh," said Amatu, and snuggled back down for more healing rest.
Wraithvine counted this as a lucky and temporary escape, then laid a charm on the soup so that it would stay warm.
[1] Tip of the entire hat-rack towards CritRole Season Two.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / AntonioMP]
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