#fyren 02

Freydis had not seen Fyren since Aventia, but it did not mean they had not crossed her mind several times since. In the healer’s tent months prior she had thought him strange and theatrical, though she had appreciated that he laughed at her terrible joke. At the time, she had chalked it up to some sort of tincture or potion meant to ease the pain of deep bruising and cracked ribs. With what she had learned since, she was not so convinced. Now, many of the things they said made much more sense: their claim of eating those who lacked a sense of humor, their statement that they were from a time and place different than present day. There was always a chance she was wrong–it would be far from the first time–but she was curious enough to risk thoroughly embarrassing herself to find out.  She found him by chance against the backdrop of the bay’s deep blue waters. There were not many out on this path that twined along the coastline removed from the larger crowds the festivities attracted. It was quieter here, which felt natural given the path only led to one particular monument. After all Fyren had said of his drive and motivation it probably shouldn’t have surprised her to see him headed this way. But she was grateful for the timing. “How have you found yourself occupying your time since Aventia fell?” Freydis asked, keeping pace at this side. She recalled their discussion on interests. “Come across any interesting gems as of late? Or tell any particularly good jokes?” A point was made to ask the final question in draconic.

The once abandoned ramshackle cottage that the dragons had occupied for the last decade or so was quiet for the time being. When they found the structure, most would have argued that it was beyond any hope of becoming inhabitable again, and when it came down to it the pair’s initial intention was only to occupy it for a night or two lest they die from exposure to the elements. But as it were, year over year the cottage enjoyed considerable improvements. Fyren did the work of restoring it to a sound construction again, and Talisa–despite her undying scorn for the world they now inhabited–had excelled in the work required to make it a home. The morning sun filtered through the windows, the light illuminating the particles of dust that had been disturbed in one of the rare instances that Talisa cleaned. Of course, she wouldn’t have had to do quite so many chores if Fyren had been there. Instead, she was completing the last of the work to repair or remove what had been broken in the scuffle and inventorying what had been taken. 

Talisa hated the time that Fyren was away on contracts with the Warrior’s Guild. It was beyond her comprehension why he had such a favorable view of Taravell and its pedestrian population. Why should he put himself at such risk and leave her behind? The young dragon felt that Fyren owed his loyalties to her above all others; it was his fault she was here after all. She resented him for ruining her life in Aetheron and navigated each day in a wordless accusation that she would never be happy again–which frankly was a commitment and an unconscious effort she was making–because of what he revealed to her. If he intended to abandon her in intervals here, why had he ripped her from the comfort of her ignorance and status? Surely she hadn’t exactly been happy–but she’d been kept and cared for, even if she was being deceived and viewed as little more than a pet. 

Sometimes, especially earlier on, she had followed him from a safe distance of the conflict his guild contact would concern itself with. Ghosting his routes had been how she fell in with the Nightingales, a group she made a wanton commitment to, a commitment which she kept only as faithfully as she saw it beneficial to herself and the pink dragon. The information she had gleaned from other members of the faction had been valuable in gauging how secure their cover was, to keep a pulse on anything that sounded like the presence of the Aetheron, and recently increasing news of the presence of dragons and darkspawn. Now, she passed the days that Fyren was gone in a begrudging solitude, somewhat more bold about leaving home on her own to exchange intel with local Nightingales in the Silverlands, but far from brave. 

When Fyren returned from his trip and entered the cabin, it was clear there was a pall in the overall atmosphere. Even if her mood was only half bad Talisa had an uncanny ability to make the air in a room heavy and tense. Her impatient eyes shifted toward the door when she heard his key turn in the lock and her welcome was far from warm. Before she spoke, she wondered if he might notice the few pieces of broken furniture out in the front of the cabin and the box of broken glass. Realistically, there was no saving the broken plates and vase so there was no point in keeping it and she could have repaired the broken stool and side table if she’d really worked at it, but she wanted Fyren to see them. Talisa’s broody face was still slightly battered and bruised as she stared at him in the doorframe. “So lovely of you to find your way home,” she greeted tersely, crossing her arms and cocking a hip. “Too bad someone else found their way here first. She broke half the things in the house,” Talisa whinged, her voice sincerely believing the hyperbolic account of events. “Made her way off with a few of the best items of both of ours.” It served Fyren right to lose a few of his prized items in his horde. “She took my abalone shell.” This was added as if it were a wrong so weighty and heinous that the world may never be set right–and perhaps it wouldn’t. Fyren had given it to her as a peace offering after leaving her for two weeks longer than intended on a contract in Eastreach after all, and abalone shells didn’t grow on trees.