Backdated to the last day of Midsummer's celebration. Intended for Siru , but otherwise AW!

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After the feast and glory and celebration, the diplomat finds himself weary. Depleted of his social battery to his surprise; there were only so many new faces he could meet, before even he grew strained. It's nearing duskfall as he finds himself away from the celebrations, and towards a meadow teeming with the most vivid of flowers.

His heart feels fuller than what it'd been when he first awoke on Mythris. Perhaps it's the festival that has him in good spirits, or perhaps it's the activity he finds himself whimsically swept up in. Bent at the knee, Rhadamanthus gently plucks the most fragrant, beautiful of flowers.

He cannot help but rumble in faint amusement at himself. Here he is, feeling like a spring chicken picking flowers for a woman special to him. The soft-spoken lover of secrets that had journeyed beside him all those weeks ago. Even now, as he gathered her a fresh bouquet, he can picture her gentle smile and melodic voice.

Wistfully, he hopes she enjoys his gift. It is the perfect opportunity, isn't it?

Skill: Herbalist[1/5]

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It was the amusing matter that was the slightest bit of unoriginality that brought Siru here in the first place. A small batch of peonies was grasped between her jaws, tight enough to ensure they would not fall, yet loose enough to avoid damaging the stems. Muted eyes pointed down towards the red blossoms with an expression of uncertainty.

...would this truly be a good idea...? Siru huffed, trotting over the greenery, tail held low with anxiety laced across her visage. She held her head low and pressed through the undergrowth towards the meadows just beyond them.

There he was; the Maiden froze, brows raised, ears pressed back. She'd expected him to be mingling with others, not... picking flowers?

Siru did not speak, instead standing still as stone with eyes flitting awkwardly to and fro. She hadn't even properly cleaned her coat yet, Gods—she looked a mess, green smeared along the soles of her paws, bits of grass strewn across her slight frame. Rhadamanthus couldn't see her like this. A frantic look appeared in her eyes for but a moment, as she contemplated scrambling back into the woodlands.

It was surely too late for that. Siru felt her pulse beat against her throat, heat gathering against the skin of her face. This was surely a bad idea... shakily, she stepped forward. Her tail coiled against her hind limbs as she quietly cleared her throat. Rhadamanthus...?

Stem after stem is collected with the utmost care—or rather, with as much as he could muster. Large paws weren't made to dance around flowers in attempts not to hopelessly crush them beneath his heft. He isn't used to being so...meticulous with anything that wasn't scrolls or battle plans and counsel meetings.

But he will make do, as he always does, as he doesn't wish to bestow upon her a gift of flowers with broken stems and torn petals. He bends down again to pick a lovely lily of the valley when, upon a gentle breeze, her voice greets him.

Rhadamanthus froze, eyes of silver wide. Suddenly, he felt like a child, caught red handed (or green handed?). She wasn't supposed to find him—it was supposed to be a surprise!

From behind the bouquet he mumbles, voice muffled. Siru...?

Lifting his head, flowers clutched gentle between teeth, he found her. And by the gods, what a lovely vision she is.

Her starlight fur astray, riddled with blades of the greenest of grass. For once, he finds himself at a loss for words. And like a lovesick whelp, his cheeks feel warm. Far warmer than they should. How long had it been, since he'd felt so flustered?

By the nines. Perhaps he'll make a fool out of himself yet.

His eyes fall to the bundle of flowers she holds so delicately. Are those for...?

With a clear of his throat, he steels himself to calm. To keep some shred of pride, at least, as he made his way closer to bestow the gift of flowers at her paws. A calm smile graces him as he rose to meet her.

Good evening, m'lady. A gift for you—for the kindness you've extended me. I...was unsure of which flowers you preferred. But I hope this suffices.

Skill: Heartbreaker 1/5

This entire ordeal has realized how much of a pit there is in her.

She's been an angel all day, and yet beneath her skin there's nothing. Empty. Hollow. She wants to feel blood in her teeth.

And these two with their pining looks, the beauty of the flowers, the joy they should be feeling-- it revolts her. He seems loving now, but how long would it take for his gaze to roam?

Astrid needs to ruin it. Needs to stop it now. Needs to stop others from feeling the way she does.

The girl bursts onto the scene, all leg and sharp angles, approaching with a look that poses as innocence.

"Did you at least check for thorns?"

Skill: Herbalist[2/5]

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'M'lady,' he says. His lady. Pale lips pulled up into a smile, one with a sense of giddy excitement that she'd thought only a lovesick puppy would experience. Her tail unfurled itself from beneath her, instead waving slowly by her thighs. 'A gift for you—for the kindness you've extended me. I...was unsure of which flowers you preferred. But I hope this suffices.'

Siru was just about to explain how any flower—or any gift, for that matter, would do plenty more than suffice. Alas, her mouth parted, yet the words could never arrive; instead, the saccharine cadence of feigned naivete called forth, slicing the intimacy and leaving it to dissipate into the air.

The Goddess twisted her head to look towards the golden child. Tall was she, taller than herself. Siru's lips pursed in a mixture of disappointment and the uncharacteristic feeling of annoyance. Peonies, nor lily of the valley, have any thorns on their stems. She spoke matter-of-factly, tone brisk, eyes sharp.

She placed the flowers at Rhadamanthus's feet. I'd collected them for you, awkward as it was to have this... impetuous creature in their presence, she would not let it ruin the moment (at least, not anymore than it already had been). And... thank you. For these. She chuckled softly, looking down at the small wildflowers now in her possession. It was almost as if they'd simply completed a trade.

With subtle movements, Siru turned her body just enough to turn her back towards the golden youth, making it clear without words that the Forest Mother was entirely uninterested in her presence. The view of the west during this time is beautiful from the ridges. Would you care to join me? She prayed he'd accept, and she'd pray that this tone-deaf girl would be uninterested in joining them. Anything to get that kid away. Gods.

It seemed Rhadamamthus' wish for quiet, pleasant evening was not blessed upon by the gods. A girl stormed into the meadow, bringing fang and bite and an attitude that, typically, he would have found amusing. With calm, all-seeing eyes, he'd watched as Siru's mood dampened. Faintly, his lips tugged into a slight frown.

While he could not blame her, Rhad was hardly one to have his feathers ruffled so easily. Especially by a rowdy child. He'd spent many a time around bitter teenagers and rambunctious pups to understand (least vaguely) how to handle their...spunk.

Ah, good evening, Astrid. He greets the young woman with a pleasant bow of his head. She is royalty, after all, and he is nothing if not loyal to the crown. Even if it sits upon a head too small and too angry to bare it.

His gaze of the finest silver flits between the two women. Inwardly, he cannot help but groan. This...isn't how he wished his evening to pan out, babysitting a child and trying to soothe the nerves of a woman he wished to please.

It is why with haste, he is more than happy to accept the invitation extended to him by Siru. With a smile, he nodded. It would be my honor to join you. But his attention is fractured now—would Astrid try to taint that shred of peace, as well?

With a clear of his throat, the diplomat tries to do what he does best. Reason with a grace befitting a man who once wore a crown himself. Astrid, would you like to talk a walk later, as well? I'm sure there's...many sights to see, when night falls. Perhaps I could gift you your own bouquet afterwards.

And he would, happily, if it meant it'd lift her obviously bitter spirit.