First Reply Space

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania​

The path beyond the gates climbed steadily along the mountainside. Ancient stone stairs, worn smooth by countless generations, ascended in broad terraces carved directly into the black rock. Between each rise lay narrow landings where weathered statues of long-dead matriarchs watched in eternal silence.

Activity surrounded them without ever becoming chaotic. Sisters crossed elevated walkways draped with crimson banners that stirred in the mountain wind. Nightbrothers hauled timber toward great braziers already being prepared for the coming evening while others carried baskets filled with herbs whose sharp fragrances mingled with damp stone and woodsmoke. Conversation flowed in pockets before dying entirely as Meya and Lysander passed.

More than a few eyes lingered upon them. Meya appeared not to notice. Whether from habit or indifference, she continued climbing with the same pace she'd maintained since leaving the landing grounds.

All the while she listened to Lysander. But at some point, Meya stopped.

The sudden halt echoed subtly across the stone stair beneath their boots. For the first time since entering the castle grounds, she turned fully toward him.

Around them, movement slowed almost imperceptibly.

A pair of Nightbrothers carrying firewood continued onward, though one glanced over his shoulder. Two young Sisters standing beside a nearby archway abandoned their conversation entirely. Even those farther up the terraces seemed to notice the Sephi had unexpectedly interrupted her ascent.

"If you believe me so unserious..." she said evenly, "...so meek..." A faint crease appeared between her brows. "Then I will prove you mistaken."

Without another word, she closed the remaining distance between herself and Lysander.

Her hand rose, not toward a weapon, but toward him. Lithe fingers settled lightly near the side of his jaw should he not pull away. She studied him only a single heartbeat before speaking, her voice carrying clearly enough for those nearest to hear.

"Before the spirits and before my clan, I claim you as my male." The words were simple. Matter-of-fact.

One of the younger Sisters blinked twice before hurriedly lowering her gaze. Somewhere farther up the stair, someone gave a whistle that earned an immediate elbow from the companion beside him.

Meya removed her hand as though nothing extraordinary had occurred. Internally, the certainty remained less absolute than she allowed herself to display. She could relinquish her claim. Traditions contained allowances for such things. Though she had never expected to stand upon Dathomir making such a declaration, nor had she devoted any meaningful thought to what followed afterward. The realisation surfaced only briefly before she buried it.

A huff escaped her nose. She turned sharply and resumed climbing the mountain without waiting to see his reaction. Though shortly after Meya regarded him from the corner of her eye. "When the Moonwake concludes, I shall consider your proposal for a duel."

Another staircase curved upward between towering retaining walls, each lined with carved alcoves containing flickering green witchfire. The climb grew steeper, forcing the castle ever higher above them while the valley slowly disappeared below.

"I would not become overly attached to the notion of blades, however." Her expression remained as unreadable as ever. "I seldom require one."

"Though your confidence in both your swordsmanship and your tongue suggests one of them has yet to encounter sufficient opposition."

There was no obvious smile accompanying the remark. Only the smallest... faintest hint that, perhaps, she had intended it as one.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Meya Liefi​

The mountain's air became heavier; the rare sort that curdles before a storm breaks. Beneath those ancient stones, paths wound upward, strangely reminiscent of the trails of home, Ukatis. Of course, it was simpler, really, lacking the sheen of those more advanced galactic hubs, possessing a more.. terrestrial soul that resonated with the young Sith.

Even as the crowd around them thickened and curious gazes like moths toward the periphery, total focus was locked ahead. For the time being, distractions were unworthy of recognition; peripheral vision served well to map the incline.

When Meya suddenly arrested her momentum, matching her gait became an instinctive necessity. Twin glass emeralds assessed her with a lingering survey. A gossamer caress blossomed along the line of his jaw, an intrusion that bypassed defensive perimeters. "I admit, I did not expect you to answer my words so.. decisively," the half-lie emerged as a murmur. A long exhalation followed, the sound barely clearing Lysander's lips before vanishing into the mountain breeze. Rising to meet his scrutiny was precisely what the situation required, and expected, though, there too was a peculiar satisfaction audacity of it all.

Shadow-like, and clinging in her wake, his boots mirrored the woman’s pivot. Fingers interlaced behind the small of his back, spine held with the grace of a diplomat preparing for the next siege.. or, adorned in her rings, a jeweler’s lock, per se.

An imperceptible curve touched the mouth as he ascended those steps; it wasn’t welcoming nor taunting in nature, but carried an undeniable spark of amusement all the same. “Then again,” the words were bathed in an air of nonchalance, “I’d expect nothing less. Iron sharpening iron, right? We’re simply preparing one another for the trials ahead."

Later, as the conversation turned toward lethality, Lysander’s tone remained smooth, unruffled by the barbs cast by the Sethi. “My saber and I have shared a more intimate history than most convene in a lifetime of diplomatic parley. But soon you'll discover I'm quite as adaptable in the melee without it as well. Whatever the moment dictates, of course.”

Then, a sliver of autobiography pierced the veneer. "You should understand that such is my nature. From the fencer who once studied at the Ukatis academy, to the climb at Kor'ethyr Academy, and through the fire of the Covenant.. dueling is all I have ever known. If I cannot persuade you with the blade of my tongue, then I must rely on the alternative.”

Pausing to inspect the architecture of the corridor with a squint, he allowed the gaze to wander. “The West Wing,” observed with curiosity. “Don’t worry.. I won’t pry into your reasons just yet. Some mysteries are best unraveled in their own time, yes?” Before she could answer, a groan rumbled from his midsection. Lysander rubbed his stomach mockingly. “I’ve grown quite famished, Meya, from all this talk of training and dueling. Tell me, are you going to feed me?” A jest, of course, but a shared meal could be strategic as any treaty.

 

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania​

For some reason, Meya had expected Lysander's reaction to be a little…prickly at least, though she did not allow him to throw her off.

As they continued climbing, she found herself considering what she had done from an altogether different perspective. However impulsive the declaration had been, it afforded him a measure of legitimacy. Admittedly, it remained slight given his status as an outsider, yet some customs would now bend where before they would not. Doors that had remained closed might instead open a fraction.

She listened quietly while he spoke of the years he had devoted to the blade. Meya had always preferred distance between herself and an opponent whenever possible. Sorcery, precision. Those had always suited her nature better than contests of plasma or vibrosteel.

Yet she believed she understood. Years spent pursuing mastery did more than sharpen one's technique. They shaped the person. Lysander would not be the man he was without them.

The smallest inclination of her head acknowledged his words. His curiosity about why he was placed in the west wing went unanswered for the moment, considering it was probably best answered with fewer ears around.

When his stomach interrupted the conversation, a faint sound escaped through her nose. Her eyes drifted toward the streets unfolding beyond the next terrace. "Communal tables are prepared throughout the settlement twice a day for meals. They’re not currently set. Though something smaller can be picked up for you on our way to your quarters."

Ahead, ancient stone buildings lined either side of the road; dark walls rising shoulder to shoulder, topped by heavy slate roofs. Wooden signs carved with faded runes hung from wrought-iron brackets, swaying gently whenever the mountain wind found them. There were no shouting merchants or colourful banners proclaiming prices, nor stalls crowding the roadside. Every shop remained quietly within its own walls.

"We require something first." Without slowing, she added, "Currencies of the wider galaxy hold little value here. Every Sister and Brother contributes according to their duty, their craft, or their calling. That has always been sufficient."

She turned through the doorway of one of the oldest buildings along the street. The scent met her immediately.

Bundles of plants hung upside down from dark timber rafters while shelves carved directly into the stone walls held rows upon rows of clay jars, wax-sealed bottles, dried fungi, polished bones and neatly labelled packets wrapped in rough cloth. The room was dim despite the afternoon, lit primarily by green witchfire burning quietly within shallow iron bowls.

Behind the worn wooden counter stood an elderly Nightsister. Deep lines crossed her pale face without diminishing the sharpness of her golden eyes. They settled first upon Meya with recognition before drifting toward Lysander. Her mouth flattened. She watched him for several long moments.

When Meya reached the counter, the elderly Nightsister finally spoke. <Sister,> the word slipped off her tongue in Dathomiri.

<Do you have any Spiritvine remaining?> Meya replied in their native tongue in kind.

The older woman studied her a moment before giving a slow nod. <You've arrived before the shelves emptied. Barely.>

The shopkeeper turned, retrieving a narrow glass vial from the highest shelf. Dried silver-green leaves rested inside. They had thin veins, faintly luminescent in the glow of witchfire. As she placed it upon the counter, the brittle leaves shifted with the delicate rustle of parchment.

Meya accepted it carefully.

<And...> The older woman reached toward another shelf before producing a second container, this one shorter and broader, its contents sealed with dark wax across the seal. A knowing smile crept slowly across her lips. <You'll be needing Aeroot Tonic, I imagine.>

A low, almost growl sound escaped Meya, slightly out of character. <No, Sister.> Without another word Meya turned toward the door. A little… faster than usual.

<But Sister, is that not rather the point of—> The rest never reached Meya. She had already stepped outside.

The next shop Meya entered carried an altogether different atmosphere.

Warmth rolled outward the moment the door opened, carrying with it the rich aroma of freshly baked breads, roasted roots, sweet berries and fragrant herbs. Stone ovens glowed toward the back of the room while broad wooden shelves displayed dark loaves, herb breads, berry pastries, honey-glazed seed cakes and other Dathomiri baked goods still warm from the ovens.

Behind the counter stood a considerably younger Nightsister. Most of her white hair had been gathered carelessly in several strips of leather. Still, frayed loose strands curled down over part of her face, a face weathered more by wilderness than age. Thin scars crossed one forearm, disappearing into rolled sleeves dusted with flour.

She noticed Meya first. Then Lysander. Unlike the elderly woman they met seconds ago, a slow smile clearly spread across her face at the sight of him. Her eyes lingered openly upon him with the same unmistakable attention a predator might reserve for unfamiliar prey before returning only briefly to Meya.

"You've been gone much longer this time, Sister Meya."

Meya inclined her head to acknowledge the woman, though she did not address the statement. Instead, "He wishes to eat." left her.

Without taking her eyes from Lysander for single beat, the baker swept both hands toward the display with an oddly fluid motion, wrists bending almost lazily as though presenting an offering.

"Everything you see was baked this morning," she said, still, in reality, talking to Meya even while staring at Lysander. "More is already coming from the ovens."

Her smile lingered.

"He is welcome to choose however much he wishes..."

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Footsteps landed in a steady rhythm, a counterpoint to the whistle of the mountain wind. Considering he was so often surrounded by others, the absence of chatter was a welcomed.

"A compromise on the schedule, then," the acknowledgment came, devoid of jagged edges this time. "My gratitude for the foresight. Constant sustenance is a requirement I’ve rarely been permitted to ignore, though I appreciate the practicality."

Moving forward, the stride remained close enough to track her silhouette and far enough to provide the space that defined their dynamic. Those sharp and biting retorts they sometimes traded never stirred much defensive instinct. With much time spent in the orbit of power, from the lowest acolyte to those who claimed the status of deities, had long ago refined the ability to distinguish between a real threat and a challenge of intellect. She was neither a danger to be neutralized nor a weakness to be pitied. Compared the countless others, in truth, she was still more tolerable than some of the galaxy's sycophants and tyrants. If the world had descended into this quiet, so be it; there were far worse companions to walk through it with than one who spoke her mind bluntly.

Air within the apothecary hung heavy with a scent of.. pungent rot. Every movement felt weighted, observed by the thousands of eyes.. some real, some skeletal.. that seemed to watch from the cluttered shelves. Meaning here was far beyond reach, accompanied by a foreign tongue. But the tension in the room became clearer than any dialect. When that final vial hit the wood, it collided with the irritation from Meya.. and then they were gone.

The transition from the previous threshold was nothing short of miraculous. Heat, soft and pervasive, settled over him, carrying an intoxicating bouquet of smells. A genuine welcome.. and yet completely unexpected and disarming.

When the jest regarding hunger first left his lips earlier, it was more of a casual dismissal of an empty belly.. now there was a bounty that was akin to a banquet prepared for a king.

Another turn brought him toward the sprawling counter. Thick, dark loaves sat beside flats of herbed crusts, while honey glazed seed cakes shimmered under the room’s dim glow. Fingers gravitated toward a small bundle tucked at the end of the rack: dry wheat biscuits. Carefully lifting one, he broke the corner; the taste that bloomed on his tongue was simple and rich.

As the baker turned to manage the ovens, a second, more substantial loaf joined the biscuit in his . Returning to Meya’s side, the weight of the day suddenly felt more.. manageable. "You know, I was expecting a ration at best, yet here we are standing before a baker who seems to have emptied her entire larder for us," the comment emerged, lacking any need for flowery adornment.

Tearing a generous piece from the loaf, the offering moved not toward Meya’s hand, but steadily.. and perhaps a fraction too far, toward her lips.

"You should eat, Meya. We have a long road ahead of us, and if memory serves, I haven't seen you touch a single thing since we left the Core. Besides, there is still time for you to unclaim me. Well, if that’s even a possibility in your world. At least let me make sure you’re fed before you decide to run for the hills."

Lysander’s expression lightened with a small smirk. “Best keep your strength up, just in in case you get a sudden whim to trade me in for a newer model, hmm?" Chances were he could have easily spun a dozen more absurd excuses for why he just had to feed her.

An amused huff sounded in the chest as the morsel held steady, waiting for her to yield. Hopefully. "Stubbornness may very well be one of your virtues, but it's a poor substitute for food.” He wouldn’t force it, of course, though it was clear he was adamant all the same.

 

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania​

Meya had been about to explain that much of what was being baked would be carried to the Moonwake. The words never came. Instead, a piece of bread stopped just short of her mouth.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, genuine confusion overtook her features before she could smooth it away. Her eyes settled upon the torn piece of bread. They lifted to Lysander. Then returned to the bread once more, the impossible notion crossing her mind that the answers to many questions going through her mind might somehow be written into its crust.

He... had noticed.

She had not considered that he would pay attention to something as mundane as her eating habits. Then again, perhaps she should have. He observed far more than most people ever bothered to.

Still...

For several long heartbeats her thoughts simply stalled, each attempt to reach a conclusion folding back upon itself. It felt strangely similar to watching an antiquated terminal freeze to conflicting commands.

By the time she regained control of herself, only the slightest crease had formed between her brows, accompanied by what she hoped was an appropriately disapproving expression. It would have carried considerably more authority had the warmth gathering on her pale cheeks not betrayed her.

"I can... feed myself, Lysander."

As she turned her head and upper body away by a few inches, the crimson-and-gold skirts of her dress whispered around her calves, the layered folds sweeping in a soft arc with the subtle turn of her hips. One sleeve slipped a fraction down her forearm, widening the distance between herself and the persistent offering by all of a few inches.

"..."

The warmth in her face deepened.

He simply... kept going.

"You'll be lucky if I allow you to leave Dathomir," she answered after he mentioned unclaiming him. It was an attempt to recover some measure of composure. "Trading you..." Her golden gaze lifted toward him again, this time with a hint of fire behind it. "...you'll also be fortunate if I do."

A slow breath escaped from somewhere deep within her lungs after. She held it for only a heartbeat before letting it leave just as carefully, steadying the sudden disorder in her thoughts. What was she even doing right now?

Without another word, Meya's right hand rose. The long sleeve of her dress slid back further as slender fingers closed around his wrist. Not roughly. Not gently, either. Firmly enough to halt, she hoped, any further pursuit of the bread.

Holding his wrist exactly where she wanted it, Meya leaned forward the final inch herself.

She took a bite.

Fresh herbs and coarse grain gave way to her teeth before she withdrew again, chewing with the same restrained dignity she approached nearly everything else. She swallowed carefully before her expression settled back into its customary composure.

"It... is as I remember."

Satisfied with both the bread and her assessment of it, Meya made no effort whatsoever to release his wrist. She simply started walking, bringing him with her as naturally as if the arrangement had existed all along.

While her free hand reached for a woven satchel resting beside the counter, her Force lifted a dense loaf, a berry pastry, a roasted root pocket wrapped in cloth, and a bundle of smoked game strips from their boards. They drifted through the air in orderly procession before settling neatly inside.

"You should take more than bread," she stated, apparently unconcerned that she had afforded him no opportunity to do so himself.

Without breaking stride, she led him back into the street, expecting him to follow simply because she had decided he would.

Outside, the settlement had grown noticeably busier.

Children darted between weathered stone buildings carrying armfuls of pale mountain flowers nearly large enough to hide them entirely. Laughter echoed down the narrow streets as several blossoms escaped the children’s grips and tumbled across the worn stones, earning an exasperated sigh from the older Sister following after them at a far more dignified pace.

Meya released his wrist at last and reached into a different satchel at her hip, withdrawing the narrow glass vial from the apothecary.

Perhaps a little too quickly, she lifted the narrow glass vial upward until it caught one of the pale shafts of sunlight piercing the crimson mist. "Spiritvine. It is taken during every Moonwake. It sharpens one's perception of the spirits already walking beside us."

"I would prefer you take a small amount beforehand, so you may become accustomed to it."

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Meya Liefi​

That scent of the warm loaf hovered between them, a scrap of crust suspending as if waiting for one of them to divine its mysteries. Surprisingly, there was a subconscious flicker of sympathy nudging at Lysander whenever he caught her gaze drifting back to it. Clearly, she was overthinking the simple offer into oblivion. It was just bread; why couldn't she just eat it? Why insist on turning it into some tactical battlefield? But in truth, he wasn't so bothered by her confusion, not even a little. Neutrality settled over his face, the same worn at every diplomatic function, though there was a softness around his eyes.

"It's not poisoned, you know," the murmur carried like a gentle wind. "And you do need food. Before you wither away." Still, patience was the only reasonable course.

When Meya threatened him, his head tilted, regarding the women with an arch of an elegant eyebrow and barest edge of challenge in his stare. He could still remember the first time she threatened him on Byss. Naturally, he knew better than to call her bluff. "Fortunate, then," unfurled in a drier tone dry, "that I've grown accustomed to your generosity. I'm quite lucky to dine on it." Not that either of them planned to stay; the Covenant wouldn't allow it.

Warm satisfaction curled in him as she finally accepted the morsel. A small spark of victory, too. Lysander gave a single, approving nod. But then he realized she wasn't releasing him and just started.. walking.

Without breaking eye contact, he let his features ease.. too slowly to be mistaken for full compliance, but enough to test the strength of her grip. The Sith shifted his wrist inside her hold and spoke once more, half in jest, "If you're going to drag me like some stray tooka, at least do it properly." Part emissary, part bemused guest. And well, part rogue. Purpose stepping forward, it would possibly narrow the space between them so she couldn't tell who truly led. "If you insist on leading, I'm gong to make it difficult to pretend you're unaffected."

Drifting loaves and roasted roots spiraled into her satchel, each piece of food a soft promise of sustenance. They landed with neat little thumps. It might've meant more than simple sustenance but questioning a gentler side of her felt like tempting fate.

The following comment earned a very incredulous glance as lips twitched as though asking, Really?? And how was he supposed to do that when being held hostage?

Shoulders loosened into an easy shrug. "Which that much bread, the brothers and sisters will soon mistake me for a rolled pastry myself." Playfulness wasn't his usual mode. Duty loomed over both them like a storm, and the nature of their presence on Dathomir promised little room for levity. Still.. this one moment offered a brief reprieve, and he intended to savor it.

When she produced the narrow vial, his focus narrowed to a laser point. He followed the grace of her fingers; internally, he was pulsing with a curiosity. Lysander gave a scoffing hum.. that quintessential dismissiveness of a someone who had survived far worse toxins than this. "What do you consider a 'small amount'?"

Before Meya could debate the semantics, he reached out, two fingers extending like a claw. and plucked the vial from her grasp careful not to let his skin brush hers. He held the liquid up to light, swirling it once before tilting his head back. Lips parted in invitation, and that not-so-tiny sip carried the vine's spirit straight into his veins.

Minutes passed, and it wouldn't take long for his senses to become frayed; every snap of twig now echoed like a blastershot, and the shifting fogs felt like fingers brushing the back of his neck. Colors bled richer. Children darted past, their laughter scattering through the air like chimes shaken by a passing breeze. Light, bright.. and clearly unburdened. Compared to the destruction that usually followed in many Sith's wake, the sound was almost.. pleasant. Comforting, even.

"The sound of.. life. Unafraid." His jaw clicked into place. "I'd forgotten how it sang."

 

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania​

The corner of Meya's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. A rolled pastry. The comparison had been intended as a joke, yes, but it was... not entirely without merit.

Before she could answer his question, two fingers reached forward. The narrow glass vial slipped neatly from her grasp with only the briefest blink betraying her surprise. Meya watched him raise it toward the light, the dried silver-green leaves shifting lazily behind the glass before he tilted it back. Her eyes followed the movement with unusual stillness.

What do you consider a small amount?

Now the question fully returned to her.

"...Not that." The words escaped in little more than a whisper, carrying a thread of concern that surprised even herself. “You have taken enough that the boundary between the living and the departed may become considerably less distinct. There is... a possibility you may experience a spiritually significant event."

Whether he actually would remained uncertain. Spiritvine had never been entirely predictable. Dosage mattered, but so did body mass, species, sensitivity to the Force, genetics, and even temperament on occasion. No two Moonwakes were ever quite the same.

Their path gradually left behind the busiest preparations. Children's laughter faded into the distance, replaced by the gentler rustle of crimson banners stirring high overhead.

The nearer they came to the palace grounds, broader streets of worn stone appeared, swept clean of the loose moss and fallen leaves that gathered elsewhere throughout the settlement.

Ahead, two dark stone residences stood opposite one another under ancient arches. Neither rivaled the palace itself, yet both possessed dignity. Crimson ivy climbed their pillars while emerald witchfire burned steadily within iron braziers beside each entrance. Their pale flames wavered as another cool gust swept down from the cliffs.

"This is where you'll be staying," broke through the gusts soft howl. "Mine is directly across from it. These residences are reserved for Nightsisters who frequently travel offworld and... on rare occasions, diplomats."

[Link to Lysander's Spirtvine Version]​

Pressing one pale hand against the heavy wooden door of his temporary residence, she eased it inward. Ancient hinges answered with a low groan before warmth spilled out to meet them.

Emerald witchfire burned steadily within iron sconces high upon the walls, casting shifting reflections across polished black stone while a broad hearth murmured. Timber settled with the occasional creak, the only interruption to the muted crackle of the fire and the distant sigh of wind beyond the thick walls.

Meya waited until Lysander entered before closing the door behind them with a solid, reassuring thud.

Her attention settled back upon him almost immediately. Her eyes lingered briefly on his pupils, the steadiness of his breathing, the cadence of his movements, searching for the smallest indication that his senses had begun to shift any further.

"You must sit,” a command instead of a request, as was so often the case with Meya.

The measured click of leather boots echoed softly across the polished stone before fading when lowering herself into one of the carved wooden chairs.

Without looking away for long, she reached into the satchel and withdrew one of the smoked game strips she had packed only moments earlier. It paused between slender fingers before she took a bite. Smoke, mountain herbs, and coarse salt spread across her tongue. Simple. Enough, she hoped, to satisfy the immediate complaint of an otherwise neglected stomach.

She continued chewing, her attention drifting back to Lysander almost as soon as it had left him. After swallowing, Meya continued.

"I can explain why you have been brought to this location specifically. It has to do with the traditionalists," she said. "I will also teach you how to draw upon the ichor for the single spell the males of my clan are permitted to learn."

"...Unless you would prefer to rest for a while."

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Meya Liefi​

Smooth glass pressed against his skin; the vial remained in his grip an instant too long. Sunlight.. or what passed for it here, skated across the surface. Only when the silence of Dathomir began to prickle against his neck did he extend a hand to return the container. A breath that could've been mistaken for a laugh slipped through his nose. "Concerned already? I've survived worse, I'm certain. Whatever this throws at me, I'll handle it." Slowly tilting his head, he continued, "Though, if I start conversing too much with the departed, I.. well, feel free to step in."

It was worth noting that the silence here carried a more predatory pressure here. An airless vacuum that only dangerous terrain could. Every sense felt sharpened by the Spiritvine. Crimson banners overhead caught stray gusts, their hue deeper than anywhere else Lysander could remember. Stone facades on either side rose with stark grace; arches and columns stood silent.. as if content to watch.

But nothing about the Spiritvine was overwhelming; it was simply.. rearranging the world. Footfalls fell into perfect harmony, one shadow trailing another through the cliffside's winds.

"Convenient, isn't it?" The observation emerged dry. "Having me directly across the way. I suppose it makes it infinitely easier for you to supervise. Make sure the stray doesn't wander too far from the garden."

Inside his mind, a strange clarity bloomed.. sharp as a whetted blade. Passing beneath the doorway, the grain of the wood seemed to reach out with impossible definition. A phantom breeze brushed his cheek, and despite just two occupants, jaw muscles tightened, and eyes narrowed by the slimmest fraction. "Is that right? Back to ordering me around, are we," the challenge unfurled between a wry smirk. Only here, with her, did that kind of answer ride so easily on the tongue; in the presence of Brothers or Sisters, no way he'd risk that. That brand of impudence would be a death sentence. It was dangerous theater, to be certain.

His gaze followed as she lifted more sustenance to her lips. An appraisal lingered in the gaze as pupils flared, darkening until emerald vanished. A sudden furrow etched itself between his brows. Traditionalists. The word felt like a stagnant pool; universal and utterly suffocating, no matter the star system.

Lingering on his feet began to feel rude at last, even if the vine made standing feel strangely.. grounding? Eventually, he lowered himself into one of the carved chairs, posture still perfectly composed. "Explain it, then. I'm eager to map out all the pieces on the board." His attention drilled into hers. "And as for this spell, I am nothing if not an eager student of the.. forbidden. Does the connection to the ichor require a sacrifice of intent, or is it some matter of bending the rot to your will? And.. what of the physical toll.. does the vein burn, or does it merely... whisper?" Curiosity got the better of him; that was rare.

The ring which resembled thorned vines tapped against the chair. "I feel clear enough, Meya. More than clear, actually." If anything, the world was just.. louder. But not overwhelming. "You've been exhausting yourself on my behalf since we arrived. Surely even the.. huntress knows when the bowstring has been pulled too tight? Sleep might do you more good than me."

There was a beat of hesitation before his voice took on a softer yet guarded lilt. "I would hate to see you worn out before the Moonwake."

 

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania​

Meya allowed the remark about supervision to linger unanswered. It was true enough to not require one. His complaint about being ordered around drew little more than a short, breathy grunt from somewhere in the back of her throat. One brow arched before settling once more. "Whenever I can get away with it," came the blunt answer.

Another truth was hidden behind her answer however, she had been surprised by how often he had indulged her. She held no illusion that he was beneath her within the Covenant.

Still...

If a command reached the same end more efficiently than a request, she saw little point in disguising it.

At first, his questions about the ichor drew her attention toward one of the iron bowls cradling emerald witchfire instead of Lysander’s form. Smokeless flames curled endlessly into themselves, bending to unseen currents no ordinary fire could feel.

One pale fingertip drifted idly along the carved arm of her chair, tracing grooves polished smooth by generations of use. "The ichor already wishes to flow. Spells do not force it into obedience. They merely give the current shape." There was nothing mystical about the certainty with which she spoke. To her, it was no stranger than describing the tide or the wind. "It does not burn. Though once a person leaves Dathomir, it seems only able to hear the calls of the baptised or those strongly connected to one."

A bowstring.

The comparison caught somewhere unexpectedly deep. Recognition stirred behind her eyes before fading almost as quickly, though not before a faint tension settled across her features. "You should..." The words escaped before she had fully decided to speak them. "...not have mentioned that." She had simply ignored the heaviness. Somehow, by speaking of it, he had made it impossible not to notice.

A slow breath escaped through her nose. When she straightened again, it was less a conscious decision than an old habit reclaiming itself. Her shoulders settled back into their familiar alignment, every trace of fatigue tucked neatly away.

"You must at least learn the spell before I retire." She offered no explanation. None seemed necessary.

But his concern over the Moonwake reached somewhere she had not expected. Her gaze dropped instantly to the strip of smoked game resting between her fingers. She turned it over absently, studying it without really seeing it.

"You truly possess that Jedi foolishness," murmured from her lips so softly she wasn't even sure she heard herself. The tone, still there, carried little mockery. If anything, it bordered on reluctant disbelief. "It is not an act, is it.."

"Lysander..." She placed the strip of meat upon the table before lifting her eyes to meet his. Green fire flickered across their golden surface, lending them an almost molten glow.

"You know what sits before you." Her gaze never wavered. "Do you truly believe you should care about such a thing?"

Another sound left her nose before she gave him a chance to speak. "No, don't answer. You won't listen, will you?" a thought added after. None of the other warnings had accomplished much beyond disappearing into his stubbornness.

Regardless of what her words might have revealed to Lysander, Meya rose from her chair with composure reclaimed. Without another word, she crossed the short distance between them. Her stride remained unhurried, hips swaying only with the natural rhythm of her gait.

Rather than remain standing, she gathered parts of the fabric of her dress with one hand and settled herself upon the edge of the heavy wooden table instead, gaining the higher vantage. One boot found the table's lower crossbeam while the other hung loosely.

Golden eyes regarded him, though he’d find little inside them but his reflection.

One pale hand extended toward him. "Give me your hand." The command came as naturally as breathing, even with Lysander’s earlier protest. She waited. If he relented, she’d turn his hand over within her own.

Her right hand’s thumb would settle lightly under his wrist while the tip of her left hand’s pointer finger traced a slow path across the center of his palm.

Emerald ichor gathered almost lazily under her fingertip. It did not feel hot. Rather, it resembled the sensation of lowering one's hand into water and feeling the current move around it. It flowed without resistance through every line of his palm, not invading, not forcing, but slipping effortlessly into pathways that seemed to open before it.

Meya watched the luminous trails begin to disappear into his skin; slipping through veins before gradually fading from sight.

"You are here because the traditionalists are staunchly opposed to outsider presence upon Dathomir at all," she began. "But also because they do not like me." There was no resentment in the admission. She stated it with the same matter-of-fact certainty she afforded every other truth.

"I was not born upon Dathomir. I was adopted."

Her fingertip continued its journey beyond his wrist. Emerald glow followed in delicate currents that climbed his forearm. It was a simple exercise, meant to familiarise him with the sensation of ichor itself.

"They are a minority. A small one. Unfortunately, one of their leaders secured a seat upon the council through traditional bloodshed. That has granted their voices more influence than their numbers deserve."

The hearth’s fire crackled softly behind them.

"These residences place us as far from her and those who follow her as practicality allows. They pose a genuine danger." Her thumb shifted as she watched the last traces of emerald vanish into his arm. "Mother is more measured, though Sister Nyara has, on occasion, swayed even her judgement."

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Meya Liefi​

The next smile that found his mouth reflected a messy mix of amusement and bewilderment. Listening to the explanation regarding the ichor felt like trying to track a scent in a blizzard.. everything was nonsensical. Concepts of witchfire currents and baptism failed to find purchase in a mind accustomed to the melee rather than.. whatever these unseen flows were.

"Look, all that talk about currents and shapes?" One foot tapped impatiently against the floor while releasing a heavy sigh. "That sounds like a bunch of gibberish to me, Meya. I’ve spent my life relying on what I can see, what I can kill, and what I can hold. Trying to picture this stuff flowing like I don't know.. it’s like listening to someone bark in a language I don’t speak. If it doesn't leave a bruise or get blood on my hands, I just.." Whether it was the Spiritvine or something else entirely, he wasn’t sure; finishing the sentence had suddenly become difficult.

Confusion wrinkled a brow when the comment about the bowstring caused distress. Why did she suddenly look like someone had just reminded him of death? Two emerald eyes blinked.. slowly as the ‘command’ registered. Another confused huff escaped. The frustration was like being forced into a puzzle that lacked half its pieces.

"Wait a minute.. why the rush on this spell?" One hand raked through moonlit hair, tugging upon a lone strand. Even the gesture was quite out of the norm for Lysander. "Why do I need to learn this before you retire? Why can't you just rest first? You’re acting like the galaxy is going to end the moment you close your eyes. What exactly am I missing here?"

Lysander's focus darted toward the table at the slab of meat before snapping back to the woman's molten stare. Restless energy coiled in the pit of his stomach; 'twas the kind that usually preceded a fight.. though the only thing threatening him now was her never-ending scrutiny? Silence stretched between them, like the air right before a thunder breaks.

Jedi? The comparison tugged at the back of his mind, scratching at memories he hadn't touched in years. He wasn't sure whether to accept that as an insult or some idle jest. Lips parted to spit out a retort, something defensive, but the urge died immediately. Shaking his head, white locks shifted over his shoulders.

"Well, no.. of course not," came the grumble. "I mean," he started again, though the sentence stalled, tongue feeling too sluggish for whatever grace he was now failing to display. The next exhale blew past his teeth as a strange thought took the reins. His tone lowered to just above a whisper. "Look, you’re not as.. you’re not as bad as you think, alright? All this.. the edge, the fire, the way you look at me like I’ve lost my mind, it's just unnecessary. Maybe you’re the one who needs to stop looking for reasons to push everyone away."

Stiffness possessed an arm glued to his side upon the Sephi’s request. But her fingers proved far too efficient to ignore. Weakness flooded the moment she forced his palm upward. "Always blood," the Sith muttered. "Is there ever a time when the solution doesn't involve some sort of offering? Even our first meeting, back on Byss, you had to take a piece of me then, too."

Vertical pupils of a startled hound flared in the dim light. Another breath hitched in his chest as the foreign sensation registered.

Tracking the emerald glow as it traced his forearm, he followed her finger. Spikes of irritation pricked at the base of his skull. Then, a slow, breath drawn through the nostrils offered a veil of calm. Even so, the sensation of the magic beneath his skin felt.. restless.

"Okay, so, the situation boils down to this.. I have to make amends with every Sister offended by those fools of the Covenant, all while an entirely different layer of danger sits right in our midst," remarked in a casual tone. "That's quite a peculiar oversight, isn't it, Meya?"

While studying her, the softening of Lysander's youthful expression became involuntary.. triggered by the simple honesty of her adoption. That detail, the reality of her being an outsider on this cruel world, hit him much harder than he would've expected.

"You know, as crazy as this story is beginning to feel.. you shouldn't worry, because.. well, I doubt they'll truly pose a challenge, unless they took the cheap way out and poisoned us." A smirk flashed; truly, a pathetic attempt at levity. Speaking the words aloud seemed to wash away some of the static cluttering his mind. Staring down at the spot where the last of her emerald ink vanished into pores, he realized he didn't actually possess the foggiest notion of how to cast this spell she’d been teaching. Or was it to get him accustomed to the sensation? He'd forgotten.

"There. I've learned the spell," a huff of a laugh escaped. For all of his strengths, he was the poorest liar and manipulator. "Are you going to get some rest now, or do you plan on collapsing in front of me so I have to carry you?"

 

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania​

Meya listened without interruption. There were too many thoughts swirling through her mind for her to untangle them properly in the moment. When he insisted she was not as bad as she believed, she said nothing.

Fatigue left little room for reflection, and part of her remained unconvinced he truly understood what he was saying. Even so... something about his words made her pause. Something she couldn't quite put into words.

Of course, his declaration that he had learned the spell earned little more than a tired breath through her nose. "You have not." Her golden eyes lifted to meet his once again, body stiff and eyes flashing with displeasure. "Have you been paying attention at all?"

It wasn't that she thought the world would end if she closed her eyes... it was something else she refused to put into words.

Another thought came to her. How could he be both an idiot and so gifted? For the briefest moment, she found herself considering something profoundly undignified. She wisely chose not to examine the thought any further.

Her attention drifted toward the nearest iron brazier where emerald witchfire curled lazily above blackened coals, its smokeless flames dancing in silence.

"The..." For one hitched breath, she hesitated, pushing onward only by refusing to look at him. "...spell allows you to shape the witchfire in its simplest form," she explained. "To extinguish it, and to call it back again. So you may rest without its light, and wake with a clear mind. That is all."

Without warning, she murmured a single word. The emerald flame nearest her vanished. No flicker. No dying ember. One moment it burned; the next, the iron bowl sat dark.

She slid from the edge of the table, her boots settling softly against the stone floor before she smoothed the folds of her dress almost absentmindedly. "You had better not attempt to carry me no matter the circumstance." The corners of her mouth flattened ever so slightly. "I require no such assistance."

"You may be underestimating them," was all that left her when he mentioned facing the witches opposed to them. While she was fairly confident in herself, it was the unknown that troubled her. Sister Nyara and those who followed her were not above exploiting whatever advantage presented itself. If Lysander wandered off somewhere during the Moonwake?

Meya did not wish to linger on the subject. There was something else that had been lingering at the edge of her thoughts.

"You devote too much of your attention to the blade and your... physical strength." Part of her wanted to speak more harshly. How could he be so...? Perhaps she was still comparing him to others. "The Force should be studied as carefully as any weapon."

To Meya, it was no different than pointing out an unfinished lesson. Her gaze shifted briefly toward the dark brazier before returning to him. "Either way, once you show me you can extinguish the flame... I'll go. Speak the word. Recall the feeling of the ichor."

She wasn't certain he would grasp it so quickly. The principles behind the spell were simple enough to her, yet she had been raised with the ichor since childhood. What came naturally to her might well seem incomprehensible to him.

Still, she waited, curious to discover whether he would find the current...

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Meya Liefi​

"Maybe the problem isn't my lack of focus. Maybe, it’s that you’re too busy trying to keep your dignity in check to notice." Fingers drummed against his thigh, the sensation of skin feeling hyper real.. almost electric. Restless energy clawed behind one's chest, urging movement.. urging anything other than standing still while that poison hummed a melody through every nerve ending.

Strange, foregin tendrils bled into the recessed corners of the chamber, transmuting the walls into a display of veins. Pupils stretched into obsidian pools, swallowing the irises once more.

An ankle crossed over the other with practiced indifference. “I’ll make you a deal. I won’t touch a single hair on your stubborn head, let alone carry you.” A soft exhale fluttered from his lips. "You really do worry about all the wrong details, don't you Meya."

Furrows deepened across a brow before a lower voice offered, “But, if you trip over that dress you seem so worried about. I’m not going to just watch you hit the floor.”

Focus was akin to kinetic energy refusing to be quelled. "I understand that you enjoy underestimating me," the words tumbled out with a lazy rhythm. One hand rose, raking through messy locks before locating the back of his neck. The Emissary's gaze fell back to her with a look of amusement. "I get it. Truly, I do. But I’m just not going to spend all of my time fretting over the edges of fate. You can only prepare for so much. Whatever is meant to happen? It’ll happen. I learned the hard way.. you can't stitch together a future that is stubbornly unwritten.” It was a truth as simple as it was absolute.

Low, ragged sighs escaped into the air. "It’s more than just swinging a saber, you know. It’s a regime. A discipline. It’s done daily, from the first light of sunrise, and until the moon withers into rot, until you know the katas better than your own heart." Shadows of reflection softened his face. "Strength is its own language. Trust me, I fancy the elegant words, the flowery speeches used to decorate the courts.. but I also know when I just need a fist, or a blade, to tell the story right."

Then, toward the brazier Lysander stepped as fingers reached out to grasp the pulse of ichor she unveiled; yet for a prolonged stretch, only silence reigned. Tension coiled like a serpent between tense shoulder blades. Slow, exhales sought to quell the frantic instinct to command the ether, to force the stubborn spark into submission; only beneath that forced stillness did the thread finally.. reveal itself.

Murmured syllables graced the air, the very words she had whispered, and with a shivering gasp.. the witchfire guttered into nothingness..

He only turned slightly toward her, silently asking whether that counted. "Go rest. I’m not going anywhere. And you needn't worry. It is, perhaps, for the best that you find a reprieve from my company for a time, too. "

If only an hour or so of true detachment might be scavenged, it was highly possible he may rebuild that broken composure. Before the audience with Mother, or the ritual of Moonwake in earnest. Whatever lay ahead.

 

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania​

The intensity of Lysander's reaction momentarily took away Meya's ability to move. Her whole body stiffened. It was not merely that his mood had shifted... but how sharply it had done so.

At first, irritation began to claw at the edges of her mind. Why now, of all times, did he have to? Had she been less exhausted, she might have answered immediately with a tongue as sharp as Lysander's could be. Instead, she kept listening as he began to explain his craft.

Golden eyes lowered from his face, settling somewhere between them. She remained there, saying nothing, until a streak of emerald light vanished from the corner of her vision. Her gaze returned almost instinctively, finding the nearest brazier dark.

Even after he had finished speaking, with only the crackling hearth and the howling wind filling the space between them, she still found herself confused by the strength of his reaction.

But his words were not wrong.

"You're... right..." The admission came more quietly than she intended. "I am underestimating you... aren't I?" He wasn’t the first person she’d done it to. A mistake that could prove deadly on the battlefield; one she had admitted to committing long ago, yet found herself repeating once again.

At the realisation, something resembling disappointment crossed her features. She was too tired to pull the familiar mask back into place and hide it. What did it matter? She was about to confess something pathetic.

"It's not just that... is it?" Almost absently, one hand lifted toward the nearest brazier. Her fingers hovered within the strange warmth of the emerald flame, watching it curl lazily around them without heat enough to burn. "Earlier..." Her eyes remained on the witchfire rather than him. "It seemed like you might've allowed your guard to slip a small amount."

Her hand slowly closed, fingers curling into her palm before falling back to her side.

"And I wouldn't..." She hesitated, the correction leaving her almost immediately. "Couldn't, give you the same."

"Lysander...another reason I keep the walls so high is because when I feel them weaken enough..." Her voice remained steady, though only just. "I begin to care. Sometimes deeply. So deeply that I stop measuring what I give away."

"And maybe I said what I said earlier because...I'm too cowardly to admit..." Meya hesitated, seeming almost irritated by the admission. "I would secretly appreciate being carried by someone…like you... when I needed it." She let out a breath through her nose, sounding almost tired of herself. "Even knowing it was profoundly undignified for a Sith Lord."

The fingers of her left hand traced absently along an edge of her dress before curling lightly into the fabric. "I don't... like that I upset you just now, okay?" It was the tired, raw truth of it, as much as it made her look weak.

For the briefest of moments, every emerald witchfire surrounding them flickered. Not violently, nor with any great display of power. The flames merely bent for an instant before settling once more into their slow, silent dance. Meya used the possible distracting moment to wipe away the moisture gathering at the corner of her eye before it could betray her further.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

The apology scarcely left her lips before emerald mist bloomed around her feet. It rose sluggishly, lacking the effortless confidence with which she normally called upon it. The vapour coiled around her form, almost reluctant, before swallowing her from sight.

The journey was short. When the mist began to disperse once more, it left Meya standing alone within her temporary sitting room. She managed only a few unsteady steps before abandoning any thought of reaching the bed. Instead, she lowered herself onto the floor in the middle of the room, leaning back against the edge of a nearby sofa as the last wisps of green mist dissolved into the air.

Her eyes closed.

This time...

She did not fight the exhaustion.

She simply let sleep take her.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Meya Liefi​

Lysander liked to think he was pretty good at reading people; almost as good as pilot was at navigating the stars. It was a useful skill, especially since his job usually meant playing a constant game of guessing what people were actually thinking while acting like everything was perfectly fine. When it came to Sith, that skill was basically a survival instinct; when their moods shifted, destruction often followed. Maybe it was the Spiritvine, or maybe he’d just let his guard down, but for some reason, the usual rules didn’t feel quite as important tonight.

The lime glow of the brazier lit up his face, and from where he sat.. he watched the firelight dance across the Sephi's profile, too. "Look, even if I slipped up," fingers tapped against his knee, oblivious that the Emissary mask had completely fallen, "who says I have to be so perfectly balanced here? Why does every single word I say have to be rehearsed and like I'm drafting some treaty? It’s rather exhausting; and honestly, I shouldn't have to worry about how it’s going to sound.. like every word is a potential thermal detonator."

A tired smile pulled at his mouth. Just plain exhaustion. "Sometimes, the most honest thing you can do is just talk, even if it feels like you're shouting into the Nether and getting nothing back."

"Look at me, Meya." He exhaled a long sigh; all the frustrating he'd been bottling up finally let go. "That’s the problem with walls, you know? You’re acting like being open is some kind of mistake." Both hands protested before him. "Does the world really end if you don't feel exactly the same way?" Not everything needed a return policy, despite what Sith nature might suggest. "If I want you to lean on me when things get too heavy, then let me do it without expecting a favor in return. I get it, dignity is nice, but it’s a pretty cold thing to wrap yourself up in at night. So, quit worrying about being weak. Just for a second, stop trying to act like a Lord and just.. be a person."

There was a cocktail of exhaustion and responsibility; guilt gnawed at his conscience even with the purity of his intent. With twin emeralds fixated on her, he observed the flames dancing in her gaze; but it was the glistening of tears that pierced through the haze of fatigue; they were like stars reflecting wreckage.

"There's no need to--"

The words disintegrated on Lysander's tongue. Before those syllables of comfort, one's that may even match vulnerability could surface.. the fog claimed her. Moments later, the chair remains occupied by a ghost of their conversation. Give what he’d spoken to her earlier, leaving that spot would’ve been akin to betrayal, so he stayed. Duty, or something else, it didn’t matter; he just watched the door for a time, aware that logic would not come. All the while, his mind began tumbling into the abyss.

Eventually, fatigue won the battle against posture; arms collapsed onto the table. Reality began to dim. Pillowing a cheek against the grain.. he finally surrendered to the darkness. One could only hope that when the Spiritvine finally released its grip on his senses, that Dathomir might be a little less broken.

 

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania​

A cool mist still clung to the worn stone paths, weaving between twisted trees whose crimson leaves stirred gently in the night’s icy breeze. Somewhere higher along the cliffs, creatures called to one another through the forest.

Meya came to a stop in front of the doorway to Lysander's temporary home. Her right hand rose a small fraction, then stopped, before lifting again toward a weathered rope hanging beside the entrance. Her fingers closed around it before giving it a firm pull.

Past the door, a bronze bell answered with a low, resonant toll that rolled softly through the residence before fading back into silence.

A woven basket rested against her hip as she waited. One hand tightened slightly around its handle before gradually loosening again.

Nestled inside the basket were several varieties of fruit gathered during her walk guided by the moonlight. Some resembled clusters of deep crimson berries. Others were smooth, pear-shaped fruits mottled with rich violet and black, while a handful of small emerald pods, no larger than a human's thumb, rested near the top.

Whenever the door finally opened, golden eyes met Lysander's again.

"Our meeting with Mother is soon," left her immediately while she shifted the basket slightly against her side. Her expression had mostly returned to its usual neutrality, though there was a subtle softness to her eyes. Whether born from what they had spoken of or that she hadn’t gotten fully rested, Meya made no attempt to decide.

For a brief moment she looked down at the basket's contents before lifting it toward him.

"I went for a walk," she added. Partly to think on Lysander's words, which had struck her harder than she thought possible—something she felt no need to tell him, of course. "To gather some fruit to bring to the Moonwake."

"Did you want to try one?"

Whether he accepted the offer or merely looked over the assortment, Meya eventually lowered the basket to her hip again and turned toward the mountain path leading to the palace. The night’s mist curled lazily around her boots as she began walking.

"They're all safe for humans to eat, from what I know." Her words broke through a bird call that came from somewhere overhead, answered moments later by another farther down the mountainside. Sounds Meya had grown so accustomed to over the years that they scarcely registered anymore.

"Though..." she began, glancing sideways without slowing her stride, "do you know the technique to purge poison?

"It is ancient, and can be difficult... and dangerous to learn," she continued, her gaze returning to the winding trail ahead. "But it could save your life."

There was no dramatics meant. On Dathomir, a person wasn’t only poisoned by choice by plants such as Spiritvine, or by mistake by eating the wrong thing- at times, it found its way into regular meals, insects, plants, and occasionally the blades of those who knew how to prepare it.

It was entirely possible Lysander would enjoy the Moonwake. That did not mean it would be without challenges.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

That low bronze chime cleaved through the fog in his head. One moment he'd been hunched over, limbs locked in some dreamless stupor; the next, clarity pooled in Lysander's veins. A slick patch of drool gleamed along his forearm.. perhaps a souvenir of a graceless slumber. Whether it was from the Spiritvine's haze or pure exhaustion, he wasn't sure. He rolled his shoulders, thinking that all the time since their last talk had slipped away unproductively. Funny, sometimes the trick isn't in hunting answers but in learning to sit patiently with the right questions. One crisp ring was enough to yank him from that private labyrinth of thought.

Eyes tracked the heft of the woven basket as Meya stood in the frame; a slow dip of the chin acknowledged the impending pilgrimage to Mother. Stir craziness had yet to take root, but the prospect of four walls losing their definition was welcome. . Somewhere, beyond the threshold, lay the keys to this alien sphere he knew as Dathomir.

Fingers reached out to claim a violet-black pear. Lysander's thumb traced the waxen skin before bringing the fruit upward to inhale the sweet fragrance that defied the night's chill. An experimental bite broke the surface. Sweet, tart, and startlingly vibrant juice bloomed across the tongue, an unexpected explosion of flavor that demanded a grateful smirk toward the benefactor.

"These are phenomenal," came the soft reply, lifting it in a small toast. "Thank you."

Noticing the faint shift in her features, a wordless appreciation followed. Part of him had been inclined to comment on being spared her usual gloom, a jest of shorts, but part of him also felt embarrassed. Maybe Spiritvine was quietly schooling him in humility. The trek began, footsteps falling into a relaxed cadence under the silvered boughs. Every so often his teeth sank into another pear segment, but his mind stayed tuned to the path ahead.

When the inquiry about poison-purging techniques surfaced, the response arrived with a shrug of the shoulders. "No, that craft's beyond me."

The concept sounded impossibly useful, intelligent even.. the kind of wisdom that should surely be etched into common knowledge for the protection of all sentient things. Yet a strange, stubborn impulse to dismiss the danger flickered deep within.

"It sounds incredible, Meya. Truly, a necessary marvel. Maybe someday I'll pick up that skill, too."

He felt the familiar steel mask of the Emissary settle again over his features. Any hints of uncertainty were smoothed away. Questions surfaced. First impressions were important, after all. "How does one address Mother properly?" A thought hum followed as he contemplated a more nuanced question. "And what does she value most in outsiders?" He doubted the answer would be mere curiosity, and hoped that obedience wasn't the standard, either.