lysarialog

[lysarialog]

[lysarialog]

Lysaria Peltola

Born to a family of miners in the cold North, Lysaria was raised with resilience and grace, learning etiquette from her grandmother. She worked as a maid for a noble family until a tragic event awakened her Jinki—silken ribbons that stitch wounds with shimmering threads. Taken in by a reclusive doctor, she trained as a medic before joining the Cleaners. Kind and composed, Lysaria serves as a quiet pillar of emotional support.

Species: Human

Gender: Female

Age: 29

Height: 173 cm

Affiliation: Cleaners

Occupation: Maid (former), medical trainee (former), Cleaners (medic / Giver)

Date of birth: September 12

Place of Birth: Ground

Vital Instrument: Ribbon Lace (a pair of red silk ribbons she received as a parting gift from her grandmother)

Appearance:

Lysaria is a tall, slim woman with a shapely body. Her ashblonde hair is slightly wavy by nature, and she usually wears it in two big sidebuns, held together by her jinki, a pair of red silk ribbons, with two strands behind her ear, reaching down to her chest.

Since she is not fond of wearing a uniform, she wears her casual clothes as often as she can. Her usual attire consists of midi-length skirts and elegant blouses. Her Cleaner uniform consists of a tight fitting, long elegant military coat with a high collar that is held together on the side of her thigh by buttons, making it look like a slit skirt. Under it, she wears short pants and knee-high boots.

Personality:

Lysaria is a quiet and gentle woman who knows how to move with poise and conducts all tasks with elegance and meticulousness. A significant feature of her personality stems from her previous job as a maid. Just like one would expect of a person in this position, she is invisible when not needed, yet readily available at any time.

Character Song

[lysarialog]

Varna lira liru

Follo teaches Gris an important thing about the North which helps the latter understand Lysaria better - and draw a significant parallel between him and her.

Gris sat with his forearms braced on the table, watching as Follo practically inhaled his food. A thick stew Gris knew he liked because it reminded the younger supporter of his home in the North Ward. Gris had insisted on treating him to this dinner as a celebration of Follo's first field job which he had passed with flying colors. The young man had acted with a cool head, displayed great instinct as well as a high degree of discipline. Even when some more trash beasts rose from the ground, he hadn’t panicked or hesitated. So he had a large share that this job went smoothly.

The clink of spoons and low tavern murmurs filled the space between them as Gris took a slow sip from his glass and  leaned back in his chair. His blue eyes narrowed slightly as he got lost in thought. Suddenly, he realized that this was the perfect timing to ask Follo something he had been intending to address for some time now. It had not escaped Gris' attention how differently, downright lightheartedly, the boy interacted with Lysaria. Since Gris wanted to avoid delving into this topic in a crude manner, he sought a more sophisticated way to steer the conversation into the desired direction.

“You’re settling in well.”, Gris praised Follo in a soft tone.

Follo looked up from his bowl, he was cleaning with some bread, his eyes and cheeks beaming from the heat in the tavern and pride alike. “You think so? Sure, I still have a lot to learn. But I don’t feel like I’m pretending anymore. It helps to have Lyssa here, too.”

Gris was relieved that Follo had taken the bait this quickly.

He studied him for a moment, then said cautiously, “Yes, I observed that the two of you have this special connection. When you talk, there's this flow, this certain levity.”

Follo looked up, surprised, but listened closely as Gris, whose gaze wandering alomost absentmindedly out of the window, continued.

“It’s good. I see her smile more when you’re around. She laughs freely which I have never heard her do before your arrival. Apparently, she trusts you enough to let loose,” Gris said, trying to keep the tone as neutral as possible.

Follo nodded. “I hope so! At first, she kept her distance, but after about two months, she became less reserved. I guess it's our shared origin.”

Follo was quiet for a moment and a bit at a loss for words, if not even slightly overwhelmed. Was it appropriate to give Gris some advice or was this even what the blonde man was expecting him to do? Then, it dawned upon him that Gris was certainly not too familiar with their Northern habits, teachings and social structures. He set his cup down and started an attempt to give him a new perspective on Northern standards.

Gris’s voice grew softer as he considered this the perfect moment to address what was actually gnawing at him. “But what hasn't changed is that sometimes I can't help but see sorrow lingering beneath her gaze. It's just for a second, in a moment when it seems like she is staring into a void. Like there's a darkness reaching out to seize her.”

He paused, then looked Follo directly in the eyes.

“She’s a good person. One of the best I’ve ever met. If only I could help her carry that weight.” He shrugged slightly.

“It’s not that she doesn’t want to share it,” he started carefully. “She was never taught how to do it.”

Gris tilted his head a little, signaling Follo to provide him with a more elaborate explanation.

“In our language, there is this saying: Varna lira liru. My mother used to say it every time I cried too long or acted too impulsively.” Follo looked up and gave Gris a serious look. “Roughly, it means: The spirit laughs, even when tired.”

Gris frowned slightly. “So… pretending you're fine when you're actually not?”

“No, not exactly.”, Follo shook his head. “It’s deeper with an underlying dimension. It means that you don’t let your struggle burden others. Especially if you’re a woman - even moreso when someone is watching.”

Gris exhaled. Slow and measured.

“She was raised that way. Up there, you learn to smile before you learn to read. You are taught to keep your sorrow and fears silent. Sure, you care for others, but you don’t show need - not even to the people closest to you.” Follo paused. “Especially not them.”, he added.

“No!", retorted Follo almost a bit too quickly and too loud. He cleared his throat before he continued. "It’s pride and dignity. You could say this is the shape of kindness where we come from.” Follo’s voice was soft now. “For her, not showing her pain isn’t mistrust but respect. She thinks she’s sparing you.”

Gris looked down and it was obvious that he was letting Follo's words sink in. It somehow even resonated with him.

“That’s not coldness then.”, he assessed.

Gris was silent for a while. Out of a sudden, he realized that this was something they actually had in common: Not burdening others with their own negative emotions but smothering them instead behind a smiling face. Gris placed one elbow on the table and massaged his chin with his hand. Only his eyes moved when Follo started to speak again in a gentle voice.

"Just remember: if you ever feel like there’s something she’s not telling you, it’s not mistrust - it’s respect. That’s one of our ways to show love. Staying upright, even when we shouldn’t have to.”

Gris’s jaw tensed for a moment, then relaxed. “I see.”

Follo hesitated but then decided that he wanted to add some words of encouragement. “You already help her more than you know. Alone by noticing it."

Gris nodded once, without saying another word. But Follo's lecture had landed. They sat in quiet for a while longer and while finishing his tea, Follo noticed something he hadn’t perceived before. He glanced at his mentor’s silhouette, calm and sure against the lamplight.

"He doesn’t just want to help her." Follo realized.

And without knowing it, Follo began to carry that truth quietly, with a fond smile forming at the corners of his mouth.

A/N: I used ChatGPT to generate a language of the North. I wanted it to sound a bit like Estonian since I love its musical sound.

[lysarialog]

All Beginnings are Difficult

After messing up on one of his first jobs, Follo receives some encouraging words from Lysaria.

It was already late evening when the vehicle returned to the compound. It was his third time out on a job and Follo had started the day enthusiastically. Now, he sat on the backseat with a big lump inside his throat. His mood the very opposite of enthusiastic. The job was nothing out of the ordinary: a cleanup of some lower-class trash beasts whose main danger was the unpredictability of their movements.

But even simple things can quickly turn hazardous when someone acts without thinking. And today, Follo was someone. The young supporter was charged with the task of looking out for Tomme while she took notes for her report. However, he had left his position, leaving his colleague unguarded, and with this at the mercy of the unpredictable horde of trash beasts. Luckily, Zanka acted quickly enough to avoid the worst.

While he and Gris still unloaded the car, the Cleaners and Tomme had already left for the infirmary to get their minor injuries treated by Eishia and Lysaria.

Gris hadn't talked to him ever since they had left the scene but then, suddenly, his voice, despite being calm and composed, cut through the silence.

“Follo.”

The boy froze. His injured foot and the split lip immediately stopped to ache because the source of pain was now what was ahead of him.

“What were you thinking?” Gris’s tone was cold. “You were on flank duty. You left Tomme exposed just to risk getting yourself injured. That’s not bravery, it’s reckless.”

Follo opened his mouth, then closed it again, looking like a gaping fish. His shoulders slumped. “I just thought… I could handle it.”

“You thought wrong,” Gris retorted, stepping forward so that a respectful eye contact was unavoidable.

“One wrong move out there can cost lives." Gris voice was low, but it didn't miss the intensity to underline that he was not happy with Follo's performance at all.

Follo’s throat bobbed, the lump was still there, making it impossible to produce sounds.

Gris sighed, quieter now. “You have potential, Follo. But this isn’t about ego. It’s about keeping each other alive. Remember that.”

Gris walked a step ahead of Follo, as they made their way to the treatment room, wrapped in silence.

Lysaria looked up from her desk as the door creaked open. Her expression shifted at once from tired to attentive.

“You’re both hurt as well?” she asked, rising quickly.

Gris nodded “I have just a scratch and maybe splinters. Follo got a split lip and a limping foot."

Follo didn’t meet her eyes.

She approached Gris first. “Sit,” she said gently, already reaching for bandages. He complied, perched on the edge of the cot while she cleaned the shallow wound and removed smithereens with a calm hand and surgical precision. While bandaging Gris, she looked at Follo. His black hair hung into his face as he stared at the floor. “You’re done. Come back tomorrow to change the bandages.”

Gris gave a short nod. “Thanks.” He paused—glanced at Follo once—and left without another word.

The door clicked softly shut behind him.

Lysaria turned to Follo. “All right. Your turn. Sit down,” she said softly, motioning to the exam cot. “Let me see.”

He obeyed, wincing as he lowered himself onto the cushion.

She began dabbing his lip with a cool cloth, when Follo broke his silence.

“Gris is mad,” he said quietly.

Lysaria focused now on his foot. “What happened?”

“I… broke formation,” he admitted, in a voice so low that it was hardly audible. “Charged in instead of guarding Tomme like I was supposed to. Zanka saved her in time, but still… I let them down. I let Gris down.”

Lysaria exhaled slowly through her nose.

“He didn’t yell much,” Follo added, half-hearted. “Which is worse, somehow.”

She dabbed some ointment on a darkening bruise on his temple. “But do you know why he’s mad?”, she asked sweetly.

Follo looked confused. “Because I messed up?”

“Because he cares,” Lysaria corrected him gently. “You’re not just another Cleaner to him, Follo. He sees potential in you. That’s why your choices matter so much to him. He’s angry because he worries. And he worries because he values you.”

Follo was quiet for a moment, letting that sink in.

“Do you think I can get there? Be someone like him?”, he asked quietly.

Lysaria looked up from her work, eyes clear. “You’re already on your way. But don’t rush it. Playing the hero before you’re ready can get someone hurt—including yourself.”

Follo chuckled "You sound like Gris, Lyssa!"

“Ow,” he said, rubbing the spot, half-pouting.

Then she lifted a finger and flicked  it gently against his forehead.

“I'll take this as a compliment.", she gave him one of the heartfealt high laughs that were only reserved for him.

"But seriously, Follo. Let your growth come naturally,” she said fondly. “We like you better alive.” Lysaria ruffled his black thick hair.

Follo cracked a small smile.

She smiled back and began wrapping his foot with care.

“Now, hold still and let me finish patching up the future legend of the Cleaners."

An audio for this scene:

"Gris isn’t angry because you failed. He’s angry because he worries. He sees something in you. Potential. And when you act recklessly, it scares him. That’s how he shows he cares. You matter to him. …To all of us.”

[lysarialog]

Lysaria talking to Gris

I was thinking about how different we all are in this group. And you, Gris, you’re always so steady and dependable, like the anchor everyone needs, even if you don’t say much. It’s not an easy role to carry, but you do it so naturally… I often wonder how you manage to stay so calm when everything around us is chaos.

[lysarialog]

Lysaria talking to Follo:

Follo-kun… you seem a little tired. You don’t have to push yourself so hard.

People from the North have always been told they must be strong, haven’t they?

But here, it’s okay to let out some weakness once in a while.

I truly understand how hard you’re trying.

It’s alright. You can just be yourself.

There’s no need to rush… because I’m here by your side.

[lysarialog]

My first two rough sketches of her.

[lysarialog]

Never Let Me Go

Set after the events in chapter 22.

The horrid vision of a world without Gris evokes strong emotions and leads to an unexpected twist.

The halls outside the infirmary were eerily quiet. Long had the footsteps of Rudo, Follo and the other visitors fallen silent. Lysaria was relieved to see light bled through from under the door of the room, telling her that Gris was still awake. Not only awake, but alive!

Lysaria paused at the threshold, her hand hovering near the doorhandle. The longer she stood there, the more painful the awful sting behind her rips became that was the result of this agonizing thought: She had almost lost him. Finally she gave herself a push, knocked once, — more a courtesy than a warning — and pushed the door open cautiously.

Gris was propped up, some bruises and bandages on the areas that were not covered by the white shirt. The second she entered, his pale blue eyes met hers with their usual warmth.

“Hey,” he said casually, as if nothing had happened.

She tried to answer but all she could give him back was a low hum and a nod of her head. She approached the bed in her characteristic composed manner and sat down on the edge of his bed, smoothing her skirt in the process.

“You should be resting,” she said gently.

“You patched me up again, didn’t you?”, he murmured, giving her a crooked half-smile.

“No,” she whispered. “It was Eishia. She… she stabilized you. If not for her vital instrument…”

Lysaria's voice broke upruptly, and in the same second, she averted her look. Gris noticed that her dainty hands were clutched in her lap, knuckles white. The injured man could tell that something was off. Her gestures, the subtle trembling in her voice, this was not her usual self.

While Gris was still contemplating whether to break the silence or just wait for her to do it, something inside her snapped. Her shoulders jerked once, like the first distant rumbles announce a storm coming in. And suddenly, she folded forward, her body no longer able to contain the weight of her heavy thoughts.

It started with a broken sound. A gasp that barely made it out, followed by a sob, then another. Soon, she was completely shaken by the force of her body's reactions.

Lysaria's fingers clutched at her own skirt like she was trying to hold herself together but it was in vain: The sobs came too violently, tearing from her throat in smothered gasps. Her tears poured in thick droplets, leaving dark spots on her skirt. Her body jerked under the power of each impact.

He knew her very well by now and to Gris, it became evident that what he was watching were years of restraint surfacing in the most cruel manner. It was every silent suffering and worry she used to bury that was now hitting her like a surge until the dam broke completely.

"I—I couldn't—" she tried, but her voice broke apart, swallowed by her grief. “A world without you would be... would be unbearable, Gris.”, she brought out under sobs she tried to gulp back.

Gris' chest ached. Not from the wound, but from the way her pain, her grief, her words pierced right through his heart. For him, it was unbearable to see her in this state. He couldn't count how many times he had observed her carrying others through their pain and now, without her shield of composure, she seemed more fragile than ever.

Since she refused to burden others with her struggles, no one had seen her like this. That he was the first one, this fact adorned this moment with a strange yet very special intimacy.

In the few seconds in which all these thoughts flashed through Gris' mind, her last words resounded in his ear.

A world without you would be unbearable.

Gris reached out his arm.

“Come here,” he brought barely out, with the lump forming in his throat.

Lysaria barely heard him, but felt the pull. And when she didn’t move, he gently took her wrist and tugged to give his invitation emphasis.

Lysaria let herself fall forward and collapsed against his chest. At first, the sobs didn’t ease, if anything they worsened. Her wet, breathless cries crashed against his shoulder which subdues the sounds. Her delicate body trembled so hard thst he could feel every impact in his own bones.

He held her through it, tight and safe. His arm was wrapped around her back, trembling fingers stroking her hair. His own eyes burned — but he blinked the tears back.

“How could I die,” he whispered, his voice raw, “when I have something so beautiful that is worth returning to?”

Besides her breath was still shuddering in her lungs, she stilled. Then, lifted her head in disbelief. She looked at him through red rimmed eyes, her cheeks covered by a moist veil of tears.

Gently, Gris cupped her face and in a slow, careful motion, brushed the tears away with his thumbs. Lysaria's breath caught again. This time it was not from grief. No, something had shifted. She saw it in his eyes which carried not the usual gratitude or sorrow but a a silent plea:

May I?

She nodded and their lips met for the first time.

She kissed him like she wasn’t sure how, as if this was new and terrifying yet so desperately needed. He kissed her back like she was infusing him with life. And not after long, they found their pace and their kiss grew deeper, rawer, desperate for more. He pulled her close with a groan in his throat, ignoring the pain in his ribs. The want to feel her warmth against his body outweighed the ache of his injuries.

With her tears, with his arms, with their breathless kisses and trembling hands, they finally said what they had never dared to speak out before:

I need you.

I love you.

I can't live without you.

[lysarialog]

When You Were Young

Lysaria's POV. She muses how she unexpectedly found the ideal she was chasing after as a child in the place she had expected it the least.

When I was a girl, I dreamed of a knight draped in silver and silk, his armor gleaming in the sun, cape swaying in the wind as he kneels before me, takes my hand and calls me "My lady" as if I were the most precious thing in the world. A treasure he needed to guard at all costs.

But soon, I would learn that there is no knight to kill the monster that intruded my chamber.

There was no knight when I was taken to a far away unfamiliar place to never see my family again. And it was also no knight who carved the growing life out of me.

Long has it been since I buried those silly fantasies born behind sacred, velvet curtains in the safety and warmth of a place I once called home. But now, years later, dust beneath my boots, grime on my gloves—I start turning the yellowed pages of my storybook again.

Gris doesn’t speak like a knight, his words are not sophisticated or infused with poetry - but they are kind and come always at the right time.

Gris doesn't wear armor nor does he ride on a white horse - but he stands tall with the unobstrusive self-confidence of someone who knows who he is. Gris' face is not conventionally handsome. But he carries his scar with pride, like a medal he received for the good he has done. Gris doesn't ask me if I am alright. He knows. He sees me and carries me along because to him, standing in front of someone is not a gesture but instinct.

Looking at him on that day back then, I realized that my knight was never meant to be a man of polished armor and poetry. My knight is a tall, imposing figure in a soot-stained jacket with sharp brows and quiet eyes that supply him with his very own definition of "handsome". With hands so strong that he carries others forward without asking for anything in return.

How often had I scoffed when I thought about the naive little girl that hoped for a man to ride in and save her. But standing beside him now makes me look at this girl with less contempt. Gris managed to bring back something I had lost long ago: hope.

And all he had to do to rekindle this hope for a "happily ever after" was to walk beside me — step by step. It's not for glory, neither for riches, it's simply because that’s who he is.

And then, the girl inside me closes her book and makes space so the woman I am can write her own tale.

A tale of reality with many pages yet to be filled.