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last day of midsummer

He was not woken by the sunshine, dawn's light only slightly warming the silky hairs of his coat. He was not woken by the wings and her cohort of other birds in the trees, warbling their good mornings and hellos to one another from the shelter of the branches. He was not woken by the wind in the grass or by a pleasant dream.

The cherub awoke to a pounding headache, sweet-smelling grass cradling his frame where he lay, flopped in the midst of a meadow. Wildflower blossoms formed a halo around him, swaying in the mild breeze to bend and kiss the dove-god's still, once-sleeping body. His skull was throbbing, his mouth filled with cotton, his mind filtering slowly to him memories of the night before - fevered dancing, drinking, giddy laughter ringing in Cupid's ears, song rising on the perfumed air into the sky. Cupid had been so drunk he'd felt almost weightless, but no amount of the fermented berries could erase from his mind the knowledge that he could never fly again - and that missing from the celebratory voices surrounding him was the chiming laughter of his lost children.

It was the last day of Midsummer, and the Fari had few duties left to attend to, to ensure the pack's diplomatic ties were secured and their strength communicated effectively to their valued allies.

So he'd had little reason not to sip and sup on the feast available until hedonism lulled the beast of his grief into slumber, with the god soon following suit. And now, he knew, he would pay the price. Cupid draped his paw over his eyes with a groan, rolling onto his back in the meadow, the soft grasses beneath his spine a rather cozy mattress, all things considered. A nearby squirrel screeched at an annoying neighbor, driving spikes into Cupid's already oversensitive skull, and he muttered a low, vile series of curses beneath his breath.

Last night's feast had felt like a fever dream. So many new faces, so much chatter to indulge in. A smorgasbord of food he hadn't seen since his time as a man, and even then, he wasn't so sure Ararnir ever threw such an extravagant event.

Rhadamanthus was hardly a man of indulgence. His drinking days were long over, as he'd spent many a night in the throws of pleasure and mead and degeneracy as a rowdy, bushy-tailed young man. There was no partaking on his end, usually, of special herbs or fermented berries. Truth be told, he couldn't stomach the idea of nursing a forsaken hang over, not as an older man who walked a little slower and swung his sword a little less heavy.

And so he hadn't fallen to the same temptation of the dove-god, of whom he finds sprawled out in a sun-kissed meadow, shrouded by all things beautiful and sweet. He'd started his day early in efforts to help clean up after the festival and check in on all the party goers. It was hardly necessary, but alas, the diplomat felt obligated to share his due diligence.

He'd yet to meet Cupid. All he'd known of him so far was his beauty—which gazing upon him now, word of mouth had hardly done him any justice—and the many of children that he'd bared. He'd seen the way the man and Týr had exchanged looks of quiet longing. Ever the watcher he is, ever the keen. He found it amusing in the way an older man would find in watching young lovers fawn.

His approach is quiet as he carved through the field to greet the man, who looked...as if he'd seen better days. With a faint smile of amusement, he chuffed his announcement, before he stood and left an appropriate birth. This wasn't the way he would've liked to meet the man for the first time but alas, he wouldn't complain.

It seems like Cupid definitely would though. He found himself snickering at the quiet string of curses he likely wasn't meant to hear.

Good morning, he hummed, low and smooth. Did you enjoy the festivities? Rhadamamthus asked with the slightest lilt of tease.

Skill: Healer[1/5]

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Siru had been making rounds all morning. There was a rather... shocking number of wolves who'd indulged in fermented berries just slightly too much the evening prior. It was almost amusing; perhaps it would've been, if it weren't for the sheer dullness in their eyes. Her heart ached; was it truly worth the excitement?

The Forest Maiden herself had never taken such copious amounts of substances. The idea of it scared her; she knew the dangers that the fermented fruits harbored—how much of a burden they're able to place upon the health of a wolf. To take a few could hardly cause problems, she supposed. Just enough to feel the warmth in her bosom and the buzz in the back of her mind. To be downright hammered...that was different.

Siru hummed softly, her tail swaying behind her as she traced the path along the treeline. She caught sight of Rhadmanthus—the familiar coat of deep ebony stuck out quite a bit against the vibrance of the meadow—and nearly subconsciously veered her path towards him and the packmate who seemed... unwell.

A few strides away, she halted. Her head tilted, her brows furrowed. There was an undeniable tug against her chest, aching to approach, to inspect his body to check for injury and illness; yet, she refrained.

She knew exactly what was wrong with him. She'd seen this very ailment too many damn times in the last few days.

Siru turned, gaze tracing the woodlands for something to help. There was a myriad of plants along these meadows; it was a relief. The she-wolf gingerly plucked a sprig of rosemary—perfect for headaches, and even for the grief that she knew Cupid had been experiencing following the loss of his children. A slow nod to herself, and she turned, approaching the cherub.

She nestled the herbs close to his face before stepping back once again. For headaches, she explained quietly. Lupine can help with your nausea, as well. But you must wait so that I can prepare the tea. She dipped her head.

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Although his hearing was keen, he didn't quite catch the man's approach until a low chuff coasted across the meadow. Cupid's ears twitched, then flattened sheepishly against his skull as he rolled to his paws. The world spun dizzyingly beneath his feet for a moment, his stomach lurching - although the embarrassment was enough to quell the worst of it for now. He hadn't found the right moment yet to introduce himself to the two newcomers to the pack.

These circumstances - ruffled pelt, cursing at a squirrel, and obviously hungover - were not the best ones for making a good first impression. Cupid was not in the habit of letting his life spiral so far out of his control that he couldn't manage presenting a façade of pleasant invitation, especially to those not yet within his inner circle. Enjoying the festivities? asked the man, his voice a pleasant rumble. Cupid adjusted his posture until he could face the sound. His haunches rested in the nest of crushed grasses he'd slept within, squinting a bit thanks to his hangover even though he - thankfully, for once - couldn't see the sunlight. Last night? Quite - A boyish grin fleetingly crossed his features, before he winced slightly at the headache's triumphant return. Now, not so much. The cherub worked to gather his scattered wits about himself, aiming to reply to the newest addition to their collective charmingly when a new presence arrived in a whirlwind.

A strong-smelling herb was procured next to his velvet muzzle, the man's whiskers twitching in time with his nose as he breathed in the new, unexpected scent and sense of the rosemary's prickly leaves against his skin. His ears flicked forward, then wilted once again in bashfulness as the she-wolf's lavender scent enveloped him. Oh-! Cupid offered a measly smile as repayment for Siru's help. He was a little overwhelmed - by his own hangover, by the two strangers he had yet to get to know, and most of all: by their kindly attention, particularly while he was more vulnerable than usual. Siru offered a tea, and Cupid curled his tail around his paws, dutifully mouthing at the sprig of rosemary so as not to be rude. That's very kind of you, thank you. He replied. I must apologize, I'm not usually in such a state.