#and obviously izar has little to no experience with alcohol

[izar-tarazed]

🥃🥃! One for Izar and one for Ensha (provided he can drink. If not, Izar gets two c:)

Another round! Izar reaches for the first glass—the two shots before have left a pleasant warmth within. Sitting close to a site of grace feels a little similar. She moves the glass a little so the stardust-like glittering within whirls, smiles at that and then drinks. She thinks for a moment, considering what she could share.

‟I was so happy when I got my own little chamber at the Roundtable Hold. You’re not given one right away, of course—not while Gideon Ofnir considers you merely a house guest.”

She grimaces briefly, glowering at her empty glass as if it was to blame for Sir Gideon’s behavior.

‟He seemed extremely reluctant when I returned from Stormveil, having claimed a Great Rune. Still, he handed me the key to my very own room. Nowhere near as spacious as the one Fia occupied, for example, but good enough for me. After all… Maybe I had a room all to myself before, but I don’t remember that. Ever since I woke up in the Lands Between, it was ruins and caves, abandoned shacks and places like that. I didn’t mind it; I still don’t when I travel. I like to rest under the open sky. And when I first arrived at the Hold, merely having access to a bed was an unexpected luxury.

But having a little space all to myself… I can’t quite put into words what that means. It’s like a small island amidst a rolling sea. I’ve made that place mine. I keep all the things there that I don’t want to carry around all the time. I have a desk, although I mostly head over to the Table of Lost Grace because the golden light is just the best illumination. I have a small shelf where I keep the books and scrolls that I own. I’ve put maps and sketches on the walls, and a runebear skin on my bed… no, I didn’t kill that beast myself, I merely bought its pelt.

I don’t really know what home is supposed to feel like; but I guess this is the closest thing that I have to one.”

She sighs and reaches for the second glass. Ensha steps closer and snatches it before her fingers even graze the glass. It’s impressive how he manages a disapproving glance without the slightest change in his skull’s features. ‟What do you mean?” she protests. ‟I’m fine. This is basically water. It might have magic.”

He doesn’t roll his eyes, of course, but tilts his head a little as if he did. Then he empties the glass in Izar’s stead, fingers drumming on wood before signing,

‟I hate it when she dies. It goes without saying that I do my best to prevent it from happening in the first place. Yet sometimes, it can’t be helped. I see her fall and turn to dust.

It is… unpleasant. I will then make my way back to the last site of grace that we rested at. They are lightless to me, but I make sure to remember their exact location. And then I wait. Wherever it is. Whatever happens. However long it takes.

To return from beyond takes an awful lot of time. And for all that she claims to see the grace shining brightly, an infallible guidance… We both know that return is never fully certain.

Sometimes I will doubt it as I wait. Or I wonder whether my memory has failed me and this is not the right spot. Sometimes it takes longer than usual… Rain might fall. Mist might rise. If foes approach, I make sure to kill them, so the area is safe. I never go far, though.

Until now, she has always come back, every single time. And I've always been in the right spot. Still… I hate it when she dies.”