Qia

Do You Have RP Pet Peeves?

I can see both sides here. For instance, I can understand why someone wouldn't want to see their idea portrayed in a way they might not like by someone else because they would be emotionally attached. This is especially so if they’ve explicitly said upfront that they don’t want anyone to continue, then ethically, yes, they have some say. But that say is moral, not enforceable. Once something’s shared in a public, collaborative space, control becomes pretty blurry. Hence, why they should do what I've seen an old GM do, which is restrict, if not completely block, access to what they see as their intellectual property (e.g. taking their information off the guild). So, all in all, the best I think we can all do in this kind of situation is aim for a middle ground. If people want to respect both sides, they could:

Reimagine the setting (change names, tweak lore).

Credit the original inspiration (“based on the concept by X”).

Avoid direct reuse of their writing or world details.

That way, it’s not continuing their work. It’s inspired by their work. At the end of the day, once you involve and collaborate with others, you can’t blame them for at least wanting closure for the connections that THEY created (i.e. exact name and lore is off limits).

The Worn

• Eve

  
  
  
  
  || 39 | Female | American (Chicago, IL – of Kenyan descent) ||

  
  
  

  C H A O S M A G I C A B I L I T Y — “F I E L D N U L L”

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  Eve’s ability allows her to generate localized domains where the fundamental constants of reality falter. In these pockets of influence, air grows heavy, sound is extinguished at its source, and kinetic energy dissipates into nothing.
  
  Core Facet – Null Sphere:
  
  Her signature manifestation consists of a three-meter radius field that uses her will to suppress the laws of physics. Inertia ceases to function, causing projectiles to hang inertly. Acoustic vibrations are absorbed, creating an unnerving vacuum of silence. Even biological processes are affected, slowing heartbeats and preventing wounds from closing. Maintaining this field for extended periods is physiologically devastating; exceeding thirty seconds induces severe sensory overload, manifesting as vertigo, violent tremors, and neural feedback that can incapacitate her for hours.
  
  Offensive Facet – Null Pulse:
  
  Evelyn can collapse an active field inward, creating a pressureless implosion that scrambles equilibrium and ruptures inner ears. It leaves enemies disoriented and vomiting, but the backlash costs her blood and hearing. She uses it sparingly, often as a finishing gesture.
  
  Defensive Facet – Null Veil:
  
  A lighter projection that bends the Null around her body, muffling sound and bending light just enough to blur her outline. It is the perfect tool for conducting emergency medical procedures in the heart of a conflict or for a stealthy retreat. However, the constant visual distortion required takes its toll, leaving her with lingering after-images and a persistent, dizzying sensation of movement long after the veil has dropped.
  
  Environmental Facet – Null Drag:
  
  By projecting the Null Field vertically as a tall, narrow column, Evelyn can manipulate gravitational and atmospheric forces in a specific aerial vector. This creates a sudden, powerful downdraft capable of seizing flying creatures and yanking them violently to the ground. While the effect lasts only moments, it is sufficient to ruin wings and shatter momentum. The physical strain, however, is shared; her own body bears a fraction of the gravitational shock, often causing her knees to buckle and blood vessels to burst under the overwhelming load.

  
  
  

  P E R S O N A L I T Y

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  • A Study in Composure: Evelyn carries herself with the movement and speech of someone for whom total self-possession is the final bastion against madness. Her actions are purposeful, her words carefully selected, giving her an aura of unshakeable, almost clinical calm. This unflappable demeanour in the face of catastrophe is less reassuring than it is deeply disquieting to those around her.
     
  • Dry Humour: Her humour is as precise and understated as her surgical technique: dry, dark, and often delivered with a detached air. It is the kind of observation that dissects a situation's inherent absurdity or darkness, often landing with more penetrating insight than she may have intended, leaving others uncertain whether to laugh or recoil.
     
  • Distrusting: Betrayal has been the most effective instructor in her life, schooling her in the hard lesson that vigilance is a more reliable ally than faith. While she is capable of cooperating with those she doubts, this collaboration is always strategic. She positions herself with conscious awareness, never fully relying on another's watchfulness, treating every alliance as a temporary and conditional arrangement.

  
  
  

  B A C K G R O U N D

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  Before the world knew her as a traitor, Dr. Evelyn Kaine was a cornerstone of military medicine, a surgeon whose unwavering nerve in the face of devastation could turn triage zones into controlled environments of life-saving efficiency. Her father, Senator Daniel Kaine, leveraged his considerable political capital to fund humanitarian aid and reshape military policy in the desperate early years of the angelic siege. Evelyn’s expertise on the front lines made her an invaluable asset to his initiatives. Still, her high-level security clearances and access to sensitive data also made her a vulnerability and a target for people moving against her father’s influence.
  
  The plot unfolded at an international summit in Johannesburg, a gathering meant to solidify global alliances. When the assassins struck, the investigation revealed a devastatingly simple paper trail. Security overrides, transport documentation, and even falsified patient records all carried the unmistakable imprint of her authorization. The perpetrators melted away, but the digital evidence they deliberately left behind was a roadmap pointing directly to Evelyn. The ultimate blow was that her father, the summit's keynote, was the primary target, and he was among the fallen.
  
  In the aftermath, Evelyn could only recall the face of the man who had orchestrated her ruin: the stoic, capable security liaison from her father’s protective detail. He had meticulously built a foundation of professional respect and personal trust, a deception that made the betrayal absolute. By the time the authorities arrived, his identity had been scrubbed from every database, a ghost who had never truly existed.
  
  Facing a military tribunal, she was branded a conspirator against the state. The media, hungry for a villain, crowned her “The Doctor of Death.” Through it all, Evelyn offered no defence. Whether shattered by grief, paralyzed by the sheer scale of the deception, or simply recognizing the futility of protest, she allowed her silence to become the final nail in her coffin.

  
  
  

  R E L A T I O N S H I P S

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  WIP

  
  

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#3b9ae1...|...outfit}

"Yeah, I appreciate the offer, man," Wes said with a tight-lipped smile. "But I have an angry girlfriend and I haven’t decided if I’m going to risk going back to the party or hide in my cabin." He laughed weakly as he pushed off the doorframe and picked up Rae’s bag, taking a step back onto the porch. "Don’t stay up too late. Wouldn’t be surprised if there’s training tomorrow," he called back over his shoulder before he descended the stairs and made his way back onto the main path.

All the while, Rae couldn’t help but reflect a bit, her old friend’s words looping through her mind like a song lyric she couldn’t shake. At first, she took it at face value. Trinity’s mad, he’s in trouble, and that was the end of the story. But something in the way he’d said it, that mix of humour and resignation, landed differently, like there was something underneath it. Tiredness, maybe, or hurt he didn’t want anyone to notice.

The comment about hiding in his cabin, however, was what truly stuck with her. She could still hear the wry inflection he’d used, a deliberate effort to make it sound like a lighthearted option. But to Rae, it sounded less like a choice and more like a confession that he didn't actually want to be alone but felt he had to pretend he did. It was a pattern she recognized. She’d seen it throughout high school, like when he’d deflect concern about his father’s empty seat at a game with a clever quip or laugh off a failing grade as if it were a badge of honour. That same defensive mechanism was now being activated because of Trinity.

A sympathetic ache bloomed behind Rae’s sternum as she massaged the tight cords at the base of her neck. If she were honest with herself, the emotion twisting in her gut wasn't quite jealousy. It was something more intricate and uncomfortable: a sense of responsibility tangled with pity. Her return was never meant to create friction or resurrect old tensions. But the memory of Trinity’s expression earlier—the porcelain smile that didn't crinkle her eyes, the wary, assessing gaze—made it evident that the potential for conflict had been simmering long before Rae’s arrival. She had simply walked into their established world, an unforeseen spark landing on a landscape already primed to burn.

With a quiet sigh, her eyes traced the path Wes had taken, now just a void of darkness between the dimly lit cabins. If this was the atmosphere on her very first night, what hope did she have of finding her footing at a camp full of demigods? She hadn't even unpacked her bag, and already she was being cast in the role of an interloper. The most disquieting part was the small, insistent voice within her that worried the assessment might be justified.

Because this wasn't the first time her presence had caused complications in Wes's love life, if you could call what he had in high school that.

Back in high school, it had been something trivial, a misunderstanding inflated by the pressurized drama of adolescence, so to speak. The memory surfaced with perfect clarity now: the cacophony of the cafeteria, Wes tilting back on his chair’s rear legs, flashing that irreverent grin of his. His girlfriend-of-the-month—Rae couldn't even recall her name—had been shooting venomous looks across the table. Rae had made some offhand, sarcastic remark about his legendary inability to cook anything beyond frozen pizza, and he’d laughed, a real, genuine laugh that made his eyes crinkle.

His girlfriend had not been amused.

By the end of the day, half the school was whispering that Rae had a crush on Wes (which, mortifyingly, wasn’t entirely untrue), and the other half thought she’d tried to steal him (which, really, people? Be so for real). The fallout had been short-lived but memorable, filled with a lot of cold shoulders, nasty notes on her locker, and a well-timed “slut” muttered in the hallway. Rae had pretended it didn’t bother her, of course. She’d even joked about it to Wes at one point, who’d said something like, “People just like to stir shit, Lewski.”

But beneath his casual dismissal, she’d glimpsed a bit of discomfort, a subtle guilt that he was somehow the cause. It was the same shadow that had crossed his features tonight when he’d mentioned his “angry girlfriend”, except this time the relationship was clearly real, and the stakes felt infinitely higher.

Rae rubbed her neck again, the ghost of that old humiliation brushing against her nerves. Maybe it was silly to draw a line between high school gossip and their current reality, but the emotional residue was identical: she was the variable that kept upsetting the equation, no matter how unintentionally. And perhaps, just as she had learned to do back then, creating distance was the only viable strategy she had. Only this time, it had to be done by her and with a true purpose in mind. Awesome.

Pushing down the swell of melancholy that accompanied the thought, she glanced toward Idris with an apologetic, weary quirk of her lips. “Guess that’s my cue,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. “Thanks again for the tour. And for the almost-meal.” Then she turned and walked into the night, following the general direction Wes had gone.

A few moments later, a familiar figure fell into step beside her. "Your cabin is pretty much on the way to mine. I’ll help you find it," Wes said, his voice pulling her from her thoughts. He led the way, but a palpable quiet clung to him; his focus was clearly turned inward. It wasn't until they were turning down the narrow path toward her temporary home that he let out a soft sigh and glanced at her. "Sorry, you won’t be getting all the stories I promised tonight." He attempted a lopsided grin, but it was a fleeting, tired thing.

“Hey,” Rae said, her tone gentle as she offered a small, conciliatory smile. It was an attempt to bridge the quiet space that had stretched between them, the metaphysical distance born of divided focus. His body was here, walking beside her, but his mind was elsewhere, likely replaying the events of the night.

“Don’t worry about it,” she continued softly, “I think you’ve had enough drama for one night. I–”

"Now, don’t you start apologizing, Lewski… I know how you are,"Wes chided, his tone regaining a sliver of its usual playful energy as he set her bag down by her front door."It’s not your fault."

His words disarmed her completely. It was as if he’d reached directly into her mind and plucked out the nascent apology she’d been assembling. The unshakable feeling that her arrival had, once again, set a destructive chain of events into motion.

Wes took a step toward her and wrapped her in a much more gentle hug than the whirlwind one he had swept her up in earlier."I’ll answer all your questions later," he murmured. "Promise."

Rae let herself soften into the contact, her eyes closing as she breathed in the familiar scent of him. For a moment, the tension bled from her shoulders.

“You better,” she mumbled, her voice muffled by his shirt.“I’ve got a running list, you know.” In her mind, she placed a lien on that promise, filing it away as a debt to be collected later. Wasn't that the fundamental nature of a promise, after all? A small, emotional contract between two people that meant ‘you said you would, so I will trust that you will.’? It explained the unspoken ‘and I will hold you to it’ that underscored her tone. For all the years and all the versions of Wesley she had known, this one—the man grappling with his choices and trying to do the right thing—felt the most authentic. And she was terrified of losing him again, even if she felt, for now, that stepping back was the only way to keep him.

When he let go, Wes gave her a gentle pat on the back before he slowly started back down the trail. "Cabin 21, if you need anything," he reminded her. "Happy New Year’s, Red." He gave her one last wave before he disappeared out of sight around the treeline.

“Happy New Year,” Rae said, though Wes could not hear her at this point. Then, she finally exhaled, picking up her things and turning the handle to her cabin door, the hinges creaking softly as she stepped inside.

---

Location: Idris's Cabin --> Rae's Cabin
Interactions: Wes (@Mjolnir), Idris (@NoriWasHere)
Mentions: Trinity

The Worn

Just leaving this here to express interest. :)

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#d4af37...|...outfit}

The world softened as he walked, the sand absorbing the sound of his footsteps. The commotion of the camp faded with each stride, replaced by the rhythmic, hushed cadence of the lake meeting the shore. Soon, the bonfire was no more than a dull orange smudge in the distance, obscured by the dark silhouette of the forest. The unseasonable heat clung to the late-night air, heavy with the scent of fresh water and the faint, carried murmur of voices from the field behind him.

Elias came to a stop where the land surrendered to the water. Before him, the lake lay vast and still, its surface a seemingly polished plane reflecting the heavens. The sky was a deepening expanse of indigo, already dotted with the bright pinpricks of emerging stars. He closed his eyes, and a subtle energy began to emanate from him; the faint crackle of current traced patterns over his arms, a luminous display against the dark. The very atmosphere seemed to warp at the edges of his form, and fine particles of sand trembled and lifted from the beach as if drawn by his breath.

Then, with a gathering resonance that vibrated through the air, he ascended.

In moments, the winds converged, wrapping around him in layered, powerful coils. An unseen force buoyed him upward, and a vortex of golden grains rose in a brief, swirling coronet before cascading back to earth. A gentle flash of energy, the visible manifestation of his power, glowed at his feet as he broke contact with the ground completely. His motion was seamless, a natural extension of his will, less like strenuous effort and more like a capitulation to an elemental pull. He soared, clearing the canopy of the trees in a smooth, continuous arc.

The view from above transformed the area into a diorama of a typical camp. The distinct areas—the arena, the field, the cabins—blended into a pattern of darkness and muted silver under the moon's gaze. Elias remained there for a long moment, poised in that pocket of silence while enjoying the warm breeze that washed over him.

Finally, he rolled onto his back, limbs relaxed, and allowed the air itself to become his foundation. He floated, weightless, skimming the underside of the lowest clouds, a body suspended between the earth’s pull and absolute release. The tempest that had been churning within him since the confrontation began, at last, to settle. The higher he climbed, the more insignificant his problems became: the din of the party, the imagined and real judgment in others' eyes, the regret for missteps he could neither justify nor take back. They would wait, unresolved, until he could find the right words. That’s what Elias decided. So, he lingered in that state for a timeless interval, supported by the gentle push and pull of the atmosphere. Here, there was no Nate, no biting accusation, no memory of Tapeesa turning from him. There was only the immense, accepting emptiness and the crisp, thin air of the upper sky.

Elias replayed the words again, this time stripped of the adrenaline and the crowd's pressure. Up here, above the camp and its lights, they sounded different. Clearer. Smaller. Crueller than he’d meant.

“You know, it’s pretty rich for you to say that…considering you’re the one who bailed on me and Anissa to dance by yourself.”

A tight grimace pulled at his mouth as the memory solidified. The exhale that followed was sharp, stirring the atmosphere around him into a visible shimmer. He heard it now, the cheap, fracturing sound of his own pride in each syllable. His intention hadn't been to inflict pain, but a reflexive need to protect his own ego had its own relentless pull, and he had tumbled into pettiness without a second thought.

“Right after you’d already dressed me down like I was some kid who couldn’t be trusted to handle himself.”

This particular barb had sunk deeper with time. In the thick of the confrontation, it had felt like righteous indignation, a necessary pushback against a public correction. Now, suspended in this boundless dark, the statement revealed its true core: not strength, but an unflattering insecurity. It was the protest of a boy who felt belittled, not the reasoning of the man he should be. He had conflated her concern with an insult to his capability, and in doing so, he hadn't defended his maturity; he had betrayed its absence. He had taken her moment of genuine engagement and weaponized it, constructing a barrier where there could have been a bridge instead.

Was it any surprise that Tapeesa’s only recourse in that moment was a quiet apology before turning away?

Elias let his eyes close.

“I don’t know, Tapeesa,” he murmured into the emptiness, finishing the line aloud now. “From where I’m standing, it looks to me like you’ve been doing just fine without any offers.”

The bitterness in that last sentence still tasted familiar. Jealousy, maybe, but not of Nate. Of her comfort. Her lightness. The way she could make the world love her without ever trying. He’d said “offers” like it was a bad thing, like she owed something for being wanted. The irony of that wasn’t lost on him.

His voice had dropped after that: “…I would’ve joined you if you’d asked. You said ‘should’, not ‘want’.”

This, he reflected, was the one part of the entire mess that held its shape. It was the most honest confession he had managed all evening. The distinction was everything to him. “Should” was a social contract, a duty performed out of politeness or expectation. “Want” was a different force entirely. A voluntary leap. An admission of desire. Elias had no interest in being a task on a list. He longed to be the destination.

He lifted a hand, pressed his fingers into the tight knot of muscle where his neck met his skull, and released a heavy, weary breath into the open air.“God, you’re insufferable when you actually feel something,” he grumbled. Pathetic or not, though, it was the truth. He'd come here expecting connection, maybe even a little grace, and instead he'd turned a clumsy moment into more than it had to be. He'd wanted Tapeesa to see him as a person, and all he'd managed to do was prove Nate right.

He was difficult. He was a burden. A complication others had to manage.

A fresh breeze washed over him, carrying the aroma of pine and the chill of the deep lake. Elias opened his eyes to the infinite expanse above. The constellations held their positions, silent and eternal. He wasn't sure what he sought in their distant fire. A sign from his father, perhaps, or some form of condemnation. Or maybe, most likely, the simple truth of his continued indifference.

Then, a trail of brilliant gold and red tore through the darkness below him.

It began as a solitary projectile, a single flare of light rocketing upward from the field where the others had congregated. It exploded into a shower of luminous tendrils that unfurled like a celestial flower against the black. Elias observed its duplicate bloom across the lake’s surface, a second, inverted spectacle shimmering in the water’s plane. Soon, the performance multiplied. One after another, projectiles of red and gold ascended, each one briefly setting the world ablaze with magnificent colour.

He stayed still, arms folded loosely behind his head, letting the light break over him. From this height, the fireworks were silent for a moment before their sound reached him, a deep, resonant thunder that rolled within his bones. It reminded him of home, weirdly enough, of Albuquerque’s monsoon season when clouds would gather above the desert and the sky torn apart by great, shattering bolts of lightning. Those were the nights his mother had always loved most. They were untamed, electric, and alive.

Marisol Trueno didn't need fireworks. Her celebrations were more personal affairs, built around a steaming pot of homemade pozole and the crackling melody of old love songs from a radio choked with static. Elias could almost conjure the scent of chilli powder hanging in the air, a ghost of his younger self perched on the kitchen tiles, watching her stir the large, bubbling pot. Her hair, as dark and thick as his own, piled hastily upon her head, with a few rebellious strands stuck to the damp skin of her neck. A man’s voice crooning a Spanish ballad from the speakers, its sorrowful lyrics not fully grasped by a boy so young, but felt as an ache in his core nonetheless.

When the clock finally struck midnight, she would always cross the room and throw the window open wide. “To greet the new year properly,” she would insist, her voice firm with conviction. “Let the sky see you.”

Another firework detonated beneath him, a stunning scarlet that seemed to fracture the very air. The subsequent roar made Elias jolt involuntarily. Its volume was a reminder of the night he departed: his mother’s figure outlined by the light from the doorway, the cool metal of the pendant pressed into his hand. “Since the lights went out, and came back on,” she’d told him, a simple statement that carried a lifetime of perception as if she had always recognized the man he was destined to become long before he had any inkling himself.

For a moment, the display reached its crescendo. The heavens erupted in a simultaneous volley of colour: red bled into gold, which in turn dissolved into searing white until it appeared as if the night had been cracked apart by a lightning bolt arrested in its moment of impact. The colours shimmered and danced across the thin veil of clouds below him, setting the very atmosphere alight with liquid, metallic hues. He wondered what his mother would say, seeing him now: her son, suspended between realms, too stubborn to find his footing on the ground yet too turbulent to truly ever find peace in the sky. She would offer that slight, knowing smile of hers first, he was sure, and then a soft sigh would escape her. “You can’t outfly yourself, Eli. Even the wind remembers.”

The phrase landed with far more gravity now than it had in his youth. As a teenager, he’d interpreted it as a warning about consequences; his errors would forever dog his steps. But here, floating in this boundless openness, the true meaning began to crystallize. She hadn’t been talking about the world’s memory but his own. The way the air itself responded to his inner turmoil, the storms that trailed in his wake did not do so by choice but because they were an inextricable part of his being. The wind remembered because it knew his essence. It knew the fragments of himself he tried to abandon: the frustration, the arrogance, the deep, unspoken yearning for a softer, much gentler existence.

And perhaps, he realized, that was the entire point of her annual ritual. “Let the sky see you.”
It was not an act of veneration but an act of courage. A willingness to be fully perceived without masks or defences.
To stand before the promise of a new beginning exactly as you are: imperfect, marked by your past, and still striving to be better.

He ached for the sound of that voice. It didn’t provide easy answers, but it originated from a place of unconditional recognition. She had always seen all of him, even when his own light threatened to consume everything in its path. Especially then. It struck him with a new force just how rare that kind of acceptance truly was. To be known in your entirety and cherished not despite it but because of it.

He was difficult. He was a burden. But those were not immutable facts. He did not have to accept that as his permanent definition, from himself or from anyone else.

A final, magnificent burst unfolded, a great, sprawling chrysanthemum of red that faded through gold into a brilliant, dissolving white. Midnight. Elias raised an open hand toward the fading light, letting the residual glow gild his skin like a blessing he hadn’t earned but still received.

“Happy New Year, Ma,” he whispered, the words swallowed by the rolling thunder that followed. The sky offered no reply, save for the sizzle of spent sparks drifting down as ash. He remained until the last vestiges of light were extinguished, the final embers surrendering to the returning dark. Then, with a gathering hum that started deep in his chest, he initiated his return to the ground.

The currents accepted his weight without protest this time, guiding him downward in a series of wide, languid spirals until the highest pine needles whispered against the soles of his boots. When his feet finally met the sand once more, the enclosed warmth of the lakeshore enveloped him. The show was over. Down in the field, he knew the celebration would be in full swing with well-wishes exchanged and promises made that would likely be forgotten with the morning’s light.

Elias knew, however, that the night wasn't done with him yet.

---

He stopped in front of her cabin before realizing it. The path beneath his boots was pale with moonlight, the stepping stones half-hidden by frost beginning to gather along their edges. For a moment, he thought the building was empty with its dark windows and curtains drawn, but then he saw them: his jacket and duffel, neatly placed beside the gate. Not thrown, not carelessly dropped, but arranged in that way that spoke of someone who didn’t want to cause harm but wanted distance all the same.

Elias remained motionless, the sight landing with a surprising force. He stared at his own possessions as if they might suddenly articulate the reason for their exile. The world had grown quiet around him; even the wind, his most constant ally, appeared to hold its breath. His first reaction was a physical one, a hollow, expanding sensation in his chest as if something he had been clenching deep within himself since their argument was finally, slowly, coming undone. His second reaction was a simple, crushing realization: so this is how it ends. There was no fury accompanying the thought, only a dull recognition. The arrangement of his things communicated what her voice would not: your presence here is no longer welcome. And perhaps that was just. Perhaps it was the inevitable price for his words, for all the things he could never take back. Yet, the visual proof of his exclusion from her space cut more deeply than he would ever confess. It wasn't a dramatic scene. It was just… emptying. Numbness.

Elias lowered himself into a crouch, resting his forearms on his knees. His fingers reached out, lightly tracing the fabric of the jacket’s collar. He pictured her retrieving it, handling his belongings with a care that spoke of a desire to avoid any further contact. Or perhaps, a more painful thought intruded, she had done it with a regretful finality, knowing a confrontation would be too difficult to bear. He couldn't decide which possibility was more disheartening.

He let out a long, slow breath and pushed himself back to his feet. He slung the duffel’s strap over his shoulder and settled the jacket across his arm, the fabric still holding the night's chill. He allowed himself one more moment of stillness, his breath forming a pale cloud in air that was now beginning to bite at his skin. If he were to guess, the enchanted warmth that had permeated the camp was likely programmed to recede, its purpose fulfilled with the conclusion of their first official night. There was a certain poetry to it, he supposed, in how the ice crystals now caught the light, rendering the entire world fragile and transient. He wondered if that was how Tapeesa had felt standing across from him earlier—backed into a corner, feeling transparent and perilously close to coming apart.

His eyes lifted to the cabin door once more. No glow seeped from beneath it, no sound came from within. The impulse to knock surfaced briefly, but it died just as fast. What could he possibly offer now? I understand?I regret my words? Every phrase felt insufficient, a belated and feeble offering. It was easy to speak, he realized; it was trust that would prove difficult to rebuild if he still wanted it.

“Guess that’s that then,” he murmured, the words barely audible. Turning his back on the cabin, he adjusted the weight on his shoulder and started down the main trail. At the junction, a board was mounted, paper maps fluttering like restless ghosts against the wood. Elias peeled one corner free, his eyes scanning the grid of numbered plots for an unclaimed space. Most were marked as taken, but one, situated near the arena, bore no name. He pressed his thumb against its outlined box, mirroring the action he had watched Tapeesa perform hours before, then folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

By the time he located the cabin matching his chosen number, the young man found his energy was too spent for expectation. He had given no thought to what might await him, which is why he now stopped short, his breath catching. The structure stood apart from its neighbours, nestled deep within a grove of pines. Its steep, angular roof cut a dramatic line against the twilight sky, and a soft, inviting glow spilled from its windows to pool on the frost-tipped grass. As he approached, the porch steps announced his arrival with a low groan. His hand rose, hovering for a heartbeat over the door handle. A sudden, irrational fear gripped him—that he would push the door open and be met only with a vast, waiting silence on the other side.

But he did so regardless.

As the door swung inward, the air that met him was rich with the earthy perfume of cedar and the comforting aroma of smouldering timber. The space within opened up, soaring into the peak of the A-frame ceiling. Nestled in the corner, an iron stove housed a lively fire, its flames popping as they cast a throbbing, orange glow that pushed the remnants of the night's chill to the corners of the room. Directly opposite, a leather sofa faced the fire, accompanied by a low-slung table strewn with a collection of untouched candles. A blanket of thick, creamy fur was tossed haphazardly across the sofa's arm, suggesting a casual, welcoming comfort.

Elias stepped inside slowly, the door closing behind him with a soft thud. He lowered his duffel to the floor, shed his jacket from his shoulder, and brought his hands together as if to restore a genuine circulation of heat into his fingers. Real heat.

His gaze travelled, taking in the details of his unexpected sanctuary. And that was when his eyes found it.

Positioned beside the sofa, on a simple stand, rested a guitar. His guitar.

Elias went completely still, his focus locked on the instrument as if it were a mirage that might dissolve with the slightest movement. The honey-toned wood of the body gleamed in the dance of the flames, illuminating every familiar characteristic—the tiny dent near the lower bout, the slight darkening along the neck from an evening long ago when he’d played seated too near his mother’s fireplace. His heartbeat shifted, becoming a heavy rhythm in his ears as he moved closer. There was no letter, no justification. Only the guitar, present for him as if it had never been anywhere else. He drew his thumb gently across the strings, releasing a handful of discordant tones that drifted upward into the heights of the cabin. Still, the sound seemed to expand and occupy the emptiness that had taken root inside him, offering a substance where there had been only void.

It was illogical. He had consciously decided to leave it in Albuquerque, deeming it too vulnerable to bring on this uncertain journey. To encounter it here, placed so deliberately in this distant, secluded place, defied all reason. And yet, its reality was unquestionable. The solid curve of its body under his gaze, the familiar scent of lacquer and aged wood. Every detail was the same.

A quiet laugh escaped him, disbelieving but warm. “No way,” he mumbled, the words barely forming. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing bit by bit. His father’s doing, then. Who else could it be? The old man had a flair for grand gestures, and a gift delivered not in words or thunder but in something far simpler made sense: recognition. He recognized him. Part of him wanted to question it. To look for the trick or the string attached.

But Elias was too tired to fight it tonight

So, he straightened, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Thanks, old man,” he said softly.

Then, he sank onto the couch and cradled the guitar in his lap. It fit perfectly there, like it always had. He began tuning it by ear, twisting each peg until the notes rang clear and steady. Outside, the wind brushed against the windows almost like accompaniment. When he struck the first proper chord, the sound resonated through the cabin, a warm, full note that settled in his chest and lingered in the air long after his fingers stilled.

And he sat there in the glow of the fire and starlight, letting the peace of it wash over him.

---

Location: Lake (in the sky)--> His cabin
Interactions: N/A
Mentions: Tapeesa, Nate

Realms of Sun & Shadow

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_{Location: Watchpost
Collab with: Aleksi (@Beard Dad)
Mentions: Prince Flynn}

---

“Behave yourself and there won’t be any trouble now,” The guard spoke before closing the door, wood compressing against the frame as the latch clinked shut. The room Aleksi had been deposited in was certainly a more spacious cell than he had originally anticipated, although that point felt moot right now. As soon as that door closed, he became a prisoner, and until he negotiated his people’s safety, he’d remain trapped in this den of wolves. Wolf felt like an understatement knowing the town was filled with some number of blightborn and one of them coming to interrogate him personally. That made him nervous, made him want to prepare for the worst.

As he thought, he sorely wished his weapons hadn’t been confiscated before being put in here. He understood it was a precaution, but the guard’s assurances of safety felt as hollow as his scabbard did. He had alternatives if necessary, smoke for a quick getaway, ice as daggers, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Being cornered in a room with a blightborn was not his idea of a fair fight, but if diplomacy had its day, he wouldn’t need to worry about that. The real question was, would his interrogator even be willing to listen to the barbarian’s plight? Would this advisor even cooperate were he to find out how many blightborn Aleksi had slain? It was all bridges that he’d eventually have to cross as he found himself a comfortable spot behind a table, waiting for the inevitable.

Fortunately, he did not have to wait for long as the door swung open and in stepped a man whose presence alone spoke volumes. Tall, straight back, slick-haired with an unnaturally, uncanny visage about him, something that didn’t feel right; feel human. “So you’re the blighter they sent to take my measure…” his words held no malice, only factual curiosity. “I can’t tell you what I was expecting when I asked for your master, but it wasn’t…this.” Aleksi gestured towards the man. The tribal sighed, leaning back in his seat, eyes closed, fingers tapping rhythmically against the table, “Then again, beggars cannot be choosers.” He opened his eyes and made contact with the blightborn’s discerning gaze, “I am Aleksi.”

Orion stepped forward and took the vacant chair opposite the tribal leader, his cloak settling with the motion and his posture effortlessly erect. He did not remove his gloves nor offer a hand in greeting. He simply sat, a monument of calm observation, and began his assessment.

The tribesman was clearly a product of a harsh world. His broad shoulders, layered in furs, and the sheer substance of his frame suggested a life defined by conflict and survival. The intricate tattoos winding across his shaved scalp and down one side of his face were not mere decoration; they were a history written in ink, each line a potential testament to either a battle won or a trial endured. A thick beard, streaked with the evidence of a long winter, further armoured a countenance already hardened by exposure. His physique spoke of resilience, of metal tempered in relentless hardship. But his most defining features were his eyes: a pale, penetrating crystalline blue regarding Orion with the vigilant caution of a stag that has just scented a hunter.

There was no subservience in his bearing. Even seated in a foreign keep, he projected an aura of command, his body angled in a deliberate show of ease. Yet, the restless cadence of his fingers against his leg betrayed a current of tightly leashed tension. This was a man shaped by command, not compliance; by decree, not petition. Every aspect of his demeanour communicated the gravity of the concession he was being forced to make. He embodied the very image of the wild savage the guards had whispered of, but Orion detected a far more perilous quality beneath: an unbreakable resolve. This was not someone who would plead for mercy; he would negotiate for it, yielding only what was necessary to ensure his people’s survival.

Orion’s own gaze, a deep and unsettling shade of red, remained locked with the tribesman’s pale blue. Two different kinds of winter. He let the term ‘master’ hang in the air without correction. The label was commonplace now, though it carried a specific and unwelcome weight. There had been a time, in a life that felt like a story about another person, when he had been hailed as Lord Nightingale, a commander of soldiers, a leader in his own right and not another man’s instrument. The Blight had shattered that image, or perhaps it had simply given others the courage to voice the fear and disdain they had always felt.

If Aleksi chose to perceive him as a mere functionary, Orion would not disabuse him of the notion. He had long since learned that those who presumed him to be less than he was often revealed their own hands far too early.

But it was the man’s blunt expectation that gave Orion pause; the assumption that one could simply step from the cold and demand an audience with a prince as though Dawnhaven were a simple chieftain’s hall. A tribal leader like Aleksi was likely accustomed to speaking without intermediaries, where strength met strength and demand met demand directly. Such an approach had its utility in the untamed wilds, but within the walls of a structured settlement, it was dangerously naïve.

“The prince does not grant audience to every soul who petitions at our gates,” Orion stated, his gloved hands forming a steeple upon the table. “If you hoped to walk in from the snow and claim his ear, then yes, you will find this is not what you expected. You have me because this settlement prioritizes procedure over presumption. Should you wish to speak with Prince Flynn, you will first justify that privilege in this room with verifiable truth and unambiguous intent. Persuade me that your people are what you profess, and you will have your opportunity. Fail, and the gates will be sealed long before you ever lay eyes upon him.”

Aleksi’s fingers stilled, his eyes narrowing at the pale creature before him, the ghostly image of the man that once was. He breathed in deeply, then exhaled, “And how would I go about convincing you, hm?” The tribal raised an eyebrow, “Shall I tell you of the elderly, the children and the sick? The dead we had to leave behind forever buried and preserved in the snow?” Aleksi paused, letting the words hang. “No, I doubt matters of the heart would move you much, you seem more like a man who respects strength,” he sat up straighter in his chair, “Then I’ll tell you about how fierce our warriors are, how one of them could match ten of your ‘soldiers’.” Again, he let the words hang like a wet loincloth.

“How much do you really know about our people?” the tribal asked directly, “Truly know about our lives? Our history? Our struggles against the blight? Against ‘your kind’?” His gaze was sharp as glass, never faltering away from this lord advisor, “When the blight first arrived, when the monsters came from the dark, we were being picked off on our own; one… by… one. One of our leaders rallied the tribes together under one banner, a few thousand of us, all together, all fighting for our survival, and for a while we held our own.” Though the tribalman’s face hadn’t shifted all that much, the sharpness in his eyes dulled slightly, “As the years went by, though, and our leaders were felled, a few thousand slowly became a few hundred. Whatever alliance there was, it is no more; what is left of us is scattered to the far winds, and only a few dozen of us remain.”

Aleksi’s gaze refocused, “If you know anything about us, you know how much we pride ourselves on our strength, our resilience, our adaptability. We abhor you outsiders, your gilded halls, your defamation of nature itself, and that’s not to include the crimes committed by the Lunarians against us, the blood that is on their hands. If you know that, then you know that my coming here, requesting safety, goes against everything my people believe in…but it is what is necessary if we are to survive this endless night.”

Aleksi leaned back into his seat, seeming exhausted as he brought a hand up to rub his tired eyes, “You know what I am asking, and I know what I ask comes with a heavy cost,” his hand fell away from his face as he refocused on the blightborn, “so what is it that you want in return?”

Orion listened with unwavering focus. He did not interrupt nor react to the provocation in Aleksi’s tone or the deliberate jab of your kind. He had endured far deeper cuts from far more powerful lips. When the tribal leader finally leaned back, weariness etched into every line of his face, and posed his question, Orion’s response was immediate yet carried the gravity of long deliberation.

“I do not want your dead, Aleksi. I have no use for your boasts. And I don’t need convincing of your people’s suffering. I’ve seen enough of the world’s cruelty to know how cheaply it spends lives.” He met the other’s gaze unfailingly. “You say you abhor outsiders and their gilded halls. Very well. This is no gilded hall. It is a settlement clawing itself out of frost and blood. If your people can live by its order, then we will have use for them. If they cannot…” He let the silence stretch, his voice lowering to a register that demanded attention without ever rising in volume.

“…then I will bar the gate myself, and no force under this sky will see it reopened.”

Orion leaned back, letting the brazier’s glow catch the marble pallor of his face.

“If Dawnhaven takes you in,” he continued, “your people will abide by its laws, the same as any soul granted refuge here. They will not spill blood over old feuds. They will not raid the food stores. They will not test the walls at night like wolves circling a pen.” He let the image remain, to be understood clearly, before driving his point home. “They will work. Every hand, every back. Hunters, herdsmen, weavers, smiths—whatever skills you carry, you will put them to use for the good of this settlement. Because here, survival is not given so freely, especially not to those who hold ill will toward the very people offering them shelter. It is earned. Do I make myself clear?”

A small smirk broke the shell over Aleksi as he snorted, “Perhaps you know us better than I had expected. Frost and blood are something we know and respect well. My people will follow your laws, their feuds shall remain as old as the mountains and just as still, and if any of my people should defy that expectation, then their life would be forfeit.” He stared at Orion, serious as sin. “We would not be here had we any other recourse, and the old man with us gave your settlement its’ accolades, therefore I cannot excuse the weak whims of a few to jeopardize the lives of the many. All said, I understand your terms, you take in my people, you will have bodies and hands, warriors and tradesmen all. On my life and the lives of my ancestors come before me, this I swear.”

Orion inclined his head once, a small, formal gesture. He rarely wasted motion on empty courtesies.

“Your word,” he replied, his voice low, “will be tested.”

He folded his gloved hands together on the table and laid out what the settlement would require.

“You will provide a list of names,” he began, “Every man, woman, and child seeking refuge. Include their ages, skills, and any known wounds or illnesses. You will name a single leader, if it is not yourself, one headman responsible for maintaining order among your people while they remain within Dawnhaven. That headman answers to me, and to the law.” He paused, allowing the words so far to sink in. “You will assign us a place to house the most vulnerable first: the elderly, the sick, the children. They will be fed from the common stores as an initial allowance, not a permanent handout. In return, your able-bodied will labour alongside us, helping to mend our fences, work the forges under supervision, tend the herds, and stand watch in rotation. Everyone contributes, or no one eats.”

He watched Aleksi’s face closely, gauging the man’s reactions to each clause.

“There will be limits,” Orion continued, “There will be no weapons past the inner ring. All arms will be surrendered to our quartermaster in exchange for a token proving your people are labouring and repaying their debt to this settlement. Any individual caught inciting feuds, raiding stores, or committing violence within our walls will be removed and exiled beyond the palisade or worse if the law demands it.”

The following stipulations were the most inflexible, born from the fragile and often fraught union of two kingdoms. Yet, they were non-negotiable.

“Should you agree to these terms, Langley will be instructed to situate your people in the temporary ring outside the western palisade. A headcount will be taken at the first watch change and again before the evening rations. You will receive food for three days while arrangements are finalized. After that, work or leave.”

Then came the most pivotal condition of all.

“Furthermore, you will reaffirm your oath tomorrow at morning rations, before the priestesses of the Lunarian and Aurelian faiths, and under the eyes of the community. This is how our agreement will be sanctified. Not by private words spoken behind closed doors but publicly in the presence of Dawnhaven’s law and its divine guardians.”

Aleksi remained still and quiet for a long while, his eyes closed as he considered the blightborn’s words. In exchange for work, they’d be allowed some room and board, with a grace period to allow them time to set up their camp. A census would be needed, words would need to be spoken to his people before he publicly swore any oaths. Some would understand, while some would need to be forced to understand the gravity of their situation. His breath condensed in front of him as he exhaled softly, eyes opening to lock with Orion’s once more.

“Your demands are reasonable and I will ensure that my people follow them to the letter, however…” he paused, brow furrowing, “I understand why I must publicly announce my intentions, my oath as I’ve sworn to you now. I understand it is about building trust, however small a beginning that may be…” Aleksi’s eyes closed again briefly, “not all of my people will see it this way, some will see it as swearing fealty to enemies that have hunted us for years, some decades. They will be difficult, but it is either to accept this new reality, or they can take their chances out in the frost.”

The tribal pushed his seat back, standing up, “As for your headman, I swore to keep those people safe, to lead them, and I will continue to do so in this role. Finally, in regards to swearing, I wish to address both your people and mine in our native tongues. If you’re concerned about the veracity of my words, I invite you to have someone you trust translate for you.” His hand extended out, reaching towards the red-haired man on the other side of the table, “If you are in agreement, then let us strike this pact.”

Orion did not stand when Aleksi rose. He remained seated, his unsettling scarlet gaze anchored on the tribesman, assessing each spoken syllable as if it were a weight placed upon some invisible balance.

The confession that some of his people would resist, viewing the oath as submission to old foes, was entirely anticipated. Orion had presumed no less. In these circumstances, trust was a fragile thing, something that could only be hardened in the crucible of shared need not born from simple goodwill. That Aleksi had given voice to this dissent, however, was significant. It demonstrated a pragmatic honesty, not a failure of resolve.

When Aleksi asserted he would remain as headman, Orion offered a slight, acknowledging tilt of his head. It was the only foreseeable outcome. This was not a figure who relinquished authority, and in truth, it was the most prudent path. If his followers had already trailed him through ice and starvation, it was to his leadership they would look when Dawnhaven’s regulations grew restrictive. It was preferable to have one shoulder bear the burden of command than to let disorder unravel the many.

But when Aleksi extended his hand, Orion studied it in silence for a long moment. He knew what the gesture meant: a pact sealed in the old way, man to man, flesh to flesh. Once, in another life, he might have taken it without hesitation. Now, he thought of the whispers, the stares, the subtle recoil when his blight-chilled skin brushed another’s as if corruption could be passed like a rumour.

He rose slowly, cloak shifting around him.

“You will speak in your tongue and in ours,” he said evenly. “Let your people hear you, and let mine understand you. I will appoint a translator to ensure the words are faithfully rendered for all.”

Then, at last, he accepted the proffered hand. His grasp was colder than Aleksi’s, carrying the stone-like chill of the blight’s legacy, yet it was firm and resolute.

“Then let it be struck,” Orion said. “You and yours will be tested. Break your oath, and you will answer to me first.”

He released his grip, stepped away, and delivered a single, curt nod. “Until the oath is sworn before the priestesses, consider this accord conditional. It becomes binding at tomorrow’s gathering.”

“I would say you have nothing to worry about, but that would be a lie,” The barbarian exhaled sharply through his nose. “Once they arrive, I will tell them of what is to come, but first, I need to signal them. If you would allow it, I would borrow one of your men and have them loose a flaming arrow beyond the wall. My people will know to come, and I will be there to greet them in peace.”

“You mean for the flare to be fired from our parapet so your people see it beyond the outer ring,” Orion confirmed, his voice level and analytical. The request was tactical, and he appreciated clarity born of necessity. “That, I can allow. It removes the risk of them being mistaken for moving targets in the dark. It also ensures the action takes place in a location we can control.”

He paused, allowing the practicality of the concession to be acknowledged. Then he set forth the one condition he had, his tone retaining the same even patience he had maintained throughout their negotiation.

“Langley will choose the archer who fires the shot,” Orion stated. “It will be one of ours, and he will be unarmed except for the bow required for this task. He will light the arrow here, on the parapet, under our direct supervision. You will not touch his equipment.” His gaze held Aleksi’s, leaving no room for ambiguity. “Are these conditions clear?”

Aleksi nodded, slowly and deliberately. “Clearly, you and your people are in control here. I am watching and waiting,” as if to emphasize he folded his arms over, tucking his hands deep in between his sides and arms. “Now then, shall we get on with it? It’s cold as sin, and the damned require succor.”

An almost imperceptible, inscrutable tug touched the corner of Orion’s mouth. The man’s restiveness was justified; the biting cold eroded patience, and desperation shortened all fuses. Yet he knew that haste was a double-edged sword, and this was a moment for precision, not carelessness. He modulated his voice, each word chosen to narrow the divide between them.

“Very well,” he assented, the statement final. “We proceed, but on our terms, not yours. You will have your signal. You will have your chance. But it will be done in a manner that does not cost lives through recklessness.”

He turned, his cloak sweeping about his shoulders in a single, fluid motion that spoke of economy and intent. At the door, he paused and looked back, his stance communicating what required no speech: the discussion was over, and the time for action had begun.

“You will meet Langley and two witnesses at the parapet in ten minutes. Prepare your people. I will alert the watch and instruct the archers to stand down.” His gaze was steady and intent. “Do not squander this opportunity.”

Then, without further ceremony, he departed, leaving the chill of the room to settle in his wake as he moved to make good on his word.

---

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Realms of Sun & Shadow

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_{Location: Community Barn
Interactions: Virgal (@Dark Light)
Mentions: N/A}

---

The fire roared back to life without warning, its sudden glare flooding the rough-hewn walls and casting Thalia’s face in a wash of gold. The return of light felt less like a comfort and more like an exposure. The darkness had been a protective shroud, and with a single thought, he had ripped it away. She could feel the damp tracks of her tears, cold and glaringly evident on her skin. Averting her face, she tried to use the curtain of her hair as a shield.

Her hand met the solid wood of the barn door, but it refused to yield, stubbornly sealed by his magic. Her frustration rapidly crystallized into a spike of alarm with this realization until his footsteps sounded behind her.

Lady Evercrest.

The title, spoken in his voice, landed with a resonance she hadn’t heard in years. It wasn’t laced with mockery or dripping with the pity she’d grown accustomed to; it was solemn, formal, as if he were reinstating a title she had been forced to abdicate.

He extended his hand. In his palm lay a stone, dark and smooth, suspended from a fine chain. The clasp was a work of intricate, unmistakable craftsmanship, a silent testament to his skill. As he explained its purpose, the words seemed to rush from him, as if they’d been held back too long. A day, a few hours, moments. This was more than a simple gift. It was an offering, a tangible acknowledgment of the harsh world they both inhabited, and perhaps an apology for which he had no words.

Thalia’s first instinct was a flare of defensive pride. Was this his solution? To placate her with charity, as one might toss a coin to a beggar? Did he believe a magical bauble could erase the sting of his earlier condescension? Yet, beneath that hot surge of indignation, a colder, more practical truth persisted. The memory of the morning’s labour was practically etched into her hands. The promise of contained, sustainable warmth was a siren’s call, a small, defiant flame of hope she would be a fool to ignore.

She drew a long, steadying breath, the air cool in her lungs.“You presume a great deal, Lord Calistar.”Her fingers rose, hovering just shy of the silver chain.“First, about my character. Then, about my place in this town. And now, about what I need.”

Her gaze lifted to meet his own, the hardness in her eyes betrayed by their still-glistening surface. “But I will not insult you or myself with a false refusal. Dawnhaven… could use such a gift. And so could I. So… thank you.”

The words tasted like iron on her tongue. Gratitude was not easy. It made her feel smaller, as though she’d admitted too much, revealed too much. But something in the slump of his shoulders, the exhaustion in his voice, told her he needed to hear it as much as she needed to say it.

As his magical grip released and the door sagged back into its ordinary standing, Thalia felt the tension in her chest ease, just a fraction. He was moving to leave now, mumbling a farewell, and part of her ached with relief. Another part also recognized the strange intimacy of the moment they’d shared, fractured and uncomfortable though it was.

“Be cautious with your generosity, my lord,”she said, her voice low. “Such gifts have a way of creating obligations.”

---

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Posts Deletion Request

Hi hi. Can you delete the following empty posts for me please? While the GM hasn't made a complaint about it, I think I'm just too ADD to ignore them lol. : https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/5624873

https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/5624874

https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/5624874

https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/5624877

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#86a8ad ....|..... outfit .....|..... party ........................................................................ #5a3e85 ....|..... outfit .....|..... party}

Anissa watched as Blair stumbled backward, her bare feet leaving ghostlike prints in the snow-dusted grass. Something about the unbothered way she laughed off her near-fall tugged at an unfamiliar chord in Anissa’s chest. But it was Blair’s parting words that truly stopped her short.

"Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do… Although that doesn’t mean much."

Heat rushed to Anissa’s face. Her fingers tightened unconsciously around the footwear still clutched in her hand. Even through her inebriated haze, she remembered Blair’s earlier tease about sleeping with River to dodge training. Anissa had laughed it off then, but the suggestion had wormed its way into her bloodstream. Was that what Blair meant now? A playful reminder of how she had flushed scarlet at the idea? The thought of River—awkward, careful, maddeningly earnest—had made it seem absurd. And yet, some newly awakened, reckless part of her wanted to rise to the challenge, if only to prove… what?

Lost in the thought, Anissa looked down at her hands, her knuckles white from their grip—

On skates.

Not boots.

Her brow furrowed in drunken confusion, the realization dawning a few sluggish seconds later. She blinked at the tangled laces trailing between her fingers, then let her gaze travel along the bench until, sure enough, she spotted her black thigh-high boots slumped in a heap farther down. The sight pulled a sudden snort from her.

"Nice one, Ani," she muttered to herself, shaking her head in self-deprecation. Of course. She’d been ready to march off into the party carrying the wrong damn pair of shoes.

With exaggerated care, as if the inanimate objects might betray her again, Anissa set the skates down and scooped up her boots. She started after Blair, then pivoted toward the glowing bonfire instead. Her boots swung from her hand as she walked, the thin layer of snow melting through her stockings with each step. The cold seeped in like pinpricks of ice, a stark contrast to the warm air clinging to her skin. It was messy, impractical, and ridiculous, yet she found it oddly freeing. She no longer cared if she looked foolish.

As she approached the bonfire, Anissa’s gaze lifted from her feet. Her vision filled with a world blurred into halos of golden light and flame. She closed her eyes, tilting her head back to feel the heat bloom across her skin. For a single, perfect moment, she allowed herself to simply be present, the evening's complexities melting away like the snow beneath her feet. A private smile graced her lips as she opened her eyes, her gaze sweeping across the crowd until it landed on the tall figure sitting apart from the rest.

Something warm and hopeful stirred within her. The moment he looked over, she rose onto her toes and gave an excited, slightly unsteady wave.

"You stayed!" she practically shouted, her voice carrying over the music and chatter as she started toward him.

As he said he would, River found a seat on one of the logs near the bonfire, kept to himself and waited. He tried to pass the time watching the crackling flames or unintentionally catching random pieces of conversations around him, but mostly he watched the ice rink. He pointedly made very sure not to be caught watching whenever she looked his way, but the whole thought of razorblade shoes and alcohol made him anxious. When Anissa and the girl she was with fell no more than two minutes after hitting the ice, he shot to his feet in a panic, but their roars of laughter put his nerves at ease, and he quickly sat back down before anyone noticed. Otherwise, he kept to himself, watching the clock countdown, and the party slowly started to thin out.

He was sitting with his forearms resting on his knees and hands cupped together when he noticed midnight was only a couple of minutes away. River’s gaze drifted over to the ice rink, but stopped short when he noticed Anissa walking barefoot across the snow straight toward him. Between the wide smile, wobbly wave, and uninhibited way she shouted across the party at him, she definitely had to be drunk. But even as his cheeks grew warm from the attention, he couldn’t fight his growing smile as he waved back at her with a little more subtlety. He had half expected her to forget about him, so seeing her excitement at him waiting for her made something flutter in his stomach.

River waited until she was closer, not wanting to make a scene by shouting back. He slowly pushed off his knees to sit upright. "I gave you my word," he replied with a soft resoluteness. He was never someone to go back on his word, even if it was something as small as sitting and waiting until midnight. But on the other hand, he cleared his throat and pointed at the torn tights over Anissa’s banged-up knee. "You promised to be careful." His voice was calm, but concern tugged his brows together as he scanned her for any other scrapes or bruises.

Anissa slowed her steps as she reached him, her eyes following the line of his pointed finger down to her knee. The torn tights revealed a darkening scrape beneath, the skin glistening, thin and angry, in the flickering firelight. She wiggled her toes, the biting cold a welcome distraction from the sting she was only now beginning to feel again.

"Oh, this? This is nothing," she said quickly, her tone brighter than it had any right to be. "The ice was slicker than I thought, and I got a little…enthusiastic, is all."

"It’s ice, Beauty Queen. It’s always slick," he laughed softly. River wasn’t surprised she fell, but he was thankful it was just a banged-up knee and nothing worse. Not that he’d admit that. Unless she asked him directly and he put his foot in his mouth… He was good at that.

Anissa rolled her eyes in response.
"I’ve been through worse anyway…."

And it was true. She had. Between the phantom grip of unseen hands and encounters with spirits who didn’t know their own strength, Anissa had learned to carry her wounds in silence. Any that were ever spotted were quickly chalked up to clumsiness, bad luck, or any plausible excuse her mother and others would accept without question.

Anissa’s voice trailed off into the crackle of the fire, and only then did she realize that River’s eyes weren’t fixed on her face anymore. They had drifted lower, scanning her arms and legs as if cataloging every possible place she might have taken a hit. He wasn’t being unkind, not prying exactly, but the intensity of his scrutiny compressed her chest.

Her free hand smoothed down the side of her dress in a futile gesture, as though its length could somehow cover what the bonfire had already revealed.

"I really did try to be careful," she repeated, her voice softer now, the bravado fading under his full attention. It was an admission that had less to do with the scrape on her knee and everything to do with how naked his gaze made her feel.

River’s gaze shifted back to meet hers when he noticed the uncomfortable way she adjusted her dress. "I believe you," he replied softly before averting his attention toward the countdown clock. There was a silent part of him that was thankful the party was nearly over and he could stop pretending, and failing, to be social. But seeing as how Anissa had found her way back to him, he was ok with lingering a little longer… for her. "Was it everything you wanted? The party?"

Anissa blinked, caught off guard. It felt like the last thing she’d expected him to ask. Her fingers traced the rim of one boot, buying a moment as her gaze drifted toward the blur of shifting bodies near the bar, the crowd thinner now as the night wound down.

"Honestly?" she murmured. "I thought it was going to be awful. And it was, at first…" She cleared her throat. "And no, I still don’t want to talk about it, because it really doesn’t matter anymore. But the ending?" A genuine smile touched her lips. "It’s not so bad so far. Makes me look forward to whatever the climax of the night will be."

"Well, you have about—" his gaze drifted over to the clock a second time, "—two minutes left." River looked around the party, noting how unfestive everything felt. "Not sure how much climax there will be." He immediately squinted his eyes and sucked in a sharp breath. "Not what I meant. Your word, not mine," he quickly tried to sweep his slip up under the rug rather than focus on it like the various other times he said the wrong thing at the wrong time that night.

"Relax. I’m not holding it against you." Anissa replied, the teasing covering for the fact that her heart had jumped a little too fast. It was like her body had betrayed her before her brain could remind her it was just a slip of the tongue. One she’d been partly responsible for.

Her eyes followed River’s glance toward the clock before returning to his face, catching the subtle signs of someone who’d rather be anywhere else. And yet, he was still here. For her? The thought fluttered in her stomach, tentative and fragile.

"You don't have to stay any longer if you don’t want to," Anissa said, the words almost swallowed by the distant thrum of the bass. The offer was genuine, an attempt to give him an easy exit. But beneath it, a more selfish part of her hoped he would refuse, that he would choose to remain in this noisy, complicated world with her just a little while longer. The contradiction made her pause. Why? What was she trying to prove, either to him or to herself?

The answer, like so much tonight, slipped from her grasp.

"It’s two minutes, Anissa," he replied with a soft laugh, but there was a genuine smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You asked me to bring in the New Year with you—well, demanded really. You’re really quite bossy," River chuckled at the innocent tease. "If you want me here, I’ll stay."

His final words were softer and nearly got lost beneath the music. He would have much rather left the party hours ago, but he promised her that he’d try to have fun. He’d also promised to wait right where he was for her until midnight, and that’s what he was doing. Because he was a man of his word, and it was all worth it for the excited wave and smile she gave him when she noticed he was still there.

"I didn’t demand," Anissa countered, though the excuse sounded thin even to her own ears. "I might have... strongly encouraged." She offered a reluctant smile, a playful glint in her eyes. "You probably just bring it out of me. Especially since you'll be the one bossing me around soon enough. I've got to take advantage while I can."

With that retort, she glanced past him toward the thinning crowd. The music still pounded and the bonfire still roared, but the energy had shifted more than she'd realized. A few campers were already shuffling off toward their cabins, and her heart sank a little to see Tapeesa among them. The girl had seemed so vibrant, full of an energy that promised to dance until dawn. If even she was calling it a night...

Anissa lifted a hand in a small, acknowledging wave, but Tapeesa's gaze was turned inward, her attention miles away. Somewhat embarrassed, Anissa let her hand drop, a blush colouring her cheeks at the unnoticed gesture. She turned back to River, feeling a mix of relief and self-consciousness at his patient smile. It put her at ease, even as she couldn't shake the feeling of being one of the last stragglers at a gathering that had peaked without them.

"Well, if you do what I say, then I won’t be bossy." River’s smile grew slightly, as if he already knew that was impossible. "But something tells me you’re an ornery little shit. I can’t imagine why." It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with how Anissa has been since the moment they met. Sassy and combative seemed to be her natural state, not to mention the enjoyment she got from torturing him one way or the other. He had a sneaking suspicion that she was going to be a special breed of hell when it came to training.

Anissa’s mouth fell open, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her. "Ornery?" she echoed, the word rolling off her tongue like a scandalous accusation."I’ve been nothing but agreeable and kind. I even offered you a nipple, and this is the thanks I get?"

"Prove me wrong and I’ll apologize." River’s face was blank aside from the slight glint in his eye and the tiny smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth that said he didn’t believe her for one second. "Hell, I’ll get on my knees and apologize."

The poor sap. Anissa didn’t even bother to hold back the shit-eating grin spreading across her face.

"You know what, Riv? That actually sounds like a perfect position for you," she said, watching with satisfaction as a flush crept up his neck. "Guess we’ll just have to see how long it takes before you owe me." The only disadvantage was that she would now have to be on her best behaviour. Shame.

River choked and coughed as whatever confidence he had disappeared immediately. He tugged at the loose collar of his shirt, trying his best to fight the oncoming blush rising up his chest… and failing. "Guess so," was all he was able to mutter out while still struggling to catch his breath.

Anissa’s lips twitched into something between a smile and sympathy for how easily she could rattle him. The moment of triumph was short-lived, however, as a sudden dizziness made her sway.

"I think I need to sit down…." she mumbled. It wasn’t just the alcohol making her legs feel unstable. They ached from the unaccustomed exertion on the ice, her knee still throbbed, and her body was finally catching up to the whirlwind of an evening that had pulled her in too many directions. And maybe, if she was honest, the desire to sit was also driven by a need to anchor herself beside the one person who hadn't left.

River instinctively held out a hand for her to hold onto and stabilize herself, while scooting over slightly to make some room for her on the log. Then there was a pop, soft whistle, followed by a loud boom as a singular firework burst overhead in a glittering explosion of gold and red. His gaze fell to the side of the arena where the clock had changed to a one-minute countdown after the warning firework. The loud rumble startled him slightly, not really knowing what he expected as midnight got closer. He laughed at himself before turning back to Anissa with his hand still held out if she needed it.

She reached for him, her fingers slipping warm against his as he helped her. After placing her boots on the ground, she intended to sit beside him, but just then, another crack split the air, followed by a great bloom of colour unfurling across the night sky.

"It’s starting!" Anissa gasped, her voice pitching high with delight. Another firework screeched skyward and burst, and in her excitement, she forgot all about the space he’d made. The momentum of the moment carried her down to plop directly onto his lap as if it were the most natural seat in the world.

Her free hand came to rest lightly against his chest, thumping in time with each new, glittering explosion above them. "Look, look! It’s starting!" she repeated, her grin wide and unguarded as the light painted her face in shifting shades of gold and ruby.

River’s breath caught in his throat, frozen in place as she fell into his lap rather than the available space beside him. His heart beat so furiously against his chest that it made his breath shaky and unsteady. Redness flooded his face, down his neck, and across his chest in an instant. All of his thoughts felt jumbled like they were tossed in a blender, but he couldn’t make sense of any of them. There was no way it could have been on purpose. She was just drunk and confused and—

Then her hand was on his chest. Every muscle in his torso tensed as the tip of one of her fingers just barely brushed against the exposed skin beneath his partially unbuttoned shirt. All of River’s attention focused on that one hand and steadying his breathing so he didn’t feel like he was hyperventilating from their closeness. He swallowed while his hands hovered uncertainly in the air beside her, not having a clue what to do with them, half forgetting they existed in the first place. He heard the loud booms of the fireworks overhead, might have even noticed as time ticked closer to midnight, but all he could do was watch the way the excitement lit up Anissa’s face. Gods, he was in trouble.

Anissa remained perfectly oblivious to the way River’s chest had gone rigid beneath her palm, too caught up in the dazzling cascade of colour. She was simply a girl swept away by the spectacle, miraculously free from the burden of her demons and her endless second-guessing.

Then, her laughter softened into a quiet sigh, her palm resting more firmly against his chest. It was only then that she felt it: the wild, frantic thrum of his heartbeat, so pronounced it nearly drowned out the distant revelry. When she turned to face him, her smile slowly faded, not from doubt, but from the stunning realization of their proximity. And how much she liked it.

She took in the wide-eyed flush he couldn’t hide, the way his lips parted as if words had failed him. Each detail pulled her in, sharpened by the alcohol that narrowed her world to this single point. Firelight and fireworks tangled across his features, painting his skin in shifting shades of amber and scarlet, and she found herself fixated on how the colours bled into the depths of his irises.

Her gaze drifted down, tracking the trail of red creeping along his neck, following the nervous pulse beating there so visibly she could almost feel its rhythm mirrored in her own chest. The tense set of his shoulders clashed with the betraying shallowness of his breath. To anyone else, the hesitant twitch of his fingers might have seemed insignificant, but she saw how they hovered, suspended in a silent debate.

The longer she watched him, close enough to see the potent mix of panic and wonder warring in his expression, the clearer the truth became: he wasn't just flustered. He was completely overwhelmed. By her.

The realization sent her own heart racing, a feeling dangerously close to pure exhilaration.

Almost without conscious thought, she shifted. Her knees bracketed his thighs as she slid more fully into his lap. The movement was clumsy, born of bourbon-warm limbs and heedless impulse, but when she settled, the new weight of her felt… right. Her hand, once flat against his chest, slipped upward, her fingertips grazing the hollow of his throat before coming to rest against his cheek. It lingered there, her thumb stroking the corner of his mouth in a slow, absent motion, as if mesmerized by the simple feel of him. Light danced across his face, gilding the flush on his skin, and Anissa watched him with a half-dazed intensity, her brown eyes caught between wonder and daring resolve.

When she first started moving, River’s hands finally shifted from where they hovered frozen in the air. He thought she was either falling or maybe the realization of everything caught up to her, and she was climbing out of his lap. Whichever it was, he was prepared to catch her if she lost her balance. But in the same way he was quickly learning to be very Anissa, she did the last thing he expected.

Everything felt like it was in slow motion and sped up all at once. One minute, she was drunkenly fumbling, and then she was facing him. There were the loud booms of fireworks overhead that rumbled in the ground beneath them, but he hardly noticed. His gaze fell for just a second, taking in the way she straddled his waist, legs pinning him in place, and how the hem of her dress slipped higher, revealing more of her thighs. He sucked in a ragged breath, cementing his hands in place on the log on either side of them. His knuckles went white as his fingers dug into the wood desperately, like it was the only lifeline keeping him from drowning in Anissa’s presence.

River’s chest heaved, and his breath hitched beneath her hand as she slowly inched it up his chest. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t pry his gaze from hers, almost in a hypnotic trance as he watched the glittering explosions reflected in her eyes back at him. His body felt hot and restless in ways he dreaded and knew he couldn’t hide from her. When the tips of Anissa’s fingers trailed up his neck, a chill ran down his spine. He forced his eyes shut and exhaled a deep, shaky breath as he tried to think about anything else, cold water, brussels sprouts, the old lady that lived down the street who always needed help with her groceries and smelled like cats. It didn’t help. He chanted it like a mantra in his mind, but all he felt was her, the warmth of her thighs against his, the tingles of electricity wherever her fingertips brushed his bare skin, and her thumb teasing against the corner of his mouth.

His eyes snapped open, flicking between her intense gaze and the faint burgundy tint that clung to her lips. All of his logic and reason vanished, disappearing into a cloudy haze as every thought and feeling was wrapped up in her. He didn’t have a clue what was doing, like his body had a mind of its own. River leaned forward, closing the small bit of space between them and pressed his lips to hers. It lasted for no more than a second before his mind tripped and stumbled to catch up to his actions. He pulled away, eyes wide, and skin flushed. "I’m sorry," he apologized between heavy breaths, not knowing what had come over him. "I shouldn’t—"

"Shut up."

His apology was cut short as Anissa’s fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him back to her. There was no hesitation now, no drunken fumbling. Only a startling clarity as her kiss became an answer, a surrender, and a claim, all at once.

Her mouth met his with a boldness that burned away the last of her doubts. The world narrowed to the feel of him: the solid warmth of his body, the uneven rhythm of his breath, the way his heat bled through every barrier between them. She pressed closer, deepening the kiss as she pulled him near, her grip in his hair a gentle command. She wouldn’t have let him go anyway—because yes, she was bossy, and in this moment, she knew exactly what she wanted. Overhead, fireworks exploded in a kaleidoscope of colour, the world counting down to zero without them.

Then her tongue brushed against his lips, catching the lingering sweetness of grenadine. It struck her like a collision of flavours that mirrored their collision of selves; her fire meeting his reserve, her calculated risk melting into his quiet surrender.

River didn’t know what he expected or what to think… He wasn’t thinking. His body conceded where his mind faltered, giving in to whatever she wanted without a shred of thought. The anxiety that tensed his muscles and made his heart race drifted away into the fog that surrounded them. Where he was usually nervous and clumsy, he was now under the thrall of a new wave of emotions and sensations unfamiliar to him. Elation, curiosity, and desperation guided him through uncharted territory. Like a dance, he let Anissa lead and set the pace while he matched her beat for beat, growing more bold and confident with every second he remained trapped beneath her.

Whatever space was once between them vanished as their bodies pressed together, chests fighting against one another with every breath. River was a hypocrite. He should have cared about the impression he was giving, his father’s judgment, or the lingering gazes, but in that moment, all he cared about was her. Anissa overwhelmed his senses, dulled his inhibitions, and left him hungry for more. He seized her waist, thumbs pressing into her sides with a gentle firmness as he tried pulling her in closer as if there was any room left between them. His lips parted at her beckoning, tasting the hints of cherry and bourbon as his tongue brushed against hers. Every nerve from his head down to his toes tingled with electricity as the fireworks grew to a thunderous roar, dozens firing at once, signalling the new year.

The sudden heat of River's hands at her waist sent a jolt through Anissa. His touch was more insistent than she had anticipated, his thumbs pressing firmly into the curves of her hips with a possessiveness that stole her breath. The nervous boy from moments before was gone, replaced by someone whose mouth moved against hers with a newfound, desperate confidence. The last of his hesitation vanished as his tongue met hers, a surrender she’d craved that left her dizzy nonetheless. In response, her fingers slid deeper into his hair, tangling and tugging, emboldened by his yielding.

The grand finale of fireworks roared overhead, the concussions echoing in her chest like a second, frantic heartbeat, but Anissa could only hear the ragged rasp of River’s breath between kisses. She could only feel the electric current sparking at every point of connection: his hands on her waist, her knees against his thighs, the thrilling warmth of his skin seeping through their clothes.

If anyone had asked how long they stayed like that, lost in each other, she could never have said nor would she have cared. The only certainty was a desperate, silent wish that it would never end. She was acutely aware of every small sound he made: every soft gasp, every hitched breath, every time his lips parted against hers as if to speak, only to surrender again to the kiss.

It was only when the final cascade of light faded into drifting smoke, leaving a silence punctuated by their ragged breathing, that Anissa pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against his. Her lashes fluttered open. The blurred outline of his face swam into focus, and with her lips still tingling, she whispered against his skin

"Happy New Year…"

But the dizziness didn’t subside. If anything, it intensified, her head spinning in a way that had nothing to do with the heat of his mouth or the bourbon. A pressure, cold and vast, coiled deep within her chest, pulling at her insides like an unforgiving tide. Anissa blinked hard, confusion furrowing her brow as the sensation became unbearable.

With a frantic movement, she scrambled off his lap, nearly tripping over her own boots as she stumbled to the side. Her hand clamped over her mouth, but it was too late. Her knees buckled, and she dropped to all fours in the snow-dusted grass, hands digging into the frozen earth as her stomach lurched. The distinct, brutal taste of salt surged up her throat. She bent forward, retching as a stream of briny, bitter liquid splattered onto the ground.

End of collab pt. 1/2

^{interactions ....|.... none ............... mentions ....|.... Blair, Tapeesa ............... collabs ....|.... @Mjolnir}

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Camp Athens - Closed

^{#d4af37...|...outfit}

Elias remained motionless as Nate’s back disappeared into the crowd. The man’s words didn't fade so much as burrow, ringing in his ears like a crack of thunder that had settled deep in his bones.

An ass to everyone, or just women?

The accusation slid in sideways because it didn’t quite fit. He could own plenty of things: his pride getting the best of him, his short fuse, a mouth that sometimes outran his judgment. But cruelty, targeted or casual, simply wasn’t on the list. Hell, half his childhood had been spent bracing a house with two hands and a promise so his mother never had to. He’d stared down catcalls on sidewalks, rewired a junk heater with shaking fingers, and learned the exact temperature of her tea by memory. Was he occasionally too much? Sure. But was he the wrong kind of man? No.

So why did it feel like the insult had teeth?

He dragged a hand down his face, staring at the space Tapeesa had left behind as if he could reverse-engineer the moment from the outline she’d burned into the air. His mind kept snagging on small, telling details: her palm intercepting his wayward fork earlier that evening, the playful scolding in her voice; the way she’d told him he should come dance, but not that she wanted or expected him to. How was he supposed to know the difference? To hear the nuance Nate swore was there, when to Elias it had sounded like a throwaway line? She had been so direct with him before now, leading him to assume that when she wanted something, she would simply say it. Like when she’d told him without hesitation that she wouldn’t leave him behind even if she couldn’t fight, or when she pressed him to admit he didn’t want her gone. She never left him guessing then.

So…why then?

The recall of the exact moment she’d made her “request” caused the misfire with Anissa to come back to him, too, piling onto Elias’s frustration. The stupid “lizard” joke, the polite freeze that had followed. Individually, those moments had seemed minor, somewhat meaningful but not really all that significant. Together, however, they had stacked like kindling without him realizing it, until Tapeesa’s jab on the dance floor about dancing alone for an hour had struck a spark he hadn't managed to smother fast enough.

And then he saw her face as his own words landed, the brightness going out of her expression as if he’d cupped a hand over that candle flame.

His retort wasn't supposed to be a knife. It was meant to be more like… a border post which said, ‘You stung me, too.’ But spoken out loud, in front of a crowd and a guy with his hand hooked in hers, it had warped into something uglier, he supposed. It made him feel late to the game again, and worse, petty about it.

And as much as Elias Trueno hated being late, he hated pettiness even more.

He exhaled sharply, his tongue searching the back of his teeth for a bitterness he could chew down. His hands flexed at his sides, and out of instinct, he checked the air the way he always did, listening for a wrongness only he could sense. The nearby bonfire’s heat licked his face, but the memory that rose was a different warmth entirely: a thermos pressed to chapped lips; mittens swallowing his fingers; wind he’d quietly shouldered aside so she could walk without the gale dragging at her hood. Those hours were a pocket universe now, defined by her thumb clicking open a gate, her arm looping through his, her finger tracing the pale spiral on his forearm and calling it “very Zeus-y” with an easy curiosity that hadn't made him cringe.

It had been reciprocity, not rescue. He’d offered lift and weather, while she’d offered hands and a place to set his bag down. That was the kind of thing Elias believed in, the simple economy of mutual support. And yet tonight had rewritten that belief in bolder, more brutal strokes with her stepping between him and Nate like he was the one you guarded against.

And the phrasing—should—clanged in his head again. He’d said what he meant: I would’ve joined if you’d asked. He hadn’t wanted to be an obligation. He’d wanted a want.

But watching her walk away after he’d finally said it out loud, and in such a clumsy way, felt like confirmation that vulnerability might have a cover fee he simply couldn’t pay.

Elias scrubbed his jaw, replaying the scene from the beginning, all the way back to the greenhouse and that wool-soft domesticity he’d pretended not to like. Maybe the mistake was thinking a gate opening with her thumb was a door meant for him. Maybe he’d been a storm in that greenhouse, much like he was everywhere else—nice to look at so long as he stayed behind the glass. Because out here, he would only rattle the panes.

“What the hell does that even mean?” he muttered, answering the ghost of Nate’s question and hearing his mother’s voice instead. He didn’t feel angry so much as miscast, shoved into a role he hadn’t auditioned for. He wasn't playing the friend who had dragged himself onto the floor to pay the so-called dancing tax, who had introduced Forest, who had made his own half-ridiculous shuffle just to meet Tapeesa halfway. He wasn't the guy who, yeah, had thoughts about a potential good smoke, but who was still trying to show up without any actual strings attached. No, the part they’d handed him was uglier: the bastard who only arrived to sour her night, who came for pity or healing or some other ulterior agenda.

Elias shut his eyes and let the noise of the party fill in the spaces. The accusation still itched, but underneath it was the image of Tapeesa’s shoulders tipping toward someone else. Someone clearly lighter on his feet, who made her laugh without tripping over significance. Asymmetry of grace, his brain supplied, annoyingly clinical the way it could be in social moments when he actually bothered to observe.

When he opened his eyes again, Elias found Forest where he’d been the whole time. The bravado that had covered him like a familiar jacket, however, had slipped off somewhere in the last five minutes; what was left was just the cold, held back by the unnatural warmth of divine magic.

“Sorry about that,” he said, the words rough. “Didn’t mean to drag you into…whatever that was. Hope I didn’t screw up your night.” He tried on a smirk that no longer fit. “Nate’s not wrong about one thing. You probably should find better company.” The word stuck in his throat, and he let it because he deserved to feel it catch. He tipped his chin toward the dark beyond the firelight, already shifting his weight like a man who knows how to step off a stage before the lights make him a silhouette.

“Gonna clear my head. Weather looks friendlier above a hundred feet tonight anyway.”

And then he just walked, until the drum of the music fell behind him and the air lost the tang of smoke.

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Location: Dancefloor --> Outskirts of Party
Interactions: Forest(@NoriWasHere)
Mentions: Anissa, Tapeesa, Nate