![](http://cobalt-company.wdfiles.com/local--resized-images/writing:2024-06-23-a-butterfly-s-charm-aspenwood-moore-side/style="margin:/medium.jpg) |
| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | Natalyah Kensington-Whit is having a perfectly fine time at the Aspenwood-Moore wedding, and she doesn't need any help at all. That's why she's trying to run off. Lathrik does his duty to set the butterfly back into the right place, and not die of heatstroke in the meantime. 5700~ words. Deliberate character conflict. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
The wedding is in full swing, the din of literally hundreds of conversations creating a crowd buzzing, and the afternoon has hit that point where someone might start to wonder when it's going to start cooling off (another hour, sorry, southern summer hours). There is an established general perimeter of the Aspenwood estate, a point at which guests are no longer permitted, especially as they get near the actual growing vineyards, and also to prevent a difficult to guard spread. The vast majority of guests have stuck within their invisible, socially encouraged enclosure, happy with their offerings of free food, free drinks, and shade for their enrichment.
One individual, however, has broken away from the metaphorical pack, her teal and black dress marking her as a likely party guest (and probably not assassin with a sniper rifle strapped to her leg looking for a vantage point, not the least because she's going downhill where she can't see the party, but you never really know, I guess). The double rough wooden crutches she has to help her walk make her stand out, more than anything else, but for some people the combination of that particular tanned skin, that flowing wavy silk hair, and I just want to get away from this aided walk might be very familiar.
A bird call marks her approach of the invisible boundary, and for anyone familiar with such things, it is not the cry of a bird native to the area. An answering call sounds from a different direction, and shortly after, a soldier in formal dress armor — but still the clearly recognizable blue and gold of Stormwind — comes into view. His pace slows to a casual stroll as he determines this guest is not a threat, and as he gets closer, recognition, and even a brief flash of relief, spill over his face.
Lathrik's expression shifts into a lazy smile as he approaches. "Oi," he calls to her. "Where're you flutterin' off to, Ms. Butterfly?"
Natalyah must not immediately recognize the voice, because the call with the name evokes an impish smile as she looks over her shoulder towards the speaker — a smile that is wiped off her face as she blinks twice, shaking her head slightly as if to clear it because she thinks she might be hallucinating. She halts her forward movement immediately, turning in place. In her wedding finery and in the full daylight, it's a little more obvious that she's actually quite pretty.
"You!" Natalyah accuses or affirms, one of those. "What are you doing here?" Before she can really put any addition into place she asks, her tone a little ambiguous on either side of an equation of defensive anger or something like relief, "Are you following me?"
"Following you to a wedding, or following you right now?" Lathrik asks, "Because I'm definitely doing one of those." He eyes her dress appraisingly.
"I'm in a mood to be generous due to the festivities, so I'll assume you mean following me now," Natalyah says archly. She is pretty far from the standard wedding area. "Security, then? I've no intention on looking for trade secrets hidden in the poles of…whatever. I just needed some fresh air." Fresh air at an outdoor wedding, going from shade and food to hot sun on a hill. Seems fine.
She clocks his look, and tilts up her left brow high. "If you're about to tell me my dress is clever without knowing why it is, you can hold that opinion to yourself. I've exhausted my patience on the subject." With…one? How short is her patience fuse?
Lathrik's smile widens in amusement. "A butterfly, isn't it? Whose noble ear did ye roast off for that comment? Wait, don't tell me. More fun to guess."
Natalyah does not do a great job at keeping her smile off her face, the mischievous curling of her lips giving her a sweet wicked look, before she tosses her hair to try to dislodge it.
He peers back towards the wedding area. "Gotta say though, this is only a marginally better place for a walk. Feral worgen won't get ye, but the sun might." Lathrik himself may be growing uncomfortable from the heat — armor, after all, is not conducive to keeping cool. Even so, it doesn't show on his face.
The feral worgen reminder is the only thing that fully wipes the smile off, and for a moment, there is real fear in her face, a tight swallow, and she doesn't look all around her but the way she stiffens and forces her eyes to hold on Lathrik suggests someone very deliberately not looking and still feeling the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
That defensive anger comes back into her. "As a matter of fact, the day a feral worgen pack did get me, it was a day a lot like this. Sunny and warm and bright, really brought out the red from the blood. The sun felt nice as I started to bleed out, small mercies and all that," she says, tart lemon sour with an edge of defiant brittle bitterness, the sort of thing someone says when they're trying to shock someone but hurting themself to do it. It also might occur to Lathrik that when she spoke before of the two of them most likely to survive a mauling it was her that she was speaking from experience.
Lathrik's earlier nonchalance fades away, leaving a serious expression behind. "'It was not my intent to make ye relive such horrors," he says. "We're safe here, 'tween the two of us."
Natalyah's huff of a laugh is a sound, but not amused. "Of course we are. There's hundreds of people here, and I no longer fear any ferals, not in or outside my memories. I'm not helpless, not anymore." She directs a pointed look to his right arm. "And you'll remember, you were the one who was injured. Obviously you didn't die of infection, unless you're a very spry corpse or a very sturdy ghost."
The lazy smile returns. "Who knows. I could be either. They call me Thousand Deaths in the guard, but I haven't died yet, far as I'm aware. You're free to check."
Oh, no. Is that a dare? It might be. Or maybe she just interprets it that way. She pushes herself into motion to bring herself up very close to Lathrik, and draw herself up to her full height. This close, it's more obvious that they're nearly of a height, and that she smells of jasmine perfume and a touch of something else, something earthy. She holds her balance on her leg and one crutch as she reaches out her other hand to stick her hand at his neck to his pulse. Her hand is sun-warmed, but not as soft as a lady's hand should be; there's a roughness to her fingers that suggests hard work, laundry, and labor.
His own skin is warm to the touch, and slick with sweat. Despite his relaxed posture and the calm amusement in his eyes as he watches her, his pulse is a little too fast for one standing still. "Fearless lass indeed," he observes. "Aren't ye concerned over who might be lookin' our way?"
Natalyah snorts. "For what? I think I'll manage to plead off my innocence if you faint from heatstroke, by virtue of not being the literal sun," she says tartly. Is she being witty, or is she dodging the potential revelation that there's no noble reputation for her to protect?
She still hasn't actually moved her hand as she meets his eyes. "Your pulse is too fast. You're probably already overheating." Unlike Natalyah who is obviously doing very well in the sun and her long dress with a black bodice. There's a sheen of sweat along her collarbone that says otherwise. "If you do collapse and I have to go fetch someone, your friends are going to suspect I'm a very incompetent assassin who has it in for you."
"If that was a suspicion they were goin' to have, they'd already have it," Lathrik says, not pulling away either. "I waited for ye. In Duskwood. Found the cage."
Natalyah removes her hand from him as if stung, folding her fingers over her palm, her expression one of shocked guilt. "I — why would you do that? I…I ensured it was locked and then left for…" Again that little hesitation, that betraying pause. "Home. I told you, I needed no escort. I gave you no cause to feel obliged to follow me." She was mean and everything, gosh. Her eyes go back to his arm. "And you were injured," she accuses him. Yeah, how dare he be injured. She really won't let that go, huh.
"I've been told," he says, the lazy smile still present on his face, "that occasionally I behave like a paladin." There's probably more to it than that, but nothing he seems likely to volunteer.
This puts her on firmer ground, and she uses her hand to shove against his breastplate with no real force behind it, but it still affects her more than him; she digs her other stabilizing crutch deeper into the ground to hold her balance before she loses it.
There is a slight flinch from Lathrik, a reflex to catch her, perhaps, as she shoves herself, rather than him, but it goes unresolved as she maintains her balance.
"That's right. You are a paladin. So why didn't you heal yourself, hm? Or are you that into suffering, which I suppose would explain why you're following me anywhere." The tartness dips once more into a bitter sourness. They're also bold words for someone who demonstrated at least some control over shadow. If she's a Priestess, why didn't she heal him with the Light either?
"Might be I am," he says with a shrug, an attempt to cover it up. "Or might be the lady of science is unsure how the Light works?"
"Unlike the religious, I have no difficulty opening my mind to learn new things that might be outside my own sphere. As a matter of fact, I do know how it works. I spent time at the Northshire Abbey to learn from the priests there, on Light and Shadow. I managed to get exactly what I needed from it. I can cast my sight to people," she says. And then…there's nothing else to the list. Was that the whole list? "Or is this your roundabout way of confessing that you don't know how to use the Light to heal? Here I thought paladins love confessing their shortcomings and perceived sins."
"Make of it what ye will," Lathrik says. "But for one so learned, I notice you never offered to heal." It seems he doesn't, after all, plan on confessing to anything. While he tries to maintain his carefree expression, his eyes narrow ever so slightly at the mention of Shadow.
"Do you think I would not have, had I had the ability? That I would have just left you bleeding like that if I had any way to fix it?" She asks, and there's a scratch of hurt in her voice and her face. "I'm not a monster." She looks away, like she can't bear to look him in the face as she says it. "I can't use the Light any more than I can use Shadow, beyond the one I managed. I listened to the lessons, and I tried for the Light, but it came to nothing. I didn't bother with the rest of Shadow. I had no interest or need. I only needed to be able to cast my sight out. There are things I can and cannot do when it comes to this, physical limitations that I cannot ignore." She gestures vaguely at her left leg. "So I adapted and found a solution."
Shadow. Physical limitations. Found a solution. Something in these words causes Lathrik's gaze to lose its focus, and his fingers reach, trembling, for a pouch at his side. He stops himself just before opening it, snapping back into the present. "You're not a monster," he repeats, that serious tone returning. "An' if I thought ye were, we'd not be talking right now. It was an observation made in poor taste. Apologies."
Natalyah's frown pulls her brows down, and there's real concern on her face, some immediate sympathy and a glance to the pouch before fixing back on his face. "Yes, well a real not-monster would have brought a fan at least. You really should get out of the sun," she scolds tartly, but the way she reaches out again for him is softer, gentle, aiming for his shoulder to brace against his armor, as if there's anything she could really do if he started to fall over. "You shouldn't be standing here and overheating in that armor just because I…" She stops, shaking her head, her gaze bleak as she glances back up the hill. "It doesn't matter. Three minutes or three hours, I'll have to return to it. I don't need any help getting back to the wedding. You should go back to some shade."
"The real monster's the lass who has us out here in full gear without proper shift changes," Lathrik says with a chuckle, trying to push away her concern. "But Pennings wants us makin' a good showing for the fancy nobles, so here we are. I'd hate to send ye back someplace ye'd rather not be, but survivin' weddings is not my area of expertise."
"Survival is easy. You just find a corner table where no one else is and wait for the food and drinks, clap sometimes, and be as disagreeable as possible so no one talks to you, until you can go home," Natalyah says archly. Except in this wedding, no food is brought to the tables unless someone asks for help. And she isn't really making that much of an effort to be that disagreeable to end this conversation. She either wants to keep talking or maybe she really is that reluctant to go back. "It worked well before, at least. It's been ten years since I've really…done all this. It's even worse than I remember. If it wasn't for Priscilla, I wouldn't have come, but I didn't want to not be here with Lucy…" She blinks abruptly, eyes going brighter with tears, and her voice breaks a little. "Shit," she says, very quietly.
Priscilla. Lucy. If the names mean anything to Lathrik, he doesn't comment, but when her eyes shine with tears, he politely looks away. "If ye'd prefer, you can stand in the shade with me, an' we can look twice as unapproachable," he says. "Though they're not dressed for combat, I hear Cobalt Company's got a presence here, which makes my job rather boring. No threat worthy villain would crash such an event, for fear of bein' severely outmatched.”
There's a pause, where all Natalyah seems to do is stare very pointedly up at the sky. Then she exhales a sigh hard enough that their proximity means he feels the air.
"Where was your shade…post… whatever," she asks, abruptly. Is that a yes for standing in it with him? Whatever it is, she is already pushing herself into motion, starting the laborious climb up the hill. If he's going to lead her to it, he'll need to get ahead of her or start pointing out directions.
In possibly the most revealing thing she's said so far about how she must have been completely out of touch with the world for the past three years she asks without looking back at him, "What in the world is 'Cobalt Company'?”
Lathrik strides past her, directing their path to a shaded area beneath a tree at the edge of the wedding. It is in view of the event, but far enough that the distinct features of each guest is hard to make out. "Let's start with something ye know," he says. "Sir Elohad Ference. He's a noble type. Ye familiar with him?"
Natalyah seems less tense here, standing on the outskirts of the wedding, and she balances on her crutches the same way as before, putting more weight on one than the other, leaving her left arm more freedom of movement.
In a crushing blow to Elo's ego somewhere in the party, Natalyah responds to that with, "Who?" But then squints and makes an ahh sound, forging ahead in the thought. "Wait, 'Ference.' That's a Brightwood family. Well, Duskwood family now." She doesn't seem to recognize the rest of what significance the name might have.
Lathrik studies her. "Right," he says. "Sir Ference founded a mercenary company some three years back. That's Cobalt Company. Now, y'might think, ew, mercenaries, but they've been makin' a name for themselves, and even Alliance leadership has come to rely on them.
There's a wicked curl of her lips into an involuntary smile at ew, mercenaries, but she doesn't laugh. Well, not very audibly at least.
“Word is, the groom is a member of it, same with his twin siblings." He gives her a Look that says, you do know of the hosting family right?
She turns an astonished skeptical look to him at that. "I beg your pardon, Colson and Cressidha Aspenwood are mercenaries? Is that even legal, they're what — " Wait. She has to do some math. And then her jaw drops a little in aghast horror. "Sins and martyrs preserve me, they're what, twenty-five now?" Twenty-eight, actually, but close enough. "That's horrific." The age thing, it would seem, not the mercenary part. Her eyes narrow further. "But that can't be right, that Birdie is part of it. He and Scilla had some sort of arrangement about him not being part of the military when they married, which I can only assume is why I was there for the engagement and the wedding twelve years later."
Lathrik shrugs. "Can't speak to the reason behind it," he says. "I only know what I've heard. It'd be a recent thing, if he was military, seein' as a war just ended some months ago. The twins, though, at least one of 'em's been in Cobalt since its founding. Point is, if they're here, I'm hardly needed. Guard's just here to make people feel safe."
There's a darkening of Natalyah's expression at the mention of the recent end of the war, like a dark cloud passing over the sun, a draining of the mischief into a bleak stare. "Like the wall of Gilneas," she says bitterly. "People do love our illusions of safety. Nothing like a borderline of barred entrance and exit to enforce it."
"Whoever thought a wall meant safety must've missed the fall of Stormwind," Lathrik says wryly. "But we're not here keepin' anyone in, which makes us at least halfway better'n a wall, I'd say."
"Aren't you?" Natalyah says in a dry voice. "I seem to recall a very recent event of a guard halting me from stepping too far out of bounds." She arches a brow at him, but she doesn't seem particularly upset at Lathrik. "Nobles love their little cages like that. It's all safe and secure and privileged, as long as you don't take a single step out of bounds." That's a lot more bitter. "I was never very good with staying within that sort of thing. The cages always had the spaces between the bars to slip out of, and I suppose I thought the punishment wouldn't be so severe. That as long as I was willing to come back to the cage, it'd still let me in. More fool I."
"Broke your fetters then, have ye?" Lathrik's gaze is softer, despite the air of nonchalance. "A certain expert on the matter once told me that any behavior witnessed under duress is never accurate to the truth of a species. Pr'haps you'll better live your truth flying free."
"That expert does have the sound of a published authority on the subject," Natalyah quips back. "Some species only flourish in true freedom, and they are strong enough to survive without the help of either enclosure or community." There's a certain bravado in the words, though, and in the way she tucks her chin down, staring out at the wedding casts some doubt on how well this particular butterfly does completely alone. "They don't need anyone."
"Well now, that sounds like an exaggeration. Most creatures benefit from havin' more of their own around." Softer, he says, "There's no harm in wanting."
"Of course there is," Natalyah disagrees in a sharper bite of tone. "There's wanting where you're not wanted. But wanting isn't the same thing as needing and so long as you don't need it, you're in control of what you want." Are you though?
"I know someone in the same ship as yours, a former noble declared monster by most," Lathrik says. "He wanted a lass who'd as soon see him dead, and now, thanks to his persistence, they're engaged to be married. Well. Assumin' the law would recognize it as such. You're a strong willed lass, and I know you're smart enough not to go buildin' walls in your own heart. You'll find your people if ye keep at it."
Natalyah barks out a bitter, sharp-edged laugh, turning to Lathrik, that color high in her cheeks now. "You assume I ever had them, or have anyone to find. There isn't anything for me to come back to. I had a fiance, chosen by my parents years ago, and I cared nothing for him but it doesn't matter. It was broken off years ago, with me in absentia. My parents removed me from the House, settling my rank on my younger sister. I am not even part of it any longer, the entitled property to her. I don't even have a room in the house any longer. I've spent the past nine years out of Society, and they no longer know me or care for me. My assistant died years ago. My best friend died in that Northrend war, a mere three months before I was me again. I have nothing left." The words are spat out and accompanied by a soft gasp, as she loses her grip on her human form, black fur sprouting up along her hands in an involuntary shift. She pants in distress, her eyes wide with fear as she looks around, for who might see her losing it like this. Well, besides Lathrik. He's got a front row seat. "Oh, shit."
Lathrik's serious expression returns as he steps between her and the wedding in an attempt to block —or at least hinder, since they are now of differing height — the sight of anyone glancing in their direction. A familiar shell of Light springs up around her to aid in this, shining bright enough that the paladin himself has to close his eyes against it. This does draw a concerned frown from Joelle, who is standing near enough to see something is wrong, but he halts his advance at a sharp gesture from Lathrik.
There's a moment as the shift goes far enough that Natalyah must be certain she isn't going to halt it, and Lathrik steps between her and the wedding. He might get only a glimpse of widen dark eyes on his as gold rolls over them, before the shield of Light blocks his view. The crutches she had fall each to one side away from her where she's dropped them, outside the barrier.
She's silent inside the shield.
"I'm not the guy to be giving advice on this, I know that," he says, "but 'finding' doesn't only refer to what you had. If Society won't have ye, find those who will — or better yet, show them what they're missing. Both, if ye like. I'm sorry for all ye've lost, truly. I've heard taking the time to properly grieve can help a person, but I can't speak to that myself."
When the blessing of protection fades, it's revealed that inside the protective shell, she had dropped down to a crouch, hiding behind his body shield, rather than holding a stand. She might have caught her balance with her arms, as she had done before as a worgen.
But now, she sits on the ground, back in her human form, with her arms wrapped around her leg, and head resting on her knee. Her dress has spread out in an ungraceful fan around her, and her hair falls to the sides of her face, exposing the vulnerable curve of the back of her neck and top of her shoulders. There are more freckles here on her upper back, places where the sun has kissed her repeatedly. She's breathing slowly, but so strongly with each deep inhale and exhale that it moves her body with it.
Lathrik spares a quick glance behind him at the wedding, confirming something, then bends down, collecting her crutches. "There, now," he says gently, kneeling in front of her and placing the crutches between them, within her reach. "No one saw." He unhooks the waterskin from his side and offers it to her.
She lifts her head up just enough to look at him. Her hair is sticking to places on her face, along her cheeks and forehead, where she's started to sweat heavily, possibly from the stress of a forced change and back. She drops her head back down. And then, as if she can only take it while not looking at him, reaches out for the waterskin, bringing it under the shelter of her bowed head, to drink where he can't see her. That's the only sound for a long moment. That waterskin might end up mostly empty, with only some left from where she would have had to tilt it up to get the last of it. How thirsty had she been?
"Of course no one saw," she snaps out tartly, but there's a hoarse edge to her voice, and she doesn't lift her head as she thrusts out the waterskin back at him, colliding with his breastplate, wincing faintly. "No one would be looking at me. There's no reason to."
"No reason?" Lathrik takes the waterskin back from her, his other hand capturing hers before she can withdraw it. "A pretty butterfly like you could charm the pants off half the men in this place. Ye don't give yourself enough credit." He gives the waterskin an experimental shake, determining how much is left. "Would ye like something to eat? I can send one of the lads to fetch a plate."
Natalyah doesn't seem to have an immediate response, which might be the only sign that there's been an Effect. She also is not lifting her head up. For reasons. Her hand gives an odd little twitch in his at the offer.
"Of course I could do it," she says scathingly, choosing to target that first. "Charming lies and flattery and fawning always work on nobles, particularly the stupid ones. It's the truth that has no appeal, the moment they know it: a 32-year-old unmarried woman with no prospects and no connections who turns into a beast when she skips her coffee? Any pants on their way off would seal themselves back on so quickly they'd need to see a specialist to remove them again."
She doesn't immediately answer about the food. Her stomach answers for her, a loud grumbling that sounds almost painful.
Lathrik lets out a small puff of laughter, forcing it back down as quickly as it'd come. "That'd be a sight," he says, the amusement barely contained in his eyes. "I suppose nobles aren't very adventurous?"
After securing the waterskin back to his belt, he lifts a hand to signal Joelle, who hasn't taken his eyes off them since the ball of Light made its appearance. There is a silent moment of one-handed charades, then Joelle nods and starts towards the wedding. If the 6'3 gentle giant in full armor is worried about drawing attention, it doesn't show. He moves with a casual surety that suggests he belongs there.
"I was scandalous and eccentric before because I went out on my own studying butterflies with a male assistant as a chaperone when I was of marriageable age," Natalyah says. "The definition of adventure for the nobility is wearing a dress out of style. I am past adventure and straight into risking full social destruction." She still hasn't taken her hand from his, but she at last lifts her head again. "Which suits me just fine, I'll have you know." Yes, she does seem very happy about her current situation.
She is still flushed, and her face damp from sweat. She swipes her hand over her face in both directions, clearing her hair off her cheeks. "And anyway, you assume I want to charm anyone. I don't. I can't stand that sort of simpering."
She looks for her crutches, and there's a bit of distress on her face.
See, the thing about crutches is that they are much better than canes for when you might need to stand for longer periods of time, or move around on uneven ground. The weight distribution is gentler on the arms rather than the wrists. They do have one real disadvantage though, and that is when it comes from getting back up from the ground and getting the crutches back under you. Instead of trying to stand, she sits back further. Yes, actually, as a matter of fact, this is exactly where she wants to be. She's sitting now. Purposefully.
"Ye don't think anyone'd be charmed by your wit?" Lathrik asks. "That's a shame for them. What about makin' lady friends? Lady Cressidha, as ye mentioned. She's in Cobalt, which is adventurous as anythin' right? Noble mercenary?" He does note her distress, and starts to make mental calculations about how the crutches work, and what the best way to help her might be, without injuring her pride.
Natalyah scoffs at him, giving him the same look she did when he spoke of worgen packs. "Really? Now you seek to lecture me on noble women and the friendships of the ladies of Society? I'll have you know, Lady Cressidha and I could not have less in common than had we been born different species. She's as perfectly proper as her mother, and her idea of adventure was joining the army as a battlemage, and I can only speculate on why she joined a mercenary company instead, except that it is as you say run by a nobleman and its members here at a noble party. So perhaps she just prefers her own kind."
Lathrik is quite clearly out of his depth on this topic, having only personally met three noble ladies, and one only in passing. Still, he tries again. "What about Lady Dara Tennerow? Ye know her? Met her some time ago, spreadin' her wings as a priestess. I know ye have certain opinions of church folk, but maybe ye've something in common?"
Natalyah gives him a dark, quelling look. "Shall I advise you on how best to advance in the Stormwind Guard to promotion and social networking next as part of this charming little game where you pretend that you know my world, and I know yours? I recommend paying especial attention to Pennings. I hear she has a penchant for wanting to impress nobles, and you could show her how well you know them," she says tartly.
The scathing level of her words might be ever-so-slightly diminished by the fact that she is still letting him hold her hand. Don't draw attention to it and the butterfly might just stay there, gently flexing its wings as it rests in place on this particular perch.
Lathrik meets her look with an amused smile. "As it happens, I'm not lookin' for a promotion, but I thank ye for your consideration, milady," he says. He is spared from making further comments by Joelle, who returns with not only a plate containing assorted food, but also a vase full of flowers, and a chair slung over his shoulder. For some reason. He sets the chair down next to Natalyah, and the vase down at the far side of the chair, then waits with the patient air of a butler.
Casting a dubious glance at the flowers, Lathrik rises to his feet, still holding Natalyah's hand, as if in an offer of escort, to help her into the chair if she wills it. His grip is loose, allowing her to pull free if she'd rather.
"What is — what are you — " Natalyah's eyes go wide, and she shoots an accusing glare at Lathrik as somehow this is his fault. She snatches her hand from his like it's burned her, and her nostrils flare as she breathes heavily through her nose. There's a fury in her eyes, but circumstances limit her options.
She grabs her crutches and shoves them up against the chair, and then with that air of someone pulling shreds of her dignity over her like a ruined cloak, she shifts her weight, turning to the chair, and pulling on it as she braces her legs on the ground. It is evident from the way she knows how to hold onto the chair that she's done this before. It is not elegant, and it is not pretty, but she gets herself up — and does not take a seat. She instead yanks her crutches to her, sticking them under her arms. "I didn't realize you had planned a picnic for yourselves, sirs. Far be it from me to interrupt." She is already starting to move away as she speaks.
Joelle watches Natalyah leave with the hurt expression of someone who just startled a butterfly.
Lathrik waves him away. "Follow her. See that food's nearby wherever she lands. 'Less she leaves, then I s'pose she can fend for herself, aye?"
Joelle lights up with hope, and eagerly trails after Natalyah. Surely this time will be different. When they've gone, Lathrik leans against the nearby tree with a sigh, finally reaching into the pouch at his side and sliding out a mana potion. He tips it back and closes his eyes, taking a moment to compose himself. Then, he collects the chair and the vase, and heads towards the wedding to return them.