AW <3

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There's an ache in his lungs that hasn't presented itself thus far. It started small—a cough here, a scratchy throat there. Frankly, Lorroakan was too busy with whims to notice nor fret. The world was vast, and there was too much to see!

Over the days of his travels and foraging, though, that ache grew worse. Insufferable by the time verdant woodlands flattened out to rolling prairie. His breaths a mere wheeze that rattled in his sore throat.

Lorroakan's stroll was easy as he searched the soft earth of the hills. Admiring the flower while searching for the herbs he needs to soothe the pain. If only he'd remember that long distance travels have always given him trouble...

The hermit carves through the sea of dancing tall grass with pursed lips and a rattle to his breaths. Eyes of warm honey search vigorously for the herb he needs; hyssop. Awfully bitter, but the flowers were beautiful and it's just what he needed to soothe this ache.

With his nose to the dirt, he traverses blinding toward the familiar bitter scent of the medicine he so desperately craves. His tail sways behind him, with blades of grass and wildflower caught in the tresses. His mind is so fuzzy and he's so distracted that he nearly runs right into—

My stars! He exclaims in startled surprise as he nearly trips over a man lounging in the grass. His heart stutters helplessly in his chest as he stumbled backward, head raised and ears pinned against his sleek skull. The man sits like a cat sunbathing in the brightest patch of the morn.

He runs his tongue across his lips nervously, before they twitch into a bashful smile. E-Excuse me? He exhaled with a slight wheeze. His skin burns hot beneath the fur of his cheeks. Never in his lives has someone been so forward...

While I'm quite flattered, I-I'm afraid I'm neither, sir. I was just—um...you're laying on a patch of hyssop... He trails off, his voice cracking with nerves and allergies as his eyes fall to his feet.

The man's theatrics are met with a slow, owlish blink—as if Lorroakan could hardly process the absurdity of it all! With cat-like grace, the man slinks and stretches. Idle and untethered, as if he had no worries. Roa doesn't understand, perhaps, how one could be so nonchalant.

It isn't envy that ruffles his feathers...is it awe?

Unhurried the man removes himself from lounging atop the bed of flowers, and impatiently does Lorroakan move to step forward so he may gather them. But the man only remains to become odder—pressing into Roa's personal bubble, causing him to sink back into himself like a cat unsure.

Pretty. Roa's withers rise, and suddenly his face feels ten degrees warmer. The man is charming, certainly, but Roa is hardly used to so much attention! He...is unsure of how to handle the slew of compliments this man carries in his pockets.

Paws shifts with discomfort, his head falling as he sniffles. Don't worry, it's not contagious! Asthma, is all. Carefully, he slinks past to gingerly begin picking the herbs, one ear cupped backward to face the fool.

With a mouthful of stems, he mumbles; My name is Lorroakan. And you must be...?

Once he's righted with a mouthful of stems and petals, Lorroakan blinks owlishly as the man's expression twists with what he believes to be disgust? For what reason, he isn't quite sure. Asthma wasn't contagious, and he certainly isn't some kind of...leper.

It causes him to make the unsure assumption that his companion was hardly acquainted with medicine, let alone ailments. He isn't offended by the man's idiocy—if anything, it worries him. How could he treat himself properly, if he wasn't even sure of what illness he had, should one befall him?

Pip. What an odd nickname to have bestowed. He's too naive, or perhaps dense, to realize the man was picking fun at him.

Alas, Lorroakan smiles behind the bundle of stem and petal he now holds within his teeth. Ah, well, if that's too difficult, you could call me Roa. O-Or Pip works too, I suppose...

With a soft wheeze, he plops onto his haunches, careful not to ruin the rest of the flower he'd left behind. With his head tilted, he watches with amusement—or perhaps he feels flattered? He isn't quite sure—as Neven takes a bow. It was hardly necessary, but the man seemed to favor the dramatics and all.

Stars, you don't need to bow. The boy mused with mirth. Not to me. Without a title to hold, or even some kind of luxurious background (if he could remember such), he's hardly royalty. But alas, he rather enjoys the theatrics!

Lorroakan's chewing on the stems as if it's cud, when the man leans in close. It makes him choke and nearly swallow the stems not ready to be consumed. Goodness, um—you chew on the stems until it's a mash. It helps soothes the throat. He mumbles with a mouthful.

After a beat, heat crawls to his cheeks. How embarrassing this is! Forgive me please. It isn't the most...appealing. He ducks his chin shyly.