Current
It low key still amazes me sometimes that I met my fiancé on this site lol. Dreams do come true xD.
9
likes
4 mos ago
The love she gives is unlike anything my heart ever believed this world could offer. The love she is owed is my purpose, and it is my honor to fulfill such an oath. My heart is yours forever.
3
likes
8 mos ago
It's time
11 mos ago
I'm halfway between "I'm overwhelmed with the 3 RP's I'm doing" and "Everyday I browse the site for more, because I HUNGER!!!!!"
Gears was on her third round of polishing the same damn glass. Not because it needed it...it didn’t. But because her hands needed something to do. The movement kept her hands busy and her thoughts from drifting too far down memory lanes she didn’t care to revisit. She didn’t like giving ‘em the chance.
So she scrubbed at a nonexistent smudge, eyes drifting absently toward the front of the bar...until the distinct clink of coin on wood snapped her right back to the present.
She looked up just in time to see Wendel...who, bless him, looked like someone had just handed him a golden ticket and a nap...sliding two gold coins her way like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She blinked. Once. Then twice.
“Well now,” she murmured, lifting the coins between two fingers like they might flutter away. “Either this is the best mead you’ve ever had, sweetheart… or I’m gettin’ tipped for my radiant personality.”
She gave him a soft smile. Not her usual teasing one...no, this was warmer. Real.
“You ever figure out which it is, you let me know. I’ll keep the good stuff pourin’ just the same.”
She tucked the coins away without another word. If the man needed to feel generous today, she wasn’t about to get in the way of that little bit of peace. She then turned her attention back to her lovely, if not a bit odd, coworkers.
Vallena was already launching into food requests, talking about the honey and fruit in the cargo hold like she hadn’t been expressly banned from it.
Gears arched a metal browplate.
“Honey and fruit, huh? I betchya’ I can cook something up for you darlin.”
She looked at Scratch with a wink as he placed his own order...egg sandwich, simple and to the point. Then came the follow-up, casual but not really:
“Don’t suppose I could convince you to put everyone’s bill on the Captain’s tab?”
“Now see, this is why we can’t have nice things.” She handed him the drink. “I could technically do that, sure. But I like my job. I like my pantry. I like my life.”
She leaned in just a bit, lowering her voice.
“And explainin’ to Jovik why I charged half the liquor shelf to his name on account of ‘a little joke’ just doesn’t feel like the hill I want to die on today.”
Then came that grin from Scratch. That little crooked thing he did when he was about to be a problem on purpose.
And sure enough...right on cue...he threw out a line about her “curvature.”
Her head turned slow, almost theatrically, and her optics narrowed at him.
She rested both hands on the counter, leaned in slightly, and with a smirk just shy of dangerous, she spoke.
“You tryin’ to sweet talk me into gettin’ your sandwich for free, darlin’? ’Cause if so, you better come with a little more heat than that. I’ve had steam valves flirt better.”
Then she glanced at Bobi, the stranger than the average gnome, and added:
“And you, sugar, don’t let him scare you off. He’s just grumpy ‘cause I won’t let him peek at the goods beneath all this armor plating.”
Val was still hanging halfway over the counter when she changed the subject, in the smallest, most sincere little voice.
“You said something about… emotional discomfort? Is something wrong?”
And for a beat...just a beat...Gears’ hands went still again.
Scratch echoed the sentiment, and for a moment, something passed over her face. Not sadness, exactly. Just... tiredness, worn gentle by time.
She leaned forward, elbows resting gently on the wood, and looked at Val...not over her, not through her, but right at her.
“Ain’t nothin’ for you to fret over, sweetheart,” she said, voice soft like worn cotton. “Just one of those mornings where the past feels a little closer than it oughta. Y’know?”
She tapped her chestplate once, lightly.
“But I’m alright. Takes more than a few old ghosts to gum up my gears.”
She smiled at both of them then, wide and bright.
“If you keep fussin’ over me like that, I’ll start mistin’ up my optics and y’all ain’t gonna have nobody to make your food. And I know how cranky Scratch can get when he’s hungry.”
Time: Evening Location: Damien Estate / Banquet Hall Mentions / Interactions: @princess Lottie, @Tae Kalliope, @JJ Doe Hala
Milo remained pinned, spine against stone, utterly calm in a way that only made the fire behind Cassius’s eyes burn hotter.
“How do you know that name?” Cassius growled low, his voice just above a whisper, but sharp enough to cut through most men’s defenses. “And don’t play stupid again. I’ve killed men for less than dropping those words.”
Milo’s smile didn’t falter. He tilted his head slightly, his hazel eyes gleaming with interest rather than fear.
“I have my ways, bastard. But don’t worry, I can tell you’re not defined by it,” he said softly. “But gods, it does make for a fascinating footnote in your life, doesn’t it?”
Cassius stepped in closer, their faces inches apart now, his hand still gripping Milo’s collar tight enough to wrinkle the fine fabric.
“You think this is a fucking joke?”
“No,” Milo said, smile softening...not disappearing, just shifting into something more honest. “I think it’s a tragedy. And like all the best ones, you’ve rewritten the ending so many times you’ve forgotten which version is true.”
The muscles tightened in Cassius’s jaw. His breath was uneven. He wanted to throw a punch just to end the conversation...but something in him held back.
Then, a presence entered the edge of their periphery. Hala.
They approached with an unmistakable air of deliberate elegance, attention fixed squarely on Milo. But neither man moved. Neither man spoke. For a moment, it was like Hala wasn’t even there.
Her voice, soft and careful, sliced through the tension.
Cassius’s gaze twitched, just slightly, toward the sound of Kalliope’s voice.
Her fingers touched his arm...gentle, but brave. The kind of touch you gave a cornered wolf, trusting it wouldn’t bite. Cassius didn’t look at her right away. Not fully, but he did lean into Kalliope’s touch ever so slightly. It was a comfort in an otherwise completely tense moment.
He leaned into Milo just slightly more as well, voice dropping into that low, dangerous whisper, half threat, half promise.
“You’re lucky we’re drawing a crowd.” His lips barely moved. “Guess we’ll just have to continue this later.”
Milo’s smile widened ever so slightly, like he’d just been handed a gift. He looked over to Kalliope with a quick wink, and then turned back to Cassius with the full expression of the man who had come to be known as “Mr. Sunshine”.
“Oh, how I look forward to our next… little... chat.”
Cassius released him with a shove that was just rough enough to send his back against the pillar with a thud, but not enough to escalate or draw additional eyes their way. He turned, shoulders still tight with the remnants of fury, and moved with Kalliope like a storm rerouted. His eyes shifted to Charlotte once more as he walked, even in this moment where the air could be cut with a knife, his gaze craved hers.
As they moved further away, Cassius finally addressed her Kali's gesture, her words, and even more importantly that look. Before he spoke, he forced himself to take a long, deep breath.
"I'd be halfway to the dungeon by now if you hadn't of stepped in..." His words carried a hint of forced sarcasm, but there wasn't a single thing about them untrue. "I would have gutted that fucker, right there, in front of everyone.". Running a hand through his hair, Cas took another deep breath before meeting Kalliope's gaze fully. "So thank you, Kali...I owe you one."
Milo took a moment to breathe in the stillness that followed. He smoothed out his coat with one slow sweep of his palm, adjusted the hem of his sleeve, and flicked a speck of dust from his lapel. Then he reached up, carefully straightening his tie. Only then did he finally turn toward the other presence beside him.
His smile remained, easy and curious as he answered Hala's question.
“Hmm…Am I an artist who creates with my own hands,” Milo repeated softly, “or…do I direct others to make my vision a reality?”
He regarded Hala with a slow blink, as if nothing had happened at all.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t joyful. It was cold. Brittle. The kind of sound that didn’t belong in a place so quiet. The kind of laugh you might hear from someone standing on the edge of a rooftop, staring down into something they couldn’t climb out of.
“Of course,” she said quietly between fading chuckles, voice trembling at the edges. “Of course.”
Her gaze didn’t meet his. Not yet. She just stood there for a moment, breathing in silence. Her shoulders didn’t shake, but her hand rose...slowly, subtly...to wipe at the corner of her eye. And when she turned to look at him again…
There were tears. Not many. Just a few. Just enough to matter. Her eyes shimmered with unshed grief, glassy and golden in the dim light of the corridor. She turned toward the nearby wall...plain steel and wood, curved slightly with the hull...and lifted a hand.
Her index finger glowed faintly as she whispered something low and melodic. Arcane syllables, elegant and old. She pressed that glowing finger to the surface and began to trace, slowly, carefully, until a tall, thin rectangle formed...six feet high, etched like a door in gold light. The moment the shape was complete, the lines flared...and a glowing portal opened soundlessly, casting warm illumination across the corridor.
The air changed. Magic...real magic...swirled around her in delicate threads.
She turned back toward Ezekiel.
Her hood fell back as she did, revealing the full measure of her beauty. And it was beauty in the way a tragic statue was beautiful...flawless, cold, and carved to hold sorrow forever. Another tear streaked down her cheek, catching the gold light of the portal like a falling star.
And then, with all the gravity of a prayer, she spoke.
“Please…” Her voice cracked, just once.
“Don’t let them die.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t reach for him. Just stood there between the glowing door and the only man on the ship who might save lives… or walk away.
And in that moment, in all of perfected stoicism, all she was…was just a girl, breaking.
Bastion was still watching the glass of water when Meiyu spoke again.
“You may be the most terrifyingly sweet thing I’ve seen all week.”
His head tilted slowly toward her, taking in her smile, her tone, the way her words curled around themselves like a ribbon. It wasn’t the first time he had been called terrifying. It might’ve been the first time he’d been called sweet. He considered this.
“I do not intend to be terrifying,” he said after a moment. “But... I am glad if the result was positive.”
He watched as Meiyu turned her attention to the tankard offered by Wendel. Bastion observed her drink...unbothered, graceful, confident. He liked that she seemed to say exactly what she meant. He appreciated that kind of directness.
He also appreciated Wendel’s warmth. The way he smiled. The way his eyes softened around the edges like old paper that had weathered over time but still held ink.
Bastion thought for a moment, pondering how some could be so humane to his kind while others were so obviously disgusted by his presence. But before he could even complete the thought, Meiyu spoke again…this time to Talis.
“You’ve got the look of a smuggler. Or a sorcerer. Or maybe just a scholar with questionable life choices… So, little sparrow… what’s in the bag?”
Talis stopped breathing.
Not literally, but close enough that even Bastion picked up on the severity of distress the question caused the dehydrated woman.
She tried to laugh; “Tried” being the imperative word.
“Oh! Haha. What, this?” she said, holding her satchel like it might bite if provoked. “Nothing! Just… books. A snack. Some other boring stuff. Haha.”
She was doing the fast-talking thing again. Bastion had noticed it earlier. Her words sped up when she was anxious. Her eyes darted. Her hands never stopped moving.
“Wendel, want to place a wager? I say it’s cursed. Or alive. Or cursed and alive.”
Talis's almost choked on air as she breathed in deep, her laugh cracking mid-chuckle in the most unnatural way.
“No need for wagers! Definitely not cursed or alive or... anything like that. Haha. Ha. Just a normal bag.”
Her stool scraped back with a sound that made several people glance over. She stood stiffly, the satchel now gripped with both arms like it might fly away.
“I...uh. I need to go. Gotta…uh… relieve myself. Biologically. In a place. That is not here.”
There was a brief pause as she looked around the bar with her best attempt at a normal smile.
“I’ll be back! Probably.”
And then she was off…Half-speedwalking, half-fleeing. Bastion’s gaze lingered on the hallway she vanished into, then he turned back to the group and very softly, to no one in particular, he spoke.
“She forgot her water.”
He reached out and slid her untouched glass closer, just in case. And then he stood beside the stool, unmoving, watching the door…Waiting.
He shouldn’t have looked at her. He knew better, from the moment he sat down. But of course, he just wasn’t able to stop himself. And when her eyes finally found him, soft and tentative, not unlike the way they were the night before, for a heartbeat of a second all was right in the world.
“Good evening, Cassius,” she had said—just for him. No one else heard it, but he felt it in his damn bones. The sound of it was quiet, almost apologetic. Like it knew something he didn’t.
And then he saw it—that flicker of recognition behind her eyes. The truth settling there like dust on silk. Her posture straightened, but her cheeks gave her away. The soft breath that slipped between her lips, the tension in her shoulders—that was the look of someone preparing to let something beautiful die.
It was the same look he’d seen in soldiers who knew the retreat had already begun.
The moment hit him like a gut punch. And for once, Cassius didn’t know what to do with himself.
He didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink. He just watched as she turned away, slow and composed, holding a ribbon-wrapped box like it could anchor her to the floor. And still, the moment felt like it was slipping through his fingers. A page turning in the middle of the story. No explanation. No warning.
And still—still—his mind tried to make excuses for her. For him. For all of it.
Everything in him went quiet.
Cassius stared down at his hands, flexing them once, slow. As if remembering they were capable of holding something. As if remembering what he wanted to hold.
Then...he stood.
Not out of decision, but out of instinct. His body moved without asking for permission. One foot in front of the other, carried by something heavier than pride, stronger than caution. There was no plan. No clever smirk. Just desperation, plain and unspoken, radiating from his eyes like a heat that refused to be cooled.
He had to say something. Anything. He had to talk to her. He had to—
“Forgive me,” came a voice. Smooth. Curious. Unwelcome.
Cassius blinked—and someone was standing in front of him.
Tall. Blonde. Perfectly dressed and smelling faintly of decadence. There was an artistry to the man that didn’t belong in this world. He looked out of place by design.
“You walk,” the stranger said, tilting his head, “like a man who’s about to chase something that can’t be caught.”
Cassius didn’t respond.
He shifted to move around him—but the man shifted with him. Effortless. Like he was part of the current, not just blocking it.
“Don’t let me stop you,” the stranger said with a warm smile. “I just had to say… you are fascinating.”
“Not the time.”
“I know.” The stranger’s eyes swept across his face. Studying him. “It’s just that I see… scars. Not just on your face, but deeper. Older. Scars of survival. Of guilt. The kind of weight that reshapes a man whether he likes it or not.”
Cassius froze for a beat. Then, with a tone full of tension, he said, “You always psychoanalyze strangers, or am I just a special boy for this fuckin’ sweet talk?”
“Oh, you’re special, alright,” the man said, almost dreamily. “The silver streaks. The stare. The way you wear your pain like it belongs on you. Not everybody can see it… But I can.”
Cassius’s jaw clenched silently for a moment. He wanted to walk past. Gods, he needed to. But this man wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t shut up. His eyes moved back to Charlotte with need.
And then—just as Cassius started to shift again—
“It turns out,” the man added casually, “being the Scourge of Eisenholm leaves its mark on a man. Does it not?”
Everything stopped.
Cassius’s heart stalled. His breath left him in a single, cold exhale.
The words hit like a blade to the ribs. Quiet. Clean. Deep.
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t think.
He stepped forward in one smooth motion, grabbed the man by the collar, and slammed his back against a nearby pillar—hard enough to make a point, soft enough not to start a scene.
“You don’t know what you just said,” Cassius snarled, eyes burning, “but you’ve got three seconds to fix it. One chance.”
The man met his gaze, utterly unfazed. He looked at Cassius like he was reading a familiar passage in a well-loved book.
“Oh, I'm Milo St. Claire. I always know exactly what I say. And I know exactly who you are, Cassius.”
Milo didn’t flinch.
Instead, he smiled.
Which to Cassius, in that state, in that moment…was just the wrong fucking move.
He spoke. A denial wrapped in measured tones. A reasoned refusal, not unkind, but absolute. She listened and said nothing for a moment. But eventually, it was time to speak.
“Ah,” she said simply.
There was a moment of pause in between her words as Liana’s bourbon eyes looked over him as though she were seeing him for the first time.
“I misjudged you.”
Her tone wasn’t disappointed in the emotional sense. It was diagnostic. A recalculation.
“You helped the boy. Without asking who he belonged to. Without worrying about whether the bitch who broke his arm would be punished. There were rules broken then too. But you didn’t stop to report it. You just… acted.”
She tilted her head ever so slightly, studying him anew.
“I assumed that meant you cared more about people than procedure.”
She stepped in, slowly, deliberately, and placed a gloved hand against his chest. Not pushing. Just resting there, like the weight of a single truth.
“But I see now. That wasn’t principle. That was convenience. The child was a victim, so you acted. Here? It’s harder. Riskier. So you choose safety, not kindness.” Her gaze was cool and direct.
“You call it wisdom. I call it cowardice dressed as righteous policy.” Then, she pulled her hand away.
“I’ll find someone else. Someone willing to help the dying without getting so lost in their own minutia.
She started to turn away, but paused...just long enough to glance back over her shoulder.
“I really didn’t think you were going to be the disappointment you’ve turned out to be. But for what its worth… They aren’t contagious. They were cursed. There isn’t a threat to the other passengers… Only to the lives of two people who deserved better. Neither of them even know that they are stowaways. That sin is entirely on me, but it was the only way. Yet, you condemn them anyways with your conveniently placed sense of virtue. I hope your god is proud.”
Talis wasn’t sure if it was the voice or the eyes. Maybe both.
Either way, she was definitely melting again...and not in a romantic way. More so in a "my spine has been replaced with warm oatmeal and my thoughts are escaping through my ears" kind of way.
She nodded stiffly at Meiyu’s remark about dehydration, feeling very much like the flight in fight or flight was calling her name.
“O-of course,” she said, her voice hitching halfway through the first syllable. “Hydration is crucial. Vital, even. I...uh...always say, better water than… than not water.”
Great. Incredible.Not suspicious at all.
She was actively dying inside when Meiyu’s gaze shifted to Bastion, and her breath caught again. He was still looming...not in a threatening way, just…present. Solid. Like a silent lighthouse trying to understand fog.
Talis blinked rapidly as Meiyu commented on his scarf.
“Your scarf, it seems cozy. It suits you.”
Bastion blinked, looking down at his scarf. Then up at Meiyu.
Then down at the scarf again, as if trying to determine what she meant. “Cozy” was a strange descriptor for something he technically couldn’t feel.
“It is... important,” he replied after a moment, the faintest hint of pride creeping into his voice. “It was a gift.”
Talis, meanwhile, was shrinking into herself like a melting marshmallow. Her satchel strap was now indented into her shoulder from how hard she was gripping it. Her foot twitched nervously. Her pupils might’ve been vibrating.
Bastion noticed.
He had been watching her since the conversation began, his internal systems tagging every change in her behavior: increased breathing rate. Tension in the jaw. Shifting posture. Minimal blinking. Defensive clutching of bag. A subject under distress.
But why? He looked at Meiyu again. She hadn’t raised her voice. She wasn’t threatening. Still, Talis was afraid. And Bastion, whether it be programming or compassion, didn’t like that. She needed to be protected.
From what, he wasn’t sure. But something in him stirred...a directive buried deep in his core programming. Protect the charge. Maintain safety.
He scanned the situation…Dehydration had been mentioned, and she had said she was thirsty. Perhaps it was time to escalate.
Talis was just about to speak again when suddenly…she was no longer seated.
“Wha...?!” she yelped as Bastion’s large arms gently but confidently lifted her from the barstool.
He held her like one might hold a particularly anxious cat...awkwardly, but with great care.
“Bastion?!” She asked, her words coming out more confused than afraid. Her hands immediately moved to secure her satchel against her protectively.
“You said you were thirsty,” he explained calmly. “You are exhibiting signs of increasing physiological distress. This suggests imminent collapse. I am resolving the issue.”
He turned to Gears with mechanical precision, grabbing the tall glass of water she had just slid their way.
Then, still holding Talis with all the delicacy of a man transporting a sacred relic, he tilted the glass toward her face.
“I highly recommend you drink this. For your safety.”
Talis squinted up at him, somewhere between scandalized and short-circuiting.
“You’re giving me waterboarding energy right now,” she whispered through clenched teeth.
“That does not sound hydrating.”
“It’s not.”
There was a pause. A very Bastion type of pause to be exact.
Then, slowly, resignedly, she took the glass with both hands, sipped it like a very offended raccoon, and muttered, “There. Crisis averted. Thank you, you big terrifying sentient teapot.” Despite her nerves, despite not particularly enjoying being picked up and force fed water like a baby…she couldn’t help but smile. Something about it all just felt…pure.
Bastion nodded solemnly.
“You are welcome.”
He gently lowered her back to the stool.
For a moment, there was silence...Talis awkwardly sipping water, and Bastion watching her like she was a mission objective.
Talis blinked into her glass and muttered, mostly to herself, “This is fine. Everything is fine. I love airships. I love bars. I love being held like a sack of emotional potatoes.”
She led him with graceful ease, her stride fluid, the kind of effortless confidence that made her movements feel more like a glide than a walk. Her presence was magnetic in that quiet, unspoken way—like candlelight in a still room. She didn't try to charm, yet there was something undeniably alluring about her: the softness of her voice with that ever so faint rasp that adds eccentricity, the way her gaze lingered a heartbeat too long, how her fingers trailed lightly along the rail as they descended the next flight of stairs.
They walked down a narrow, lesser-used corridor that curved toward a maintenance stairwell—one of the many veins in the ship’s vast body that most passengers never even glanced at. The buzz of life above faded, replaced by the ship’s pulsing heart: the hum of arcane engines, the faint hiss of pressure valves, the creak of wooden bones with metal joints.
Finally, she paused beside a closed hatch. She turned to face him fully, her voice lower now, almost intimate.
“There are two people in the cargo hold. A man and a woman.” Her eyes searched his face, and something like vulnerability passed through her expression. “They’re very sick. Fevers. Coughing blood. Too weak to move.”
She hesitated, just enough to seem unsure, then looked down briefly before continuing.
“They’re not on the manifest. Stowaways.” She glanced back up, voice soft, confessional. “That’s why I haven’t gone to the ship’s medics. I’m afraid if I report them, they’ll be thrown off at the next port or left to die in a locked room. But if someone like you… someone with healing hands and no need to judge… were to help them quietly…covertly”
She let the implication hang, unfinished.
Her eyes held his again. No flicker of deception. No twitch of guilt. Only that same unnerving stillness, cloaked in certainty.
The bar was getting louder by the minute, and Gears was fairly sure her napkin-to-chaos ratio was officially unsustainable.
Steam hissed softly from her arm vents as she tidied a corner of the bar that didn’t need tidying, just to give her hands something to do while Phia unleashed yet another round of wonderfully unique questions her way.
She was really starting to take a liking to the girl; naivety and all.
Phia’s next words hit with full force, though.
“You are… for war? You are a warrior? That’s why you have covered yourself in armor, Miss Gears!”
Gears blinked. Slowly.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Considered. Then gave a little shrug and leaned a hip against the counter.
“Well, darlin’, I suppose you’re not wrong. I was built for war, sure enough. But I prefer pourin’ liquid peace these days.”
She reached across the counter and gently set down a refill of water—mostly to make sure Phia was staying hydrated.
“And this armor?” Gears knocked on her own chestplate with a soft tink-tink. “Came with the frame. Can’t take it off, not unless someone’s lookin’ to do some real invasive tinkerin’, and sugar, I’m not exactly a tea kettle.”
Gears paused after the next words out of Phia’s mouth, just for a second.
The noise of the bar faded around her, the clinking glasses and shouting voices softening under the weight of Phia’s words.
“You are a blessing upon us all, Miss Gears. Continue to be kind, and the spirits will favor you.”
That one settled deep—right behind her reinforced plating, somewhere dusty and quiet she hadn’t touched in years.
She didn’t say anything at first. Just reached for a clean towel and polished a spot on the counter that didn’t need polishing.
Then, with a slow smile that reached her optics, she looked back at Phia.
“Well now... ain’t that the kindest thing anyone’s said to me in a long while,” she said, voice low and warm like a lullaby by lantern light.
She leaned in a little, her tone turning to that gentle hush you use when handing someone something precious.
“Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll tuck that right next to my spark core where it’ll stay warm.”
A smile bloomed, not performative or polished—just real.
“Kindness don’t cost much, but it sure carries far. If the spirits are watchin’, I hope they see you first.”
Before Gears or Phia could say more, a familiar tension crackled in the air. She didn’t have to look far to find the source.
Her optics narrowed.
The dragonborn bastard was still seated, but he’d made himself plenty known—and it hadn’t gone unnoticed. Several nearby patrons had already bristled. Some were stepping in.
Her optics flicked once—up, past the crowd—and landed on the little girl sitting beside the man, blue-scaled and clutching a marble like it was a lifeline.
Gears' jaw clenched just slightly, then relaxed.
“Count your blessings, you dumb bastard,” she muttered under her breath. “If that kid weren’t watchin’, I’d have given you a real teachin’—one you could feel in your tail.”
She made no move to step in. Not this time. Others were already making their opinions known of the man. And the star-skin girl—Ayra—well, she wasn’t alone.
Gears exhaled a little puff of steam, cleared a few empty glasses, and let the moment settle. Though she had to admit, seeing her new friend Phia go from sweet as sugar to a force to be reckoned with like that in an instant was not only impressive, but it drew an urge in her to join in. Even now, a few years away from her last battle…that feeling bubbled just beneath the surface. That silent cry for her original purpose.
Then came a new presence, and gear’s thoughts and feelings recalibrated back to normal.
Smooth. Steady. Not loud—but somehow impossible to ignore. She turned just in time to catch the woman’s gaze—poised, unreadable, and sharp as a winter wind.
Gears met it calmly. Respectfully.
“Something strong, when you have a moment,” the woman said.
Gears gave her a slow nod and a soft smile, already reaching for the unlabeled bottle from under the counter—the one she reserved for customers who didn’t need to brag.
“Mmm. Say no more, sweetheart. I got just the thing for a lady who doesn’t waste words.”
She poured with precision, slid the glass forward without a clink, and gave a subtle gesture of approval. The woman leaned against the bar like she belonged there, and Gears had no interest in challenging that.
And then—
“Hello, Miss Gears!”
That voice. She’d know that voice in a crowd of hundreds.
Gears turned to see Vallena clambering up onto a stool like a squirrel on a mission.
Her face immediately softened. There was something about Val that cracked through the morning’s weight like sunlight through shutters.
“Well hey there, sugar,” she said with a grin. “You’re lookin’ bright as ever.”
Then came the questions.
Squeakiness. Stiffness. General discomfort.
Gears held still, amused, letting Val finish her full checklist with all the seriousness of a field medic.
When it was over, she tapped her chin thoughtfully.
“No stiffness,” she said playfully, rolling her shoulder. “Joints feel smooth as churned butter.” “No squeakiness,” she added, giving a little knee bounce. “Though I think the popcorn machine behind me’s tryin’ to steal my thunder.” “And as for discomfort—” she winked, “not unless you count emotionally, sugar.”
She gave Vallena a warm nod. “You done good, hon. Looks like someone’s been payin’ attention to their lessons.”
Then came Scratch—quiet, calm, pleasant…at least to her. He spoke without fuss, kept an eye on the room like he always did. Gears liked that about him. She never had to guess his angle.
“You tell the Captain I’m dry as driftwood and twice as sturdy,” she said easily. “Rain didn’t do more than mess my shine.”
Her optics shifted toward the gnome he had referred to as a hired hand. She gave a small shrug.
“As for the this fella—don’t get jealous, hon. The Gnome’s not here for a long time, just a good time I’d wager. He’s just a passenger who got a little too enamored with my curvature.”
The bar bustled, the clouds rolled on outside, and in her little corner of the sky, Gears kept everyone steady—one drink, one dry quip, and one warm smile at a time.
Member
Lunatic Fringe
RPM
SilverSpring
princess
CabbageAngel
Ducksworth
