It's Agravain's birthday. Everyone give him fluffy pink cupcakes and things.

( I miss Agravain, some days. )

( Midsummer night was no night at all, just a long twilight. )

Sunset finds him in the untended fields beyond the house, sitting cross-legged in the grass with his head in his hands.

The acute fury has left him, unable to sustain itself in this place; he sits quietly, slumped, looking mostly very tired.

*will just be spending the day at home, thank you, being bruised and sore and in no good temper -- but would probably appreciate sympathetic company if it was to be had*

oh good Christ.