First Reply Space

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania
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Words did not make it to Meya's tongue when Lysander's question landed. They couldn't. Not now. Yet even if they could...

This was precisely why she kept people at arm's length. Why walls had always been simpler. Despite herself, she was almost certain she already knew the answer, even if she kept it buried beneath an impassive expression. She could not allow even the smallest crack to show. Not here. Not before Mother.

Several heartbeats later, she realised she had been holding her breath. Quietly, she let it escape. For now, that was enough.

Silence settled over the chamber after Lysander finished speaking. Emerald light continued its slow dance across polished stone, casting restless shadows between the towering columns while none of the three elder witches moved to immediately answer.

Mother Zorya regarded him with the same unwavering stillness she had held since his arrival. Whatever judgement she formed remained impossible to read. Nyara's expression, however, betrayed no uncertainty.

<"Do you truly believe the Covenant would march upon Dathomir over a single emissary?"> she asked in clipped Dathomiri, turning toward Mother rather than Lysander. <"Doing so would risk whatever fragile understanding they have built with the Mandalorian Empire."> Her tone suggested the answer should have been self-evident.

Mother absorbed the words without visible reaction.

Privately, she found the matter less straightforward than Nyara wished it to be. Whether the Covenant chose retaliation or restraint was almost secondary. Holding an emissary violated customs recognised well beyond Dathomir, and the Mandalorian Empire was unlikely to look favourably upon such an act regardless of its opinion of the Covenant. Nyara's conviction, while admirable, had perhaps begun to narrow her judgement.

As the silence stretched between them, Meya met Lysander's eyes. There was no plea there. No desperate appeal for intervention. Only trust. Trust she had noticed before. Trust she wasn't entirely certain she deserved. Yet... maybe... it wasn't misplaced. The thought settled uneasily somewhere behind the walls she had spent years constructing.

Mother noticed the exchange. "Meya." The single word carried all the weight of her office. "Your assessment."

Meya neither hesitated nor lowered her gaze beneath Mother's. What kind of Sith Lord would she be if she shrank under another’s authority? Several measured breaths passed while emerald fire washed across her ivory skin before she finally answered. "Our relationship with the Covenant has allowed me to recover more Dathomiri relics, knowledge, and property than I otherwise could have." Her voice remained level. "I believe it worthy of preserving, if only for that reason."

Among the Dathomiri, the recovery of what had been carried beyond their world was not viewed as simple archaeology. Every relic, every grimoire, every fragment of history returned home restored a piece of Dathomir itself.

Nyara's gaze hardened even more at Meya's reply. One hand swept sharply through the air, as though casting aside the very notion. "And how many still gather dust in Sith vaults while we commend those who return a handful?" she countered.

Her attention shifted briefly toward Meya. "Your role exists partly because of the Sith. Had they not scattered our heritage across the galaxy, there would be far less for you to recover."

For the first time since the audience began, Sister Varesh spoke. "Young Sister." The words emerged without criticism or endorsement. "Are there not other paths that produce the same results?"

Again, silence settled over the chamber. Mother allowed each perspective to linger before speaking once more. "You speak of repair." Her attention returned fully to Lysander. "So often your people turn first to credits for that task. Credits hold little value here, and no two Sisters or Brothers would accept the same form of recompense."

Her expression remained unreadable. "What does repair look like to your people when the value of what was harmed cannot be measured in credits?"

In reality, she wished to know whether Lysander understood that trust with the Dathomiri could not simply be purchased back into existence. Any government could loosen its purse strings. Far fewer possessed the patience, humility, and resolve to rebuild a relationship that had already begun to fracture.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Meya Liefi​

Lysander wore the look of a man who'd long since made his truce with the abyss. His head tilted like a Gualaar in the reeds, eyes tracking Meya and listening to the content of her words. He felt no shadow of doubt toward her; how could he? Not after the Emissary had danced through fields of fire where one wrong step meant annihilation. This room? Surely a sanctuary by comparison. Words, he'd been told once, were just blaster bolts with better manners.

He glanced toward Mother, then back to Meya. "Sister Meya's got a point about the bridge we've recently built. This isn't just bartering. We're weaving our reach with her insight, making sure these things stay in hands that get what they're really worth. A partnership defined by mutual growth, a smart path forward for both our.. Houses." He knew the words weren't pure truth. A half‑lie, maybe, but one she'd taste the moment it left his tongue. Trusting the Sephi meant letting her see it and letting her decide what to do with it. Not exactly his strong suit, handing over his fate like that.

Once the others finished speaking, and Mother's words finally settled, he wouldn't rush his response. Only then did he turn his attention toward the center of the room, before meeting the Queen's gaze. Lysander allowed a small smile to touch one corner of his mouth.

"You are correct, Mother," he continued, holding up a hand, palm open like an offering. "I'm searching for a balance. To answer you.. when we encounter a breach that credit patch the whole, I think it starts with presence. My people often think that providing resources is the same as providing support, but I do understand that is a mistake. Repair? That's showing up without an agenda. It looks like allowing the aggrieved party to define the terms of the reconciliation."

He took a step forward. "If we've broken something, the fix isn't one grand gesture. It is a promise to change how we interact with your people. It means I must be willing to sit in the discomfort of these Brothers and Sisters, and to listen to any wrongs against them. I'm offering you my time. I have no such illusions that this will be fixed today, or even in the coming weeks. But, I have the patience to see it through. So, do enlighten me on what repair means to you."

 

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania​

Meya caught the half-lie, though she gave no outward sign of it. A small part of her wondered whether the elder witches had sensed it. Another wondered whether they cared. Either way, it was not her place to intervene.

"He," Nyara's voice sliced through the chamber as though the single word were accusation enough. Before another syllable could leave her lips, Varesh smiled and interjected, "You forget his claimed status, Sister Nyara."

Nyara's golden eyes turned toward her. The frown already carved across her features somehow deepened further, while Varesh answered it with nothing more than an amused breath through her nose.

"Brother Lysander," she corrected pleasantly. "Not simply he, my dear Sister."

For a heartbeat it appeared Nyara might answer, but Mother spared her the opportunity.

"Then ensure your people keep their promise." Mother’s words settled over the chamber without force, yet no one interrupted them. The room fell still once more. Witchfire whispered softly within the iron bowls while Mother closed her eyes, drawing a slow breath before opening them again.

"I will offer you this." Her attention rested upon Lysander. "When every Sister and every Brother directly affected by this incident has come before me and declares that they accept the recompense offered by you and your government, I will consider this matter closed."

Nyara's expression changed first. The corners of her mouth lifted into the faintest, sharpest suggestion of satisfaction. Varesh's smile remained, though the amusement had largely left it. Her eyes drifted instead toward Zorya before returning to Lysander.

Neither woman needed to voice what Mother had truly asked of him. Convincing Mother had never been the difficult part. Convincing every Brother and Sister whose lives had been touched by the escape—that was another matter entirely.

Some would accept his offer without much thought. Others might never accept it at all. Tradition, old grievances, and suspicion of outsiders had survived for generations. They would not simply vanish because one man wished them to.

Meya's attention returned to Lysander, her golden eyes searching his face for whatever answer he might give. The hour of the Moonwake was drawing steadily nearer, and with it the end of the audience, whatever its outcome.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Meya Liefi​

Strangely, Nayara's disdain and Varesh's assessment arrived at the exact same time. Their Queen asked for the impossible and wrapped it in compromise. Willingly, the carefully crafted mask shifted to expose the figure underneath. "I understand, Mother. You're guarding your own, and I respect that. This wasn't just a failure of policy; it was a failure of duty to people I have come to care for. If the only way to heal this rift is to sit in the kitchens and the workshops of those affected, then I will consider those hours the most important I spend in this city. I'm not here to win a debate. I'm here to set things right, one conversation at a time. I'll make the rounds, and I promise you that."

Some of the Sisters met his offer with nods, others with stares. A few would step forward with private words. Others kept their distance entirely. Whether it bothered him truly or not, he didn't show it. Tradition clearly ran deep here; suspicion.. deeper still. He listened where he was welcomed, endured where he wasn't. By the end of it, nothing had been fully resolved, but.. at least the first stones shifted. Lysander considered it a small victory.

When they stepped out from the chamber and into the violet of Dathomir's dusk, his posture dissolved. Fingertips knotted into the weave at the nape, tugging until a pop was released from the spine. Watching the horizon, he knew the Moonwake would begin soon.

Steps slowed as his attention swung to Meya. He didn't appear as an Emissary now; he looked like a normal human. "Holding up alright?" a casual check-in drifted from his lips. Shoulders finally eased from their perch. "'Brother Lysander,'" he repeated, mocking the title with a playful roll of his eyes before giving a brisk shrug.

Emerald irises softened during the next glance. "Is there anything you need before the ritual begins? Something to sip. A bite? You shouldn't face the night on an empty stomach."

Of course, Lysander knew the Sephi had food in her basket but also wanted to find an excuse to talk to her. For whatever reason, she shielded him from the fallout of a lie earlier. Now, he just couldn't find the right words to say, so he hoped they could just eat something together instead. "Maybe.." The sentence trailed off, punctuated by a bashful scratch against a cheek. "If you aren't opposed to it.. well, would you be willing to split one of those pieces of fruit with me?"

Shifting a little closer, he reached out, offering a palm upward. Warmth brightened his expression into something boyish. "Here," coaxed softly, "I'd be honored to carry that basket for you, if you'll let me."

 

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania​

Meya inclined her head once, the motion small enough that it might have been missed by anyone who did not know her. "I am."

"Mother did not forbid working with the Covenant," Meya observed as they followed the winding path away from the audience chamber. "It is a victory."

When Lysander repeated Brother Lysander with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, the corner of her mouth threatened the faintest movement before discipline reclaimed it.

"Not many will be willing to use the title," she admitted. "Even if it is technically correct."

Golden eyes dropped toward her basket before shifting to his outstretched hand. Meya hesitated only briefly before offering it to him. Refusing now felt... unnecessary, and she knew it meant something that he had offered. More troubling was the realisation that whatever part of her had grown closer to Lysander would not simply disappear once they parted and she returned to her usual life. Why it took him offering to carry her basket for that to dawn on her, she didn't know and probably never would.

Before relinquishing the basket entirely, she reached inside and withdrew one of the smaller fruits. Using the edge of her nail, she split it cleanly down the middle. Inside rested several translucent pods clustered together like tiny jewels.

She held it between them. "You first."

By the time they reached the Moonwake grounds, the settlement had become noticeably livelier. Witches and Brothers moved between long tables arranged around open clearings. Children darted between adults carrying woven garlands, while older Sisters directed preparations.

Meya guided him toward one of the longer wooden tables. Earthen bowls stretched almost its entire length, each filled with thick mineral pigments of striking colour. Unlike ordinary paints, these had been prepared from Dathomiri clays, crushed stone, plant dyes, and oils that stained the skin for several days before fading naturally.

"Every colour represents a positive trait. They may be chosen by another, or by the person wearing them," she explained, eyes passing over the bowls. "I was told it serves as a reminder, should the Spiritvine lead someone somewhere darker."

Taking it would be expected, though she wondered whether Lysander was willing to take another dose. Truthfully, she spent much of each Moonwake hidden away somewhere, away from the celebrations, because of the control Spiritvine seemed to strip from her. Even so, she forced herself to take it every year. Avoiding it felt too much like surrendering to fear, and she refused to become so cowardly that she would not face whatever it chose to show her.

Nearby, several Brothers were already painting one another's faces while laughing amongst themselves. Elsewhere, an elderly Sister carefully traced intricate markings across the brow of a young one whose nervous excitement was impossible to hide.

Meya's fingers finally settled above a rich crimson pigment. "This one is most often associated with bravery."

She dipped the tip of one finger into the paint before raising it slightly in silent question. If Lysander allowed, she stepped closer and drew a single stroke across the left side of his cheekbone, followed by a second, shorter mark beneath it.

The Brothers that stood a short distance away pretended to occupy themselves with conversation, though their attention drifted toward Lysander more often than circumstance required. Their expressions varied. Some appeared merely curious, while others seemed less at ease. One frowned openly before saying something under his breath to another. The second answered with a shrug, though neither looked particularly comfortable.