#ashored

A softness dampens the edges of Ira’s expression. It’s few and far between they get requests like this— evidently so by how eagerly they had jumped at the opportunity to personally fetch the material she had requested. It was definitely a matter of pride, and perhaps reminiscing had a hand in it too. The stories their own father used to tell them echoing in the back of their mind after plucking each book from their respective shelf. It managed to all swirl together and form a hand to tenderly pluck at the string that rippled through them: one that drove Ira to tirelessly translate and catalogue and archive anything, everything that had to deal with their home. 

“There is no shame in studying something that you find interesting,” a mirth coats the words they speak, dusting off the front of their shirt as they do with a bigger grin this time. Perhaps they do not share the same taste in subjects through the pursuit of historical knowledge but Ira can commend anyone going to lengths such as this to expand their expertise. “I find it interesting how many—” they have to stop themselves from saying the word mortals, clearing their throat as if to play off the pause, “—people have their own niches they hold dear to their heart. How beautiful it is that I am able to help you with yours.”

As Ira begins to turn and return to the riveting task of cataloguing a new style of architecture not too far from her newfound work space, something almost paternal swells in their chest at the question she posed to them. This is definitely turning out to be a wonderful padding to their ego in the end, too. Far better an exchange than some of the so-called professionals who had once been in the same seat as Nami, demanding book after book in a conquest for knowledge but too proud to hear a word Ira had to give as a source. The thought lingers in the back of their mind cracking the calm that had blanketed them through all this time. But before their temper even begins to boil at the thought alone Ira swallows down the intrusion. Facing Nami fully once more, undivided attention given before bowing their head thoughtfully into a short nod, “Of course, signorina. You may call for me when you need to, please do not hesitate to for any reason.”

Aware of the space she and her tail made up in the enclosed space, the Marai keeps her movements minimal as she explored the ships interior with her eyes. Its also then that she realises that there's only two lifeforms on the ship now, with her present. "Are you usually travelling alone?"

/ from @ashored for odyssey verse!

✮ — She asks so many questions, and each one is an opportunity for him to show off his skills and knowledge. Nami looks at his ship like it's a thing of wonder (and sometimes Ezreal thinks to himself that it's a wonder it still flies, after all the haphazard repairs he's done to it mid-journey) and it makes Ezreal swell with pride. He created it, after all. More than a labour of love, it's a labour of desperation, and love, and a gamble of extraordinary odds. "Sure does," he says, though it hasn't exactly been verified. "I, er... try to avoid rougher flight paths, though. It can be a little rickety sometimes." Nami's going to find out sooner or later, and it'll just be embarrassing if he lies to her first.

"It's got a cloaking system, radar, Demaxian-cruiser-level firepower, cupholders, autopilot, even heated floors! I mean, what more could you ask for, right?" As for whether he's always alone... Ezreal deflates a little, shoulders drooping, before he perks right back up again. "I'm never alone. I have P.E.A.R.L. Right, P.E.A.R.L.?"

A painful, bone-crushing kind of silence fills the little cabin. Ezreal waits, hands on his hips, and wonders if he'll have to fix his stupid robot companion too. "P.E.A.R.L.?"

Finally, a robotic voice that seems to come from the entire ship pipes up. Ezreal sighs with relief.

“Ashored”

by Martin Annand (United Kingdom).

Minimalist Photography Awards

        𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐒𝐀𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐓𝐘; but everyone knew the truth, even if no one voiced it. Anastasia was but only Grand Duchess in name, her title having lost its significance the moment the Revolution killed her family. No one said a word, but she knew they were all thinking it because she, too, had thought about it a thousand times — she could never return home. Not really. Russia would remain but a distant and painful memory as she rebuilt her life in the heart of Paris with her grandmother. This reunion, this celebration, was merely a courtesy.

        If anyone thought that Anastasia felt out of place among the crowds of finely dressed men and women, they said nothing of it. Nor did anyone say a peep when, as the party was at its liveliest, she slipped away to step outside onto the balcony. She needed air. 

        Anastasia, however, was not the only one that seemed to need a break from the festivities.