Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[The Kingpin]

"Forgot about that, actually," responded the Scholar off-handedly. He noticed that as soon as he said it, both Beshayir and Ceridwen turned to look at him. "No, not literally. I was preoccupied with preparing a meal for you. It is involved work, after all," he explained.

"What is it?" asked Beshayir, seemingly missing the Hueilin's excuse entirely.

"Finish your meal, dear. You can see it afterwards and not a moment before," he stated firmly, a disappointed frown being the Elf's reaction to that. Still, she did not argue, and began eating, perhaps a bit too quickly.

[C S]

"Don't fill up too quickly, dear. Remember the pie?" Syria was sure to remind the elf. Her day from start to finish must have been so exciting for her to get so hyper about all these things. By time she went to bed, she'd be out like a candlelight!

[The Kingpin]

Beshayir nodded as she ate a mouthful of potato and steak, indicating she'd heard the Mage. She was not, however, too bothered about slowing down, confident that what was on her plate wasn't enough to completely satisfy her hunger.

Ceridwen was no different, pecking at the numerous slabs of barbecued meat on her tray and gulping them down. The Scholar was glad they were enjoying it, but was slightly disappointed they weren't savouring the meal. It was better food than they were used to, after all.

As for the Son of Storms himself, he was taking his time, eating almost comically slow, plucking up a steak with his foremost fangs and letting it sit in his mouth for a while, enjoying every moment of the meal. He had done a laudable job at cooking the food, all things considered, and had learned that his flames really were useful for things that weren't burning armies to ash or clashing with monstrous beasts. Perhaps one day there would come a time when that was the only use he could find for his flames. Secretly, he hoped not.

[C S]

Syria, in contrast and yet completely to her norm, went spoonful by spoonful and took her time chewing everything before swallowing. Though she had warned Beshayir about being too full for desert, she feared she ran the risk herself, eating that little bit of pie earlier. It was just so bizarre a dish, she had to know how a pastry made from this strange, icy fruit could result in something people considered delicious. And she still didn't know, she only knew that it was, in fact, scrumptious.

[The Kingpin]

"It really does disappoint me," rumbled the drake to no one in particular.

"What does?" chirped Ceridwen between mouthfuls of beef.

"The only one actually appreciating this is Syria," he continued.

"That's not true. Look at Beshayir, she's in utter bliss!" twittered the dragoness, the elf in question unable to comment with the steak in her mouth. She's been taught not to speak with her mouth full, but unfortunately not to give herself a break between them to speak.

"Neither of you are taking your time to actually enjoy the flavour of this. You're gobbling your food like a pair of beasts!" exclaimed the Scholar in dismay.

"Septimus," chirped Ceridwen as she downed another steak, proceeding to peck at his flank. "I'm not sure you've noticed, but I'm not exactly a human. I couldn't eat slower if I tried," she explained, before once more digging into her food.

"I nearly died of hunger...once," said Beshayir, spurred by the dragoness to defend herself from the critique.

"Once, Beshi. Not now. And Ceridwen, you know perfectly well you could. I'm doing it," he growled before going for a second steak.

"But you're eating faster than me!" retorted the girl defensively.

[C S]

"Septimus has a mouth that is longer than myself, Beshayir. He's eating quite slowly and with impeccable table manners for something his size," said Syria, which slowed her already doldrum-esque pace further.

[The Kingpin]

"And unlike you, I am not at risk of overeating," added the Scholar.

"I'm a growing girl, I need the food," said the elf, echoing something Willow had once said.

"Balance in all things, dear. Even food," responded the Scholar flatly. "The things I bought aren't going anywhere. Now take your time and enjoy your meal," rumbled the dragon, the elf reluctantly doing as told.

Ceridwen however paid them no mind. She couldn't afford to adhere to the Scholar's strange habits. She was small, she was cold, and she was deprived of her food stores.

[C S]

"It really is wonderful work, Septimus," Syria was sure to say pleasantly now that the Scholar, though he was probably vying after the title 'Chef', was in a mood. "The meat falls apart splendidly, and the potatoes have been browned excellently and..." she continued on, listing off all manner of minute details that reflected on her old life as an innkeeper. "One day soon, you've got to let me work with you on something, though."

[The Kingpin]

"Gladly," responded the Scholar with a pleased smile. He wasn't averse to being helped in preparing the meals. After all, odds were, Syria had far more experience than he did. He was pleased that Beshayir had slowed down somewhat, mimicking Syria's dining habits in an attempt to please the disgruntled drake. Or at least, what she perceived to be a disgruntled drake.

[C S]

"Beshi, do you have any Thimeyran dishes that you're in the mood for? Seppy and I can always try our cooking synergy out making it for you," Syria suggested. At this point she made a deliberate effort to get more food down with each spoonful. If she was going to be holding conversation, she'd assuredly be the last one to be finished eating by a large margin if she didn't.

[The Kingpin]

"Murga," responded the girl without a moment's hesitation.

"...Murga?" asked the Scholar.

"Murga...It's like...meat stew...but thicker. And hot. It has spices in it that make it hot," she explained, struggling for the first time in a while as she tried to describe something that Eastern Aster didn't have any recognisable analogue for. "My mother used to Make it every two weeks, and she'd make a special one once a year during the Festival of the Bells," she elaborated.

"May I see?" asked the Scholar, intrigued by this dish. The girl nodded. And with that, the Scholar explored the elf's memories of the dish, lingering on them for a short while as he tried to identify what might have been in the 'stew'.

"Hmm...Seems like a challenge. You made this with her at times?" he asked, noting some memories of Beshayir in a kitchen made of dried mud-bricks, complete with an oven of sorts and a grill overhung by a slanted vent leading to the outside. It was quite...novel, compared to other kitchens he'd seen.

"A few times, yes. I think I might be able to remember the recipe...Can I help?" she asked, cutting up the last couple of chunks of her steak, quickly finishing what was on her plate.

"I can't see why not," responded the Scholar. Though in truth, he decided to make certain that they had all they needed before going through with it.

[C S]

"Sounds like a trip back to Thimeyra is in order sometime soon. Let's see... Daaven's having its celebrations coming up. How about we fly over there in a few days, after Beshayir's semester is finished, then head up to Thimeyra?" the mage replied as she neared the end of her meal, feeling more than a little full. That clenched it: no more pie for her. Maybe if there was still some left tomorrow...

[The Kingpin]

"I've never been to Thimeyra," commented the dragoness.

"You'll like it, I think. It's warm at this time of year. In the mornings, at least. It's a desert city," explained the Scholar, himself upping the pace of his eating, if only to avoid keeping everyone there longer than necessary. Ceridwen was already practically finished with her meal.

"As long as there's more food to be found there than here," chirped the dragoness flatly.

"There might be. Usually it's unbearably hot, and not many animals are around, but in winter...perhaps it'll be different," responded the Son of Storms as he bit into one of the two beef shoulders he'd cooked, lifting it up and crunching through it, before swallowing the meat entirely. With that, his meal was finished. "I'd say it's time we all got some rest, don't you agree?"

[C S]

Syria was on Septimus' heels in finishing her food and said when she downed the last of it, "The thing, Seppy. Show them the thing. I won't rest easy until I see the look on their faces, and they see it themselves, come to think of it."

[The Kingpin]

"Alright, alright," sighed the Scholar, lifting a wing as his satchel rustled, something rectangular rising from within. The elf and the dragoness both stared, somewhat confused by the object, until it landed in front of them in the snow, and twisted around.

A mirror.

The reactions were certainly worth the wait. Ceridwen, having never seen a mirror in her life before, craned her neck, then dipped in until her beak was a couple of inches away. The plumage around her head fluffed up until she looked like some odd mix of animal and flower, eyes wide as her head tilted left and right, trying to figure out just what she was looking at. "Is that...me?" she chirped.

"Yes, it is," responded the Scholar.

Beshayir's reaction was not as expected. Having not seen a mirror in two years, she walked up to it and set a hand on it, as if trying to touch her reflection. It was a mixture of joy and awe. Her face was not the round, child-like one she remembered, but one that had narrowed and lengthened somewhat, the slender features of an elvish woman growing more and more prominent the more she looked into it. It brought tears to her eyes that she struggled to contain.

"Beshayir, dear, what's wrong?" rumbled the drake as he caught sight of the tears, which ran down a face that stubbornly refused to surrender to emotion.

"I...I look like my mother," she said, her tone one of wonder, even as it wavered.

[C S]

A pang of muted sorrow gripped the mage's heart. It was a happy occasion, but it couldn't be avoided, given her convictions. There was something more than that here, though. Syria found herself relating, and was reminded of how her father put as much distance between the two of them because of it. "You'll always have something to remember her by every time you see yourself," Syria offered kindly. It's how she rationalized it on her end, if anything.

[The Kingpin]

The Apprentice nodded, sniffling as she reigned in her emotions and rubbing the tears from her eyes. She would not let her emotions best her. Not now. She looked at Syria and Septimus, doing her best to smile and shrug off the unexpected rush of emotion. She hugged the Mage, knowing Septimus couldn't quite return the gesture at the moment, though she wrapped her arms around his broad snout anyway. "Thank you. I love it," she said quietly.

"It was my pleasure, Beshayir," he responded warmly, his own smile meeting hers. The mirror floated back into the satchel. She would get plenty of opportunities to see herself in it later. For now, it was time they all got some rest.

[C S]

"Beshi, how about you and I help Ceri settle in with her sheets?" asked Syria as she rose, silently noting that the leftover pie would last just a little bit longer. Dessert for tomorrow then, and she'd make sure she'd have the appetite for it then. The plates and platters were called to her table, stacking up on one another enveloped by emerald so that Septimus would have an easier time dealing with them as he gathered the rest of his things and put the fire out.

[The Kingpin]

Beshayir nodded, making her way towards the blankets, which surprisingly, had grown rather warm. More surprisingly, the ice hadn't melted in the least, and was still dry. There wasn't even a hint of dampness on the blankets from the pedestal. Septimus's handiwork, no doubt.

The Scholar left the fire going until the last possible minute, until all the plates, platters, utensils and the spit were put away, until Ceridwen was bundled up in the stable wrapped in blankets, until Syria and Beshayir were ready to head inside. It was then that the Scholar extinguished the flame, and bid them both goodnight. When next they saw him, he would be freshly back from a hunt. And as they headed inside, Beshayir seeming more hesitant than usual, the Son of Storms settled in a spot to rest for the night. His side was pressed against the stable, his head nestled in a mound of snow that would make less resilient creatures tremble with the cold. To him, it may as well have been a natural pillow.


It was two hours before dawn that the Scholar awoke. A spectral avatar of himself materialised at the door of the stable, passing through the closed doorway as though it wasn't there.

The magical manifestation stopped at Ceridwen's stall, looking down at where the somewhat-too-large dragoness would've been curled up. Instead of feathers, he saw a mount of blankets that was vaguely shaped like a sleeping dragon. He almost couldn't tell where her head was, until a breath kicked up some hay from under one end of the blankets, blowing past his ephemeral feet.

"Ceridwen?" he said, amusement audible in an otherwise otherworldly voice. A grumbling growl was the response. "Ceridwen, dear. It's time we went hunting," he stated. Another grumble.

"Come on, nakhriin. Do you really want to spend another night all but starving?" questioned the Scholar. That got a response. A snort at first, then the snapping of a beak. Then a thrashing head that shook the blanket off her head, which was nearly followed by a potentially nasty bruise as Septimus kept her head from hitting the corner of the stable door with a kinetic cushion, stopping her head just short of it.

"I'm coming, I'm coming. It's like nobody thinks I should get any sleep. I'll be out in a minute," chirped the dragoness tiredly. Before she'd even finished speaking, the Scholar's avatar had vanished.




The two dragons had returned just as the city was starting to wake up. Vast wings cast vast shadows over houses, shops and official buildings alike. Snow,dirt and remnants of leaf litter were kicked up in the boarding house yard as the two fire-breathers landed, plumes of steam spilling from the Hueilins' maws as they touched down. Septimus was looking quite pleased with himself, and for good reason; he had found a herd of Ridgehorns to the South of the city, a mere hour's flying away. He had managed to hunt enough to satisfy his and Ceridwen's needs for a good while, the portion of the satchels dedicated to food filled practically to the brim with meat.

Ceridwen, understandably, was grinning widely. She had devoured over half a ridgehorn herself; something that had the Scholar wondering how she could still fly after it all. It was a good feeling, not feeling one's stomach gnawing at itself, its growls silent for a change. That much, they both agreed on.

[C S]

Meanwhile, back in their room, Syria and Beshayir were readying themselves up for the day. After rummaging through their travel case, the two of them had their change of clothes, heavier than usual for their task. Before class started, the duo would go out for breakfast, but it wouldn't be as simple a trip as heading down to the lobby and waiting at a table to be served, or finding a food stand nearby.

Syria threw herself up onto her made bed to work her feet into her boots, her tricorn set down next to her and her staff up against the wall beside the bed. "Now remember, Beshi, we're going to go at this nice and slow until you're comfortable with flying. Also, because the wind is a pain on the eyes once you get up to speed. We'll need to get you some kind of protection eventually, but basics for now."

When her boots were on and the laces were tied, Syria put her had on and secured the fasteners underneath his chin, then flipped the goggles down. She then hopped off of the bed and called her rose-tipped staff to her hand, grabbing hold of it and looking to Beshayir. "Onwards and upwards, as they say."