#finn fleetfire

Costumes, games, revelry, songs, drinking, a good excuse to show more skin than usual, a lack of insipid sincerity—what’s not to love? Athrë’s favorite holiday is Mad King’s Day by a mile.

Though it’s only come around once so far, Fiatri has very fond memories of the Dragon Bash festival. The decorations, candies, and costumes were all fantastic, and she could play Dragon Ball until she falls out from exhaustion. Now that Mordremoth is dead she hopes everyone will be willing to eventually do it all again. The Lunar New Year comes in as a fairly distant second.

Considering the person he is—kind, tactful, and gentlemanly, that is—it should be more or less easy to guess that Finn best enjoys the holiday centered around togetherness and leisure. Wintersday is a time when he can afford to slow down, sit in ease with his closest friends, and have lovely conversation over a warm drink.

Quiys has never paid much mind to holidays or special occasions of any sort; in fact she has faithfully chosen to spend them all in the field with her eye down the scope of a rifle. It helped assuage the pain of missing her lost pod twin, Llucia.

I’m going to have to bite the proverbially bullet soon. Stars above though, I hate that pokeweed of a woman. Oh, yes, what nice berries you have! Buuut anyone with half a brain should know you’re poisonous. I guess some of us have to find out for ourselves.

I wonder if I could get away with a vacation. Where would I even go, though? And Mother, there’s no telling what Marcy would get up to while I’m gone. Be lucky if I didn’t come home to a burnt-down home or a fucking murder-suicide. Maybe he’ll just assault someone and be done.

I don’t give a fuck what the menders think. You keep me dry for three weeks and the dam’s bound to fuckin’ break. Maybe if they’d actually done a fuckin’ thing to help or at least put me outta my misery shit’d be different. Way it stands, though, fuck ‘em. Worthless fucks. ‘S not like they’ve never seen the shit anyway. Don’t know why it was some big surprise.

This is why I quit comin’ here.

Three rounds in the chamber. Four days’ rations left. Twelve ribs snapping. One man behind that knoll. Five in the lean-to. Eight hundred in the camp. One thousand sixty-two paces to the bottom. Seventeen years of this shit. Two bullets to end it.

Wrath: Something that gets me angry.

As much as Finn tries not to get angry, there are a few things that make him pause and recite the Tablet: those who use people, grudge-holders, and bigots, to name the major offenders. Though he has the ability to paint almost anything in a positive light, he can’t help but view certain things as thoroughly disgusting.

“There’s not a lot what gets me actually angry,” Athrë reflects, tapping out a rhythm with her fingertips on her shot glass. “A lotta shit annoys me. Angry, though? Eh.” She scratches contemplatively at her chin. “Ah, you know what? A lack of gratitude where it’s owed. Or when you’re all fuckin’ talk and no action.” The finishing line is delivered with a decisive nod of her head before she drains her shot.

He turned toward the eastern thunder, lip curled. Nothing.

The constant urging to “make something” of himself only made him feel ashamed. Valiant, artisan, merchant, banker, trader, soldier—these paths were all fine ones, he figured, but none of them were for him. It wasn’t a lack of ambition, he’d tried to explain; his drive was merely to be content. To enjoy his life the way he wanted. Few others would hear him, though. Why should it matter that I don’t want to do anything?

He crossed beneath the grey cloud cover and felt the cool autumnal rain pattering gently on his shoulders. It had been six months since he fell from his pod, and while all the saplings his age were off studying for this and practicing for that, he wasn’t happy unless he was daydreaming. He’d imagined entire worlds separate from this one, ones where he’d been on great adventures. He’d cracked open chests of glowing riches surrounded by motley bands of pirates. He’d conquered evil dragons with nothing but a mighty warhorse and a shining silver lance. He’d been blessed and cursed by dozens of strange, haggard witches found wandering the woods. Living inside his head suited him just fine.