"Thorncrown," the Oracle murmured. He rounded the young man to stand behind him.
The donkey tail hung right out in the open.
"I must say," the Oracle said as he bent over to closely observe the foreign body party, "this is rather strange. Have you noticed any signs of the growthage...spreading?"
---
Cord had scampered up the staircase to the attic, ready to turn a few drying pieces of leatherroot and roll some hazelweed into thin, birch tissue. At the top of the stairs stood the wooden ladder leading up to the storage and drying chambers.
He took a worn rung in his hands, feeling the polished surfaces where he often gripped.
He pictured the boy alone with Othnielia, probably uneased in the greatest. A blip of sympathy rose in his heart.
Cord stuck a hand under his hat idly, massaging his thawing scalp, and stared off at a cloud of dust trapped in a sunbeam, swirling and dancing so slightly it probably never would have been noticed. It was a tiny hint of beauty so oddly endearing once beheld that he found himself staring into it inexplicably.
It was so mundane, yet so charming. He couldnt understand why.
He let go of the ladder and walked back down the stairs to the mirror in the wall, which hung just outside the closed doors to the sitting room. He found his face sitting in the glass, staring back at him with his deep brown eyes, water droplets hanging over his thick eyebrows, his black curls damp and shiny.
"...old god of hard vests,..." the visitor's voice said from behind the doors. Cord leaned back and hung by the door.
"...Torn clown, I must stay,..." Othnielia croaked through the wall.
"...signs of the growthage spreading?"
Cord drew his brows, his ears perking to the muffled words. He scooted closer to the door.
(OOC: what if, perhaps, Cord's magic flares again? I would write it up but my phone is at 3% and the charger won't work so I'll post it unfinished for convenience sake. You can just add that in at your own desire)