Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[C S]

"Enough of this." It was as close to bashful as the lady ever got. Maybe she didn't allow herself to be. "I would invite you all inside, but I don't think Ceridwen would enjoy cramming herself through the door. Oak's asleep, too, and it's always the most unlikely things that break his lead-sleep, I tell you. I could go make Beshayir here some hot chocolate and he would not care, but dare I clink a dish and--"

"I remember," Syria chuckled. "I think she would enjoy that. Not... Oak waking up... the... chocolate. I meant the hot chocolate."

[Hopeflower]

By the time Firel finished explaining how he'd met and come to be one of Viho's students, he'd relaxed marginally - or at least traded one kind of tension for another. "Did Viho let this happen to teach us all a - a lesson?" he wondered, half to himself. Even as he asked the question, Firel was starting to dismiss the possibility. Some of Viho's lessons - like the way they'd met - could be indirect and frustrating. They weren't random, though, always slotted in every few classes to test their progress. And they were never life-threatening. If there was one thing to respect about Viho, it was that he was more aware of his students' limits than they were, themselves.

'Highly unlikely,' confirmed Arsenic. 'A friend of mine ran into him here, a little while back.' And that had been just one of last night's unexpected discussions - though it had also been a demonstration that Andruil was getting better at hiding things from Arsenic, and he'd said as much. 'He said Viho's main interest was in protecting all of you. I think he probably knew you could be targeted, but after the class size started to grow, he couldn't be everywhere at once.'

"That...would explain a lot, actually," Firel realized. "When it was just Dahnae and I, Viho would accompany us for lunch and take the time to walk us back to where we were staying. I thought he was just interested in getting to know us."

Arsenic hummed, filing that piece of information away with everything else he was learning about Viho. 'I guess that's one thing that hasn't changed,' he said. 'Whatever he does, there's a reason for it. Not always a good one, mind.'

Firel made a low sound of agreement. "If he'd told us, maybe Dahnae wouldn't have...but then again, she probably would." He spread his hands helplessly. "She's reckless and inquisitive by nature." Or she was. One didn't just experience a brush with death and come away from it unchanged.

'I know the type all too well.' Unconsciously, Arsenic reached up to scratch at his throat scar.

Firel noticed the motion, his gaze lingering on the silvery mark. An old injury, probably why his fellow elf had yet to speak a word. The voice projection was interesting, but it had to take some energy to make his thoughts actually audible. It begged the question - what else could Arsenic do, if he could afford to expend magic like that?

"Have a story or two like that, yourself, do you?" asked Firel, a touch dryly.

Arsenic's lips quirked and he almost laughed. 'More than a few.'

The darker elf nodded and didn't press for details. Some stories weren't for sharing with strangers. And some were best forgotten, or as close as one could manage to it.

[C S]

The Lady of Light reckoned she could have been called the Lady of Hay by this point in her life. She carried a particularly large roll on her shoulder, humming a Vanguard folksong to herself.

Unlike her more glorified titles bestowed upon her by her people, this one stood to make her some enemies. The agriculturally skewed would not appreciate her continued use of their grass. If it wasn't the farmers on the outskirts of town, it would be the stable keepers deeper into the city who managed the work animals for those staying at inns and boarding houses. Evisa decided that even if that were the case, she would bear her straw-colored letter proudly.

She did much to earn her more personal distinction: scout leader Canton, elemental caregiver supreme -- also, occasional dispenser of justice.

And then there was the whole Lady of Light thing going for her, too.

Evisa stopped humming when she came across an unusual sight. Down the street, she saw Desrium. And he wasn't doing anything. He wasn't off towards some place to do some thing, at least, it did not look like he was. He was just... standing there. Like a statue. Which, she admitted to herself as she approached, wasn't so hard for someone who was essentially a suit of armor.

She stopped next to him, and he turned his helm to greet her. "Greetings."

"Top of the morning, as some of your more vocal fans of the color green like to say." Evisa looked to where Desrium's red eyes were directed before. "Getting your robe tailored?" He was standing in front of a milling shop, if the sign hanging from the awning was to be believed. Thread to Fabric.

In response to the question, Desrium's amulet glimmered softly. In the blink of an eye, the rouge mist that surrounded him fell around his metal body as weighted material.

"... Cool. No tailoring needed," Evisa corrected herself. She turned back to Desrium. "Why are you in front of a sewing place, then?"

"One of my advisors with a penchant for iconography suggested some time ago that Brodudika would need its own defined emblem. All who support its goal can subscribe to their own, but it would be a tool for cooperation if they all had a shared banner to rally under." The armored being paused to contemplate his wording. It was difficult sharing what he thought, without disrespecting certain current events. "It is needed," was what he settled upon.

"No big city-raising-of-hands to decide what that emblem will be?" Evisa asked.

"It is not just an image that will define Brodudika. It is an example. I have told scribes of Tzeentch, a hero of the Battle for Aster. Would you be interested in hearing about her?"

"Uh." Evisa glanced to the hay on her shoulder. "I've got... work."

"I understand. Your efforts are appreciated, as is your dedication."

"Always nice to be recognized," Evisa said, mocked a salute, and was on her way again, parting the materializing crowds with her hay bale march.




Tiny, very not human, hands rolled the table away from Dahnae's bed. The one responsible was not even tall enough to be seen over the other side, giving it to another assistant on the other side of the curtain. After a shuffle back to the bed, Gwenviere hopped up the bedframe, her small feet shimmying around the rim of wood to tend to the girl. She had a bunch of moist rags in her hands, which she dabbed on Dahnae's forehead, and then got to work fluffing the pillow that held her head up. She chittered something to herself, shook her pelt, and hopped back down.

The clinic did not have uniforms that could have fit her small frame. That was fine by her. As long as she had the grounds to lend her knowledge to helping others. When she started volunteering shortly into her time living in the city, she did not expect to have to treat a classmate. Solaurn was due to show up soon so that they could walk to school together, and Gwen would have to figure out how to tell her that she wasn't going.

Dahnae's other face did not sit right with her. When she transformed, it was a very instinctual fear that had Gwenviere making herself scarce in the classroom. That wasn't something that could be helped. What could be, was her kindness.

[The Kingpin]

"Yes, please," came a little voice between the trio, Beshayir speaking quietly for fear of interrupting their conversation.

"I still need to get that recipe off you, Willow. I'd bet I could make you into a very wealthy woman if you let me... popularise it for you," offered the Scholar with a smirk.

Ceridwen tilted her head, looking at Septimus curiously. What was this recipe thing he spoke of? And why was it so valuable?

[C S]

"I will bequeath it to Syria before my time on the world is through," was Willow's stubborn remark to that. "If she has a use for wealth, it is hers to profit from."

"Grandma." Syria gave the old woman a look that barely conveyed annoyance. It was comical, Syria trying to throw her minuscule weight around. "Didn't we just establish that you won't be going any time soon?"

"Hush now," Willow laughed as she let go of Beshayir and slowly began to rise. "It just means you need to wait a long time before you can make cocoa yourself. Now don't go anywhere."

"We had no plans to. Err, Ceridwen might get impatient, though."

Willow, on her way through the door, responded, "Then let the spritely dragon-lass enjoy herself! I don't want anyone waiting around for my sake!"

As before, she did not wait for an answer, and was off to complete her mission of making her grandchild happy. Syria sighed. Few things in this world remained constant. One of those things was the constitution of a woman named Willow. "What do you say, Ceri? Want to take a fly around? Maybe go see the thunderbird?" Syria asked.

[The Kingpin]

"I... Erm..."

Ceridwen was taken by surprise by the suggestion, completely at a loss for words. "S-something as old and important as the Thunderbird wouldn't want someone like me to disturb it, certainly," she stammered. "I'd imagine it would want its peace," she added, her voice not quite as shaky now that she had a couple of moments to think it through and convince herself.

"So did the Life Bringer of the desert, and yet she asked that I speak to her on occasion. She accepted an offer of friendship. As it turns out, being an Elemental living in solitude for millennia can be a lonely experience. Go on. We'll be here for a while yet," stated Septimus. Not too long a while though, he added silently, the thought his and his alone.

[C S]

"Remember, we're kin," Syria chimed in with a smile, then took to hugging Beshayir while Willow was busy. Might as well make the most of it, while she still could.

[The Kingpin]

The dragoness blinked at that, not quite knowing what to say. Initially, at least. "But... The Thunderbird doesn't even speak," she chirped softly, feeling a bit overwhelmed. Beshayir, meanwhile, rested her head on Syria's shoulder.

"Not with words, true. But it does speak. Its language is the language of the soul. You've felt it yourself. Your conversation will be more heartfelt, because it will be a more literal heart to heart one; your soul and the Thunderbird's. It doesn't mean it's any less welcome," explained Septimus with an encouraging smile.

[C S]

"See if you can't convince it to do something nice for the celebrations," Syria suggested. Daaven didn't have a shortage of snow on the sides of the streets, piled up into banks that small children flocked to. Maybe this would be the year of something a little more... unique?

[The Kingpin]

"Would... Would it even care to do something like that? The last time I convinced it to help it was because the city had a flower infestation," she chirped, earning an almost uncharacteristic snort from the highly amused Scholar almost immediately. "But...to do something just for your amusement? I don't think it would take kindly to the idea," she continued a moment later.

[C S]

Syria shrugged the one shoulder that Beshayir wasn't resting on. "I can't say," she stated nonchalantly. She carried its likeness with her wherever she went, but that did not make her an authority on the fabled elemental. Not by a longshot. "That said, I do know that it's a helpful thing. It was with Septimus when he undid the damage to Tyrbenetus. It was with me when..."

More memories of Yuraelia, and then came those of the camp outside of Brackenvald. Syria intercepted them and thought back to more pleasant things. Flowers. Not the flowers that overtook her hometown. The nice flowers that Septimus had overrunning her hair, the one he had created specifically to last. She sighed. "It can't hurt to give it a visit. It's a friend of the world."


She was glad Willow and Oak lived on a quiet stretch of road. Had anyone passed by their conversation, they would have thought the bunch of them mad. The presence of a dragon, by principle, did not help.

[The Kingpin]

"I suppose I can try," relented the avian dragoness, her feathers flattening somewhat. It just seemed like a strange thing, expecting this ancient being to use its incredible power to... entertain a bunch of hairless monkeys in a little colony with walls made of sharpened logs.

"That's your Hueilin pride playing with your perspective, again. Sometimes it's useful to try and detach from that. It can help you understand other points of view much more easily," was the Scholar's psychic response. It earned a slightly startled look from the dragoness, realising he was listening in. For how long, though?

"You can do it, Ceri," said Beshayir with an encouraging smile.

[C S]

A short while later, Willow reappeared with a tray. Three mugs of hot chocolate awaited Septimus, Syria and Beshayir. For Ceridwen, the old woman prepared a dish, which she laid down at the base of the porch like she would lay out food and water for stray cats. Dragons would keep them away from the cottage for some time.

"You all enjoy, now!" Willow told them with a wide smile on her face. "I pulled this off without waking up the professor!"

Syria exchanged a look with Septimus after taking her steaming cup. "Time to explain our situation." She gave the Scholar her staff to stow away in his satchel, then started getting up. "I need to speak with you personally, grandma. If that's alright with you."

Willow gave Syria a searching look even as she took her by the empty hand and started taking her into the house. "Oh, by all means. I hardly see you around, I'm not going to deny you this."

Hardly see you around. Syria cringed inwardly, already feeling the sting of what she had to talk about.

Quietly, the two made their way through the house and up the stairs to Willow's storage room. It was still chock full of dresses and outfits, but they were meant for a different season. Willow's work was still in demand, even so late into her life. Winter's stock was sold, and spring and summer was in the works. It was impressive, and Syria was thankful that Willow wasn't idle. A restless Willow was a matter of concern.

The mage was sat upon a crate. She slouched, elbows planted on her thighs.

"Mind your posture, dear," Willow said.

"I'm sorry, grandma. Septimus and I can't stay long," Syria blurted out, just wanting to skip to the point so that she could smooth things over after the fact.

"Pardon?" asked the understandably confused weaver.

"We... have a friend. He's an unusual friend, and he is in unusual trouble--"

"The metal man?"

Syria looked up and blinked at Willow a couple of times. "How...?"

"If it were a normal person, you would have just said 'strange' or weird. Unusual is a metal man staying at your inn." Willow put her hands on her hips and grunted.

Syria cocked her head. "Sharp as a carving knife." She sat up, as Willow's expression was turning stern in that oh so motherly way, and said, "We have to help. It's a little of a long story. I can't explain everything. I don't have the time to explain everything. I need to ask you if Beshayir can stay here for a week, at most."

"You know the answer to that already, I hope."

"I do. It's just polite to ask anyway."

Willow grunted again. "Oak and I have raised you so well; you're my life's finest work, you know that?"

"I wouldn't say that. You've made splendid dresses... the one I wore to a celebration in Thimeyra was complimented so many times..."

"Shush," Willow instructed, then stepped up to Syria to run her hands through her hair as she would Beshayir's. Like Beshayir, Syria rested herself against Willow. "You seem so much older, now."

"As if I were young before. You thought I could handle myself. You let me manage an inn. An inn with a bar." Syria draped an arm around Willow's shoulders.

"I mean, you being a mother to the elf-lass. You've stepped up to the role spectacularly."

"You and Oak raised me well," Syria echoed.

"Hush."

Syria obliged, for a short while. "Grandma... what I'm doing is going to be pretty dangerous."

"More dangerous than managing a bar? Or heading out of the city in search of books?"

"A lot more than that," Syria said. She tightened her hold around Willow. "I don't want you to be worried. I just... want to be honest. If something happens, know that it was something that I needed to do, no matter the risks. Septimus too."

Willow, to her credit, remained even-toned when she asked, "What am I supposed to make of this all, in short notice? Are you testing my heart for real?"

Syria threw her other arm around Willow. "I wish I could explain everything, but I can't hope to answer all of your questions in any timely manner. I need you to trust me that Septimus and I are making a calculated decision here. We've discussed everything. We are even in league with his father."

"You have the in-laws involved? Oh, Syria, I can only ponder the mess you've gotten yourself into."

Syria smiled despite the pit she felt in her gut. "Tell Oak that I love him. I love you too, grandma."

"Child, I already know that."

"I just want you to hear it, grandma."

[The Kingpin]

Beshayir sipped from her mug in silence, knowing all too well what was likely being said indoors. Perhaps it was being in the streets of Thimeyra for a few months too many, but she was tense. Braced for something. Rejection? Anger? Howling protests? No. That wasn't Willow's way. She had not been here long enough to see what Willow's way was, exactly. But she had seen enough to know that it wasn't how she held herself. Her protests would be quieter, sharper, more commanding. But she was such a sweet old lady. It was hard, even despite her previous experiences back home, to imagine someone with Willow's demeanour ever being angry.

She looked up at Septimus, reaching for him. He obliged, an arm wrapping around the girl firmly. It was a gesture of care that only a handful had ever received from the Son of Storms. Despite Syria's description of him as kind, he was not in the habit of consoling others, at least not like this. He was a creature of words, more than gestures.

Ceridwen could be heard grumbling about how she had been given her 'chocolate milk' like some common household pet, but despite it all, she enjoyed it. Her tongue flicked past her lips as she tasted the drink, once, twice, three times, her eyes shifting back and forth as if she was trying to decide what she thought about it.

Also despite it all, Septimus did not respond to her gripes. He was too distracted listening in on Syria's conversation. It was perhaps a bit rude of him to do so, but it was a comfort he wanted to be able to give, should things not turn out as they had hoped. In this, more than anything else, he knew Syria needed support. She had chosen this path, and chosen to see it through, but he did not intend to see her strongest support, the most reliable people in her life, be the thing that shattered her resolve. At least, not without him at her side, if in mind rather than in body.

[C S]

"I don't suppose it's worth asking about what to do if you don't come back. Continue raising Beshayir until she's ready to leave on her own, provide for her and love her--"

"All the things you've done for me," Syria interjected. "She's enthused with magic. She'll want to learn more. She'll always want to learn more. Practice, too. She'll be testing herself, and improving her craft."

Willow sighed, as if to say of course. "Things will get pretty weird around here, then." She did not say it in any disparaging way. It was more along the lines of so this is what I have to be ready for.

"She might be... distant... for a while if Septimus or I should..."

Willow nodded silently. She didn't need to be reminded. Sad as it was, she had experience with that already. A little more than a decade ago, a younger Willow nursed Syria's wounded soul back to health when it was clear her father was not coming down from the mountains. It wasn't something that needed to be said out loud. "I'll pour the last of my life into that girl, Syria. Oak too."

Syria shook. Not with the prospect of death, but the staggering devotion. This couple that had already done so much for her throughout her life, pledging to carry on where she left off without hesitation, or negotiation of repayment. The mage was well versed in their character, but even knowing that, she was still brought to quiet tears. "Thank you." Syria sniffled. "Grandma... there's something else you should know."

"You and Septimus really are that involved. I know. I saw it in your eyes when you looked at him. I was young too, Syria. Magic is weird, but the strength of attraction is--"

The redhead coughed before Willow could go into more detail, stopping her from inevitably saying something she would regret. She took a moment to accept that there were few secrets in life that she would be allowed to keep. After squaring that away, Syria said, "It's not the first time I've put myself in life-threatening danger."

Willow went rigid. "Syria Letant."

"I know, I know. And I had Beshayir with me because I didn't know how bad things were ahead of time, not like now."

"Syria, Sylias-pride, Letant."

"I've gone through a... well... hopefully formerly haunted lost city... city's still lost... and a camp of dragon tamers."

"Syria, Kirsten-born, Letant."

Syria shuddered. Her mother's name? "I've already learned from those mistakes, grandma. That's why I'm here. And it's why I think... I dare to think... that Septimus and I will be fine. It's never a pretty thing, and we don't ask for this in our lives but we protect each other. I think of things that slip his dragon-mind, and he thinks of things that slip mine, and we--"

Willow sighed. Listening to Syria speak had her feeling her age, and she was a tired old lady. "I presume you've had this talk with the metal man, yes?"

"I did have a form of it with Desrium, yes."

"And he couldn't stop you? So what hope do I have?" Willow scoffed. "You are your father's child. I can almost feel your mother shaking me by the shoulders, as she did when she was desperately worried. It is no coincidence that it was Sylias himself who got her that way."

"I'm sorry."

"It is a mark of compassion to be concerned with the emotions and opinions of others, but child," Willow stepped back from Syria, hands on her shoulders, "don't ever be sorry about the things you refuse to negotiate on. Mountains last ages. Glaciers melt and leave boulders and hills behind."

A common Daavenian phrase. One that Syria felt had an unfortunate meaning in this context. She was being commended for being a mountain. What did that mean for Morrelie?

"Come. Let's get you on the way before the others start to worry."

"Mm," Syria hummed, letting herself be lifted to her feet by Willow. Willow took her hand and started to lead her out of the room, and Syria did not resist, letting her mind caress Septimus' projection of his. "Thank you."

[The Kingpin]

"My pleasure," was the response the mage got, a comforting warmth accompanying the thought; as close to an embrace as he could manage without physically doing so.

Beshayir held her mug with one hand, the other idly tracing circles and swirls in the air, her mind busied with thoughts of the spells she had been taught. It wasn't the best way to distract herself from what troubled her, but it was something. The silence shared between her, Septimus and Ceridwen was a comfortable one despite how it lingered. It was peaceful, something she savoured, simply enjoying the company of those around her. She knew that she didn't have much longer. The Scholar and the Mage could end up disappearing in a matter of minutes. Or they could choose to linger, to see her settled in with Willow and Oak. She doubted it, though. She was disappointed, but she understood. Just as Septimus had protected her that day in the streets of Thimeyra, when that shop exploded, just as he and Syria had saved the trapped souls of Yuraelia, and just as they had rescued Ceridwen, it was now time for them to save another; the one Septimus called brother. She had been welcomed into a family of great and powerful beings, but she was not the only one in that family. Others needed help just as she once did. And she would wait, patiently and understandingly, until the time came again for them to be together.

It was a train of thought that earned the young pyromancer Septimus's respect. More so than her will to survive, she had a maturity and understanding beyond her years. At an age where many girls busied their minds with concerns of crushes and romance and delicate, courtly lives they wished they lived, Beshayir could not have cared less for the same. It was a matter that he was proud of her for, but also one that made him worry. Such a point of view could end up ageing her beyond her years. Such a mindset would end up wearing her down. He would have to see to it there was more joy in her life with them after this was over. Less worrying about the world and more embracing her own youth while she had it.

[C S]

The two ladies stepped through the cottage door. Syria went on ahead down the steps to retrieve Ceridwen's emptied dish and then placed it on Willow's tray. She took her mug of cocoa, which had cooled enough to be warm chocolate instead of hot, and started to drink. Something soothing to settle her nervous stomach. Willow sat down where Syria had been sitting earlier, on the other side of Beshayir.

"A week might seem like a long time, but don't worry. The days will go by quickly, and who knows, they could be back before all seven are through. You'll be off with Septimus again before you know it, and you might find yourself missing Daaven for more than just my hot chocolate," said the old woman.

"Take her through the festival," said Syria after she lowered her cup from her lips. "We had intended to stay for the celebrations but... like you said, we might be back sooner than the span of the whole week. After that, Thimeyra, right Beshi?"

[The Kingpin]

Beshayir nodded, somewhat stiffly, a little smile on her face. She trusted them to be careful, and to be back soon. But that didn't change the fact that the last time two loved ones left her, they never returned.

"We'll find something to keep us busy for a week, won't we Beshi?" chirped the dragoness, her head fluffing up comically with almost exaggerated glee. That earned a wider smile from the girl.

"We'll see to it it's over quickly. Who knows? If we hurry, we might even be back in time for the celebrations after all," stated the Scholar cheerfully as he downed the last of his hot chocolate. "Thank you, Willow, for the drink. It's delicious as always," he added. "See if you can find out the recipe, hm Beshayir?" he asked psychically, his tone only half-joking.

That seemed to dissipate the last of her discomfort, her smile broad and genuine now. She gave the tiniest of nods before getting to her feet and hugging the Scholar and Mage both. "Be safe, okay? Deeru Balkum," she pleaded.

The Thimeyran term for 'be wary' a surprising addition for the Scholar. Though he assumed it was only natural she'd revert to her mother tongue in a time like this. He nodded as he returned the gesture. "We will."

[C S]

"Tui aldini," Syria replied. She did not know what Beshayir said, but her inflection and tone were enough to convey the gist of her sentiment. Likewise, what she said in old Daavenian was a similar gesture. "Be well", it meant. Syria finished her drink with a gulp, then looked over to Septimus. "Let's get her things inside, shall we?"

"Nonsense. I will carry her pack to her room," Willow insisted.

Syria almost fell into the trap of arguing the matter. She made an uncertain sound, then relented. "Alright. Septimus?"

[The Kingpin]

"I'll not have you hurting yourself with ridiculous weights, Willow," stated the Scholar firmly, as his satchel opened, the opening stretching enormously to let free a substantial chest. In it were Beshayir's clothes, a collection of books, her drawing supplies, and her wand. Strapped to the top of the chest was Syria's old staff. With deceptive ease, the chest floated through the doorway, disappearing somewhere inside. "Where do you want me to leave it?" he inquired.