#vavara kir vara

[sootcloak]

No Home But The Battlefield Still Searching For Home

[whitherliliesbloom]

*Kicks down door, a fool and buffoon* Illyanaud is cute, your butler AU is cute, and everyone's contributions make me want to throw my 2-cent, vanilla contributions on the pile. But, I don't want to overstep any boundaries and wasn't sure if it would be acceptable for me to post stuff related to said AU without first asking permission. If you'd rather I didn't, I will respect your decision and continue to admire the fantastic work you've all done from a comfortable distance!

IZNZINSJZ There's absolutely no need to ask me for permission to join in the AU, seriously! Most of my mutuals didn't and i encourage whoever wants to be part of the concept to join in! Even if someone doesn't really want to be part of the same verse or timeline as everyone as participating, it's perfectly fine to just use the idea as inspiration for your stories and work.

It makes me very very happy to know that people love the au so much and want to join in, seeing other takes on the concept is so fun! So please if you wanna do something with the butler au, go for it!

Also thank you zusbxjzb I wave my illyanaud flag in my little corner her ;w;

[blackestnight]

6: Who will they take advice from, no matter what it is? Who won’t they take advice from, no matter what it is? & 29: What recurring dreams do they have?

6. Who will they take advice from, no matter what it is? Who won’t they take advice from, no matter what it is?

answered here!

29: What recurring dreams do they have?

hanami very rarely remembers her dreams, but the ones she does remember are usually very disjointed and weird. she dreams of her old house in monzen--what she can remember of it, anyway--but it’s way bigger than it should be, more the size of ishgardian manor houses, and she’s an adult, even though she left monzen as a child. and she’s wearing her coerthan winter layers even though it’s high summer in yanxia and she’s super hot but for some reason her house doesn’t have a front door so she can’t go inside to change and she can’t just take her clothes off in the garden (but she’s wearing a lot of layers, and she could, but it’s absolutely not allowed for reasons she can’t figure out) and then an amaro flies by and offers to pour a bucket of water over her head but if he does that it’ll ruin her makeup and she has to stand guard at the throne room in doma castle with ran’jit and he’ll make fun of her if she looks disheveled.

she suspects, sometimes, that the echo lets details bleed in either from the dreams of people around her or from her literal soulmates, because she didn’t used to dream of climbing scaffolding to watch the stars and she definitely never dreamed of flying on amaro. but they’re nice dreams, so she doesn’t mind too much.

[lordofcrowns]

Ooh! For the ask meme, King of Spades: What is one thing your muse considers a grave injustice?

K♠️ - What is one thing your muse considers a grave injustice? ( Also asked by @verdandir & @finalvalor )

Cyril has strong opinions on many things ( many of these opinions flawed and subjective ) - however generally, unless he is in a particularly bad mood or someone specific has offended or annoyed him, he is more than happy to look the other way if something does not concern him. In his line of work, and in the type of company he tends to keep by nature of it, minding one’s own business and not getting involved is something of a necessary skill to have - if not to protect one’s life, then to protect one’s financial assets and community standing. Cyril’s reputation is important to him; he is known and respected for not being a man eager to bloody his hands if unnecessary sort of.

However, just as he has a reputation for being wise in whether or not he intervenes, he also has another reputation among those that know of him. Most anyone involved in the practice knows that the good Captain is merciless towards those who are involved in any form of child trafficking, in any way. Trading children is the one line Cyril draws in the sand, and he will not hesitate to punish anyone he comes into contact with that chooses to involve themselves in it - whether they be a kidnapper, a seller, or a buyer. On this one matter, there will be no negotiations, nor patience on his part.

He has invested no small amount of his vast fortune into dismantling the child trafficking circles he’s come across, and when he finds a buyer or seller, it’s one of the few situations in which he will kill someone rather than take them aboard for his own profit. He firmly believes anyone that is willing to traffic children, or partake of that market, is better off dead - and makes good on that belief.

Because of this; because he’s already investing money into the intelligence it takes to infiltrate these rings, and the manpower he’s expending running operations, by not taking prisoners for profit - he actively loses an incredible amount of money. He personally sees the investment as worthwhile.

Cyril has returned many children to their parents at best, or delivered them to orphanages he either owns or trusts at worst ( ie, in the event he cannot track down their family ). He is very humble about this, and to many a family’s relief - he does not hold this kindness over them. Many parents have feared when they realize such an infamous, sadistic criminal is the one to return their child to them - that they are to be indebted to him. But he does not demand anything of the families he returns children to - and the result is often a strange sort of friendship between the two. The exception being he decides the parents are unfit to keep their child / children, but that’s another matter.

Thank you for the ask, @vavara-kir-vara​​! 🌹 Playing Card Asks [ OPEN ] || Art Credit: Innervalue

[dustcloak]

30 Day Warrior of Light Challenge: Sacrifice

865 Words, Multi-WoL Verse, spoilers regarding Shadowbringer’s Patch 5.2 Trial

Gaius stood, arms locked straight and hands palm down against a wide, dust-worn table. Alliance soldiers flit in and out of the large command tent. Constant footsteps, hushed and urgent dialogues, and the ever-present sound of the clash of training soldiers cover his half-whispered reading. He never had kicked the habit of reading aloud. He doesn’t hear the soft, steady footsteps behind him.

A leather half-coat gets tossed onto the table with a solid, muddy thwump. His head jerks up, hand reflexively moving to his shoulder where his gunblade would be. A quick sweep of the room with his eyes lands on the back of a Lalafellin woman. The outer layers of her gear, a combination of leather and metal, lies pooled at her feet. Mud trails from where she stands and the entrance of the tent. His body relaxes, a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding slowly freeing itself.

“Still working, Legatus?” Her voice is monotone and cold as it calls up to him. He watches her face with intent. The emerald-green eyes shining in the dim light are familiar, even if he can’t place from where. Her short, messy hair is as filthy and mud-soaked as her gear.

“I have not held that position for many years.” He says, voice croaking the half-hearted protest. He’s too tired to deal with some vengeful Eorzean right now.

“Yet you wield the same blade as you did then.” He watches intently as she rifles through her piled gear and removes a holstered hand-cannon. She throws it onto the table, next to her coat. It lands with a jarring crash.

He steadies his breath, and sifts through the files on the table. He won’t get any work done if he’s antagonized by this woman all the while. Another crash as a spear easily his height in length lands atop the gun.

“You’ve read the reports already.” She says matter-of-factly, stepping up onto a stool besides where she’s tossed her gear. Her hands move quickly and efficiently, beginning the process of cleaning her weapons.

“If you have further questions, or need clarification on any tactical capabilities, you should direct them to something that can answer your queries.” She doesn’t bother looking at him as she speaks, gauntleted hands and shaded eyes making quick work of her gear. “Those papers won’t yield any more results, Legatus.”

“If you insist on using my past as a method of irritation, I will take my leave.” Gaius keeps his voice even. Still something nags at the back of his mind, the quiet confidence with which she holds herself. The knowing look she gave him when she first spoke.

“Do you intend on forcing your children to sacrifice themselves for our sins, Legatus? To let more of them go through what Milisandia endured?” She shoots a sharp glare at him. His whole body tenses, at once remembering the girl he raised, and the abomination which had consumed her. His chest swells as he sucks in breath. A shout begins to rise in his chest.

He exhales, and with a growl speaks.

“You know nothing of my sins. I refuse to allow even one more life to be lost to the flames I set alight.” He steps around the table, just a few feet closer to her.

“I know them intimately, Legatus.” She watches him as she unclasps her gauntlets, the metal clacking against the wood as it drops. She cradles one hand. “They are not yours alone.”

He follows her eyes down to her hands. They are more metal than flesh. Ribbings of steel and wires of copper are plated behind matte black plates of ceruleum-fired fibers. Beneath the shell of machina, he can barely see skin.

“They are not yours alone,” She repeats, “Because I assisted in developing the technology that killed your daughter, and what will kill her siblings if we do not act with decisiveness and care.” She reaches up with the mechanized hand, grasping the brim of her cap. She pulls it off, sandy blonde hair matted by sweat and blood shaking free. 

“I will not see even one more life paid for my mistakes. I am glad to know you feel the same. You do not remember me, but we have met many times.” There is no mirth in her voice as she introduces herself.

“Vavara Vara, formerly Vavara Kir Vara. We crossed paths when I was called to Nero Tol Scaeva’s assistance on the matter of devising a suitable control method for the Ultima Weapon. I also assisted in destroying said weapon alongside the vaunted Warriors of Light. Now, I need my rest. But you obviously have questions, and I have equipment to maintain before I can sleep. Ask while I work, and I will answer.”

He considers her. Looks closely at the mud and damage smattering the gear still on the ground. He returns to where he had stood earlier, pulls a chair to the table, and sits.

When Severa wakes from her position slouched in the corner of the tent, she finds Gaius drowsily refiling the reports he’d dredged out from storage the previous night. Besides him, a Lalafellin woman lies in a chair using his coat as a blanket.

[sootcloak]

“I am the righteous hand of God,

and I am the Devil that you forgot.

And I told you that one day ‘you would see,

I’d be back I guarantee, and Hell’s comin’ with me!”

[sootcloak]

THORNE

Hope, Grudges, Sanctuary

[sootcloak]

Regret’s for the Dead

~2000 words of loosely written dialogue & set dressing with even looser editing because this time around I’m trying to do one every day and just post it cause otherwise I’ll never get them all done. It ain’t for work, I’ve got to learn to live with the messiness of creation or I’ll never post anything.

January Prompt: Revenant - A person who has returned, particularly from the dead. (Often re-contextualized in fantasy media as an undead creature with a fixation on revenge or justice.)

@seaswolchallenge

   The winds and clouds over Terncliff are often clear - leaving the moon to shine brightly down on the cliffside township. Sleeplessly, Gaius steps from the old, shelled-out building the Resistance had afforded him near the occupied square. Vaguely, he hears someone tell him ‘goodnight’ before turning out a lamp in the foyer.

   “Rest well.” He half-says, as footsteps recede from behind him. Taking a deep breath of the salt-leaden, night air he shuts the door behind him and walks out to his usual spot near the fountain. The Ironworks hand should be in bed, and the guards are a quiet sort unlikely to approach him, of all people. It’ll be nice and private. At least as private as he could get. He turns the corner to the square.

   Moonlight falls in shafts down through the clouds. The horizon beyond is dappled with stars and darkness both. And there, in the square proper besides that lovely fountain is a monster.

   He had once thought her a woman, maybe even a heroine as with many of these other Eorzean adventurers. But she wasn’t an adventurer. She was a huntress, of men and other monsters alike. He had thought her small, weak, and fragile when he had met her all those years ago. A mind limited by a flawed body. He had not yet seen her dance as a vicious, cutting gale. Or watched her erase lives from fields away with the casual disinterest of a scribe scratching tasks off a list. And while he did not see the wound made, he has seen the scars. She is not fragile.

   The lalafellin woman’s hair hangs in loose, tangled curtains around her back, rather than the braid she wears in the day. It’s greying blonde like dusty sunlight falls over a dull brown, sleeveless tunic. It was rare to see her out of uniform, let alone in something which could be broadly considered sleepwear. She did not like to lay bare her failings to the world.

   Her left arm glints in the dim light of the lamps and stars. All metal and thick Garlean ballistic fibers. Cords in place of muscles, gears in place of joints. The scar where it joins her shoulder is jagged and stark, even against her deathly pale skin. Her left leg, too, is left mostly exposed to the night air below the knee. Much the same fashion, save for the thick exhaust ports along her small calves.

   It was, in truth, easier to look at the metal and wire, though. At least then, the horror of machinery making skin stretch and bulge in wrong places was avoided. That the ports along her right calf break through skin is a fresh horror.

   “If you’d prefer I move -” She calls without moving, “- you could always ask.” She reaches besides her, hand meeting the neck of a bottle.

   “A drink?” She asks.

   “Vavara. That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant. I’ll be on my way-” He begins, his boots hissing on the sand-dusted stone tiles of the road as he turns.  Emerald eyes, shining from the way they catch the light, meet his as she turns in her seat.

   “Don’t give me that, Legatus. I doubt you can sleep any more than me.” Her knowing, confident tone grinds against him. The low, soft way she speaks forces him to focus and listen to hear. Like being grabbed by the collar and held firm.

   “Your ‘Blessing’ pry into my past again?” He says. His frustration bleeds into his tone.

   “No. It’s the rings under your eyes. Your gait. You’re tired. Can’t sleep though, else you’d not be here. ‘Sides-” She pulls the bottle back to herself and throws her head back with a swig. “My hallowed ‘Blessing of Light’ has yet to grant me the honor of near-omnipotence. Just headaches, here.” She grins with bright, fake teeth. A sigh pushes out from his chest, and he closes the distance and sits alongside her on the fountain. She offers him the bottle, and he just shakes his head. A shrug. Another long draught.

   “Thought you didn’t drink.” He says. His eyes measure her reaction. She looks away from him, off towards the sea. Her metal hand reaches up and waves dismissively before batting a stray strand of hair from her cheek.

   “I don’t.” She declares. “Stomach’s half gone with the rest of what I’d need to get drunk. I like the way it burns my throat, even if I can’t taste it anymore. Reminds me of when I came back to Eorzea.” Her words are upbeat, if reserved. She shows him the bottle label without turning her body. An old Lominsan rum. Still dust on the bottle. Mostly full. He glances up to the cap, where the wax has been freshly broken.

   “That’s right, you mentioned you’d served.” He says. His speech almost feels automatic, as though he were running on muscle-memory alone.

   “Planning on filling the night with polite conversation? You’ve already looked at my file, Legatus. Not to mention we fought back in the Praetorium. Hells, I’m sure you were briefed on me in one way or another when I went rogue.” She takes another sip. He takes a long breath and nods, old memories coming unbidden.

   “It was shortly after the Meteor Project - I was assigned additional protection since other legions were having their leadership covertly culled. I remember.” He admits. His words get heavier as he speaks, as though weighed down by gunmetal. She just nods and waves the bottle at him.

   Neither say much else for some time. The night stretches, stars and the greater moon slowly tracing paths across the distant black. The sea wind drifts in and out. She drinks, slowly emptying the bottle bit by bit. He watches the buildings around him, tracing the scars of ammunition, shells which blew the road apart but was rebuilt. The barricades placed throughout the streets. The towers looming overhead. Fine white stone stitched apart by dark black metal.

   Were the Empire to return at this point, would they erect more of these structures? Make a prison of this port? The resources to hold this point simply do not exist - and yet to turn after seeing so plainly what these people would be made to endure again. Is that cowardice? Or would standing be a pyrrhic path to vengeance, bleeding them further with more shells and bullets scattering them and their homes.

   He shakes the ideas from his head. Steadying his breathing again. He can’t afford to get bogged down in emotions, especially now with the last of the Weapons on the horizon. He leans forward, hand reflexively moving to his forearm, where his old cannon would have been mounted.

   The sound of a  bottle tapping against stone jerks him out of his thoughts. Vavara’s eyes are closed, head tilted straight up towards the sky.

   “I joined the legion because of you.” Her words drag his heart into a pit in his chest. A sinking dread.

   “Do you regret that decision?” He asks, certain the answer will not be something he likes.

   “No, I don’t.”

   “Then, why-”

   “Would I have deserted? Why do I now hunt the Empire’s finest? I don’t regret joining. I learned much and more in the Empire’s service. I’d never have survived as long as I have were it not for what I learned there - probably would’ve starved in an alley or gotten shelled when the Resistance took the city back. Then again, Zenos’d’ve never chopped me up. Whether I went along or not, though, the folks I enlisted with would have died all the same.

   “I don’t regret the decision in the same way you can’t really regret getting gored by a bull. Just happens. Can murder the fucking bull so it doesn’t happen again, though.” She lets herself stew a moment, before throwing a long swig back and then shaking her head. Sends her hair scattering.

   “If I were to change anything though, I’d have left earlier. Got real on board with some of what we were doing, twisted it up in my head that eventually it’d pay off and the poisoned promises the Empire made would come to fruition. Bet that sounds familiar. Lest I remind you,” She gestures at the masks on his hip.

   “We are of a similar profession, ‘Shadowhunter’. We were then, and we are now.” Her right hand reaches over to cup her left forearm, squeezing the metal tight.

   “Paid dearly for our failings and ambitions, too. Best we can hope is to shoulder the cost ourselves, ‘stead of it falling on someone else.” He grumbles something akin to an agreement, but otherwise says nothing. His brow furrows, mind tracing their collective past’s outline. Matching them against each other. She interrupts him before he can stew in the silence too long.

   “I’m sorry I couldn’t save him. The Emerald Weapon’s pilot. Wasn’t fast enough.”

   “I… It was not your hand which set this in motion.”

   “Again, you’ve read my file. You can say it was not mine alone, but I certainly had a part to play in this.”

   “It would be foolish to assume everything in your file is accurate. Plainly, news of your death was exaggerated as mine was. Much the same is at work in the other details of your service as well, I would assume.” He says. His hand slowly drops down to rest on the masks at his hip.

   “Legatus...” She looks at him with a strange, vexed look on her face. “What about me looks alive to you?”

   He takes a long moment, breath slowly filling his chest. The scent of ceruleum which lingers on her fills his lungs. The way her shining eyes gaze back at him feels like oncoming traffic. Headlamps and flashing lights. Her porcelain skin, segmented and rigid in places where it tries to mimic the real thing, shifts as she leans back. There is true flesh there, but it’s grey and without vigor. Poisoned, even. It meshes with the prosthetics and the replacements in uneven patches, rimmed by nasty, discolored scars.

   “What irony would that be -” She sighs, looking away from him. “- what poetic bullshit.” She looks down at the label of the booze, holding it away from her. “Maybe this is working on me.” 

   “Legatus, listen;” She swings the bottle as she speaks, back and forth with the cadence of her speech. “I don’t breathe, I don’t have a heart anymore, I can’t really eat or drink. Veins are filled with more oil and ceruleum than blood. My aether is stored in my core, so I technically have a ‘soul’, but it can’t be changed in the same ways as yours. I’ve also been pulled and cut apart, limb from limb, more than once. I’m about as alive as your gunblade. Or some autonomous, revenant thing going bump in the night.” Her prosthetic elbows into him, a steady, pressurized vibration felt in the metal. A too-lax grin flashes on her face, sharp teeth and ill-fitting humor meshing awkwardly.

   “I do rather like that image, I’ll admit. What I’m saying is this - everything my file says I did in the name of the Empire? It’s true.” She takes a long drink, looks out to sea, and speaks in a soft, somber tone.

   “Though at this rate, I doubt any of those who dwell above will see me judged for my sins. Trapped here as I am.

   “So if anyone has a right to judge me for my failings - it’s a fellow dead man walking. Namely, Legatus, you.”

   She holds the drink back towards him, half-empty as it is. The slosh of the bottle is audible as she pauses dramatically.

   “So. Changed your mind on that drink?”

   “If you insist.” He growls, taking the bottle from her hand. He tips it back quickly, a short, shallow draught. He hands the bottle back, a grimace on his face.

   “I prefer Garlean wines.” He says through a restrained cough.

   “Oh, that so? Sorry to offend your delicate tastes, my lord.”

   “Stow it.”

[sootcloak]

Just a sleepy potat. That is all. Dismissed.

[sootcloak]

[Etiquette - Noun - The customary code of polite behavior in society or among members of a particular profession or group.]

[sootcloak]

Been seeing everyone doin’ stuff for whitherliliesbloom’s Butler AU. The incredible amount of effort and work everyone’s been putting in is a little out of my depth, but I was still pushed to grab some mods and do what little I have time for to take some screenshots for Vara fitting that aesthetic and theme. Anyhow - hc’s down in the cut.

Vavara Vara is not a student at St. Lucia, as she’s too old by a full score to attend such an academy. Rather, she’s on-campus staff. Specifically, she’s effectively a nurse. She acts as chirurgeon and attendant both for attending students who require specific aid or consistent care.

As a member of the staff, Vavara is afforded some level of leeway in her dress and behavior. She technically follows dress code and proper etiquette as is required of her, but she still manages to have a biting, bitter edge to her interactions with students who are not in her care. A visit to her office for any injury or ailment is dreaded for fear of the chiding waiting around the corner.

In contrast, for those students who require chronic care, or who’s frequent injury is the result of other student’s actions, she is the picture of devotion. Her demeanor is ever distant and chilled, certainly, but no student leaves her office unwell. For those who need a stoic, uncompromising steward, she is a welcome presence in their school life.

As she walks with a cane and a heavy limp, and given she was previously employed at a military academy, rumors of every color have spread in regards to her past. Some speculate she was injured in some far-flung campaign, while others think her a victim of collateral damage.  Despite the buzz, her fellow staff and the teachers have not commented on either her condition or history. The few times she’s approached about the gossip and rumors regarding her condition, she’s simply refused to acknowledge questions regarding her history at all.

Vavara seems to have little interest in, or even basic knowledge of, the high-pedigree families and students enrolled at St. Lucia’s. When someone attempts to bring her into the drama and gossip revolving around the big families, she becomes cold and near-unresponsive and only responds in curt, barely-polite disinterest.

[sootcloak]

[Craven - Adjective - Contemptibly lacking in courage; Cowardly. - Noun - A cowardly person without spirit.]

[sootcloak]

No Answers To Be Found [Yet]

[sootcloak]

Long-Forgotten Familiarity

January 2021 Prompt - Falling

Exactly 420 (NICE) words of dialogue and more establishing moments which should help me further place how Vavara and Gaius relate to one another. Short, quiet, and uneventful.

@seaswolchallenge

    “You’re certain?” The voice on the other end is cloaked in static. The wind whipping around her forces her to press the linkshell further into her ear with one finger.

    “Legatus, please. Have some confidence in me.” She breathes the words, a metallic whisper.

    “It’s hostile territory, if something goes wrong-” Gaius’ voice is calm and steady, but there’s an anxious edge to it.

    “I’ve failsafes in place. I’m not a greenhorn.” She interrupts.

    “I don’t like sending you alone, Lieutenant.” She hears him sigh over the linkshell, can picture him reaching up and pinching the bridge of his nose as he does.

    “But, the information on the final Weapon is too important. Get it, and return safely.” She nods to the pilot of the airship, and walks steadily to the edge of the deck.

    “As if there’s any other possible outcome.” She steps off, tumbling down into the dark. Wind whipping. Weightless. Her eyes flicker with light and life as she drops, the aether burning in her as she tunes her core to it’s roaring song.

--

    “As if there’s any other possible outcome.” The linkshell cuts. Just static and dead air. Gaius leans back, shoulders meeting cold, white stone. Why was he worried? A monster like her would be more than a match for any unfortunate soul who crossed her. She’d survived for years under the Empire’s nose before taking flight to Eorzea.

    He’d sent men and women on countless missions, each more uncertain than this one. And yet, a flighty, gnawing anxiety stings his stomach. His mind flies, unbidden, to seeing the footage of her role in Bozja. Roaring flames. An awful, ruthless revenant standing atop wreckage and death piled high. Those eyes, shining emerald like the light of the lifestream, ever visible through the smoke and shade.

    Then, that night by the fountain. The bottle of Lominsan rum. A confession of past deaths, of a strange undeath. There had been kinship there, in the ashes of past lives brought low. Someone who not only tolerated but understood him - that burning need to make it right, to take one’s fate back into their own hands. But none of it will come free, and thus far the price has never fallen on him.

    He shakes his head. It does not good to dwell on such thoughts. He pushes away from the wall and moves for the square. Best talk to the Ironworks rep there on the progress of their research. At least then, he’ll have something to occupy his nerve-wracked mind.

[sootcloak]

Here’s a Health to the Company

January Prompt 2021 - Tea

~1800 words of set dressing, friendly bickering, and light conversation. Good intentions and good fortune abound, for once. Features Lyse heavily, and Raubahn to a lesser extent. Spoilers for Stormblood’s post-patch cycle.

@seaswolchallenge

“It’s been ages. You have to swing by!” Lyse’s voice carries through the camp. She rests her hips on the map table, a Resistance officer behind her trying to work around the fine, lacey tassels of her dress. On hand is glued to her ear, the linkshell in it abuzz with occasional, painful bursts of static.

    “Kzzch - both busy. Besides, what would we do. Gossip about lovers?” Vavara’s voice, blending with the static and buzz, rings over the shell. It emerges from the interference like the shadow of a shark breaking the surface with it’s fin. The sarcasm is palpable despite the humming static.

    “Oh come on - there’s this tea I’ve been making that I was dying to share with you.” Her voice gets quieter as one of her officers shoots her a glare. She takes a deep sigh as she tries to listen through the buzz.

    “I haven’t had a drink like that in a long time - can’t taste it anymore. Thought you knew that?” It isn’t an accusatory question, just confused.

    “I do, I do - but trust me; This one’s worth having, especially for you.” Lyse says. 

    “I don’t know - my mark is-” There’s a dogged tone in her voice, tired and worn down.

    “You said it yourself a few days ago, he’s gone to ground, right?” She leans on the last word, stretching it a few moments longer.

    “Yes, he has. But that doesn’t mean I can traipse off to take a vacation.” Vavara’s voice reluctantly returns, slow and deliberate.

    “Just leave someone else to keep an eye out, and have them ring you if he moves. It isn’t hard, Vara. Just delegate some. You’re not the only one with keen eyes and sharp ears, you know.” She keeps her tone peppy while maintaining a low volume.

    “...” The other end isn’t totally silent, a quiet grumble barely cutting over the white noise. Lyse’d heard breezes with more bluster.

    “Oh, come on. You never take time for yourself!” She exclaims.

    “I read.” Vavara says halfheartedly.

    “What, instruction and repair manuals?” Lyse jests.

    “I… Well, it’s…” Vavara’s voice, stammering and stunned, betrays a kind of shock and surprise. 

    “Wait - no, seriously? Your response to being told you need to relax is to look at all the technical manuals you’ve sifted through? No, we’re taking some time. That’s final.” She says. She crosses her free arm across her chest.

    “Just you and I? Not in public?”

    “Ah, yeah my place. Raubahn might step in for a moment, but probably not long. That a problem?”

    “No, no. It’s fine. Send me the details, I’ll show.”

    “Wonderful!”

--

    Lyse’s nose wrinkles at the stench of the pot in front of her. She nods sullenly to herself, then closes the lid. Carrying it as one would an explosive, she brings it to a small table besides the hearth in her small, streetside home. The bustle of Ala Mhigo’s streets is audible outdoors.

    The dusty light streaking into the building from the windows casts an orange-red glow throughout the sandstone rooms. Rugs are cast across the sparse floor - overlapping in many places. Hanging over the hearth is an old turban and mask, a pair of heavy metal knuckles flanking the cloth and brass.

    The first knock on the door is soft and subtle. A soft tapping which could be confused for the building settling. 

    The second, which follows almost immediately afterwards, is a pair of heavy bangs akin to the buckling of shields and splintering of wood. She can hear the metal of her hinges strain.

    “Jeez - yeah, yeah! I heard you!” She sets the pot down alongside the cups and saucers. When she reaches the door and swings it wide, the grinning face of Raubahn looms overhead. In his shadow below by his knees is a scowling woman of deathly pale skin and hair the color of gravel and sand. She glances up over her shoulder at Raubahn. As her gaze flits back to Lyze, she speaks.

    “Ran into each other on the way. I asked him to be quiet, lest I draw unwanted attention. Ex-Imperials aren’t historically wanted here.” Her voice in person is always a little jarring. There’s a metallic bent to it, like she was still speaking through a linkshell. And it’s soft - quiet as a breeze but with none of the gentleness.

    “It’s been a long time. You look well.” She continues. One of Raubahn’s hands drops to her shoulder giving her a strong shake.

    “Nevermind that - you haven’t been in the city since we got it out of the Empire’s hands. Things have cooled off since then.” He glances up from her, “May we come in?” His voice is loud, but not {a word for obtrusive & rude}

    “Oh! Yes, sorry.” Lyse stands aside, and the duo quickly cross the threshold. Vavara moves to close the door. Raubahn reaches over and throws it shut. “Food’s almost done, go ahead and sit down.”

    As she darts back over to the kitchen, Vavara puts a few feet between herself and the General. She shoots him a side-eyed glare.

    “Did you have to make a scene?” She says, voice a quiet hiss.

    “Better than making others believe we’ve something to hide.” He moves to the table, pulling a chair out and taking his seat with a relieved groan.

    “Don’t we?”

    “Maybe in your eyes. But any doubt which could have been shed on you has long been proven false. At least in my eyes. Shouldn’t have to hide in the city in which you grew up.”

    “It is not that simple.” Vavara stalks over to the window, drawing the curtains closed.

    “I know. Forgive my bluster and noise, then. I had hoped it would reassure, not invoke anxiety.”

    “Forget it.” She steps lightly to her chair, hopping up onto it and slinging her spear and rifle onto it’s back in one fluid motion.

    Lyse emerges with a small basket of steaming bread, sliding it onto the table before pouring a cup in front of each seat. Her face beams. A smile like sunlight in the dim room.

    “How’s Tahve’ir?” Lyse says as she plops down into her seat. Vavara’s eyes snap to hers, a look of surprise on her face.

    “He’s working. He’s struggling to keep up, too much to do and too little time to properly rest. It takes a long time to adjust. I remember that.”

    “Good lad. Registered with the Flames, ‘fore I left. Never pegged him as the sort to run out of energy on the job, though.”

    “Yeah, last I saw him at the Stones he was practically buzzing with energy. Thought he’d be able to keep up.”

    “He did. Still is, despite his exhaustion. But he needs to sleep. I don’t. He’s learning the tricks to keeping himself standing, though.” She takes measure of the expressions of the other two, then continues, “Before you ask - he’s currently fine. An old colleague is watching after him, she’ll keep him safe and give him time to recuperate when necessary.”

    “Always best to have someone watch your back.” Raubahn nods.

    “Yeah, Papalymo was that for me - reminding me to take time for myself. Rest. Eat. Sleep. All that.” She speaks with a melancholic nostalgia, then perks up for a moment, “Oh, right! The tea. One of his old favorites. It tastes awful, but the texture was always really pleasant and I remember that you can still feel temperatures.” She takes the cup in front of her in one hand and sips quickly. Her face wrinkles and she grimaces.

    “Yeah, yeah that’s awful.” She confirms.

    “Can’t be that bad.” Raubahn’s eyes widen as he takes a hearty draught. He has to fight to not spit the dark tea out. After a forceful gulp he chokes out a question, “Seven hells, what is that?!”

    “Some old Sharlayan tea he used to keep his Aether refreshed.” Lyse explains. “Papalymo always brewed it when he woke up.”

    Vavara holds the cup in both hands. The clay is hot, a pleasant stinging in her right hand seeping through the leather of her gauntlets. Emerald eyes regard it for a moment, and then with a gentle, cautious motion she takes a drink.

    It’s thick, almost syrupy. The heat is stinging. Her senses of taste and scent are mostly ruined, but there’s a bitterness to it that even she can feel. But the warmth is pleasant. Glowing. She pauses, and then takes another small sip.

    “Thought it would suit you.” Lyse says, a hint of pride in her voice. “I found it in some of his old notes, and I knew I just had to try it. It was awful!” She sets her own cup back down in its saucer. Makes a tiny clink.

    “Then why-” Raubahn coughs into a handkerchief. “Why put us through that, if you already knew?!” He clears his throat, and reaches for one of the pieces of fresh-baked bread.

    “Like I said - it suits her.” She jerks a thumb at Vavara, “Papalymo actually liked the flavor, but mostly drank it because it helped stabilize his aether for spellcasting. Vara’s not going to be slinging spells like that around, but it’s still-”

��   “I like it.” She interrupts Lyse. Eyes on the slowly draining cup between her hands. The ghost of bitter roots lingers in her mouth. Her words are barely audible. There’s a profound emotion at the edge of her mind - something akin to longing. A memory given the faintest of forms.

    She can almost, almost, taste it.

    Lyse’s smile is like a sunbeam. She grabs her own cup in a firm grip and hoists it towards the rafters.

    “Then to your health!” She throws the cup back and downs the whole thing in one, awful, sloppy gulp. The hot tea dribbles down her neck, and as she comes away from the cup she smears at it with her free arm. “Ugggghhhh, I hate it!” She shivers with her whole body. Raubahn’s laughter feels like it shakes the stones beneath them. Both glance over to Vavara, who’s not broken her gaze on her own cup, as though unsure if it would be taken out from under her if she looked away. She takes small, long sips. Her eyes eventually, with painstaking slowness, close. An expression of uncertain contentment falls over her in settling shades.

    Lyse shoots a genuine smile over at Raubahn, and the two fill the room with chatter. White noise and pleasant conversation. An atmosphere of warmth. For her part, Vavara is satisfied to just sit there and soak in the small sensations - the phantom of warmth in the room, the ghost of bitterness in the drink, the way her aether hums and simmers rather than roaring aloud and boiling within her breast.

    In the way that for once, she feels both at ease and alive.

[sootcloak]

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