Merlin understood the appeal to residing entirely in the dungeons- unbattered by weather, consistent temperature, lush food in certain places- but truthfully he would rather fall to the jaws of a fire-breathing dragon than give up the sky. Even on the cloudiest nights, the gray Courser lay beneath the expansive abyss. Sometimes he found himself wondering how an entire species would rather hide from the beauty of the divine. 

Now, he rested in a field dotted with flowers of all kinds. A fire crackled beside him, over which bubbled a pot of thick stew, and a canvas tent stood erect across from the dancing flames. His banner snapped and fluttered in the light breeze, atop which Lovell roosted. He had shed his gear and armor, his sword resting against the wall of his shelter, and the fire was quickly drying the sweat still stuck to his coat. 

“Lovell,” Merlin’s voice felt so disruptive in the silent tranquility that he cringed. “Sometimes I wish we had never stepped foot under ground.” 

The bird considered this, pausing in his preening. “Us personally, or all of the Coursers?” 

Merlin stayed quiet, considering this. He knew that he would never give up the dungeoneering life. Despite the danger, he loved the thrill of discovery. And yet, why did he yearn for this so much? Life under the sun instead of the earth? 

“Both, maybe?” Merlin heaved a sigh, pulling himself to his hooves to check on the stew. It was almost done, the mixture of herbs, potatoes, and grain giving off an aroma that flooded his mouth with saliva. “Forget I said anything.” 

Lovell considered him. It had been nearly two weeks since his familiar had found his voice- a phenomenon that was uncommon but not unheard of- and Merlin relished the conversation. “The grass is always greener on the other side.” 

“What?” 

The owl shrugged, resuming his preening. “Nothing. Just something I heard once.”