Porphyria's (ironically) buoyant mood was contagious, and the sun felt all the warmer as he chuckled down at her characteristically winsome words of gratitude. Theirs was an odd friendship, truth be told. Not odd within the pairing, as it seemed to come so naturally, but no doubt to the wider world — the black sheep of the Fisk family and the outlandish Dempsey poetess. Perhaps the Witch Weekly had enjoyed some mild speculation before moving on to some more dramatic hearsay focussed on some younger people.

Regardless, Arven was content to find himself in this friendship. He had certainly not been unattracted to her when first they'd met (what adventurer would not be charmed by a flailing water sprite?), but their dynamic had long been solidified as both playful and comfortable, despite their difference in status and gender. It perhaps suited them both that their arrangement was so disrespecting of conformity.

"Then for the sake of our friendship, I hereby promise to be in need of rescue next. So what'll it be, Feathers? Captured by highwaymen in the Highlands? Trapped in an active volcano?"