#neras

At the opposite end of the bridge, built into the mountain itself, is the Peony Gate that opens into Banasyl’an. Guarding the Peony Gate is a simple task. If one has already crossed the bridge from the Jade Gate without a problem then they are welcome into the city. The guards of the Peony Gate are a formality more than anything else, whose only real duty is to activate the wards that will cause the bridge to collapse, should an enemy try and cross it.

Neras wouldn’t mind it so much if it weren’t so mindnumbingly boring. People watching only goes so far, and most of those that travel through don’t wish to stop to chat with a simple gate guard. The majority of guards stationed here are young, but one senior guard needs to be available with the activation spell for the bridge wards...and more often than not, that senior guard is Neras; having no ambition keeps him free of the politics of rank, but it tends to land him with posts like this.

He’s got five more hours before his shift ends, and Felrae comes to relieve him—and since it is Felrae, likely six. She tends to linger in the merchant district visiting her wife and with her rank he can do little to stop her; and wouldn’t regardless. It takes far too much energy, and there’s no harm done.

It isn’t as if he has anywhere to be himself, aside from the tavern.

“Neras!”

The voice is one he’d recognize anywhere, as he turns to glance down the main street and light reflects off of pearlescent hair and a multitude of hairpins in a near-blinding array of color. Drama breaks away from the crowded street and heads toward his small alcove with a purposeful stride. 

They place the basket at their feet and settle themselves down on the bench beside him, smoothing their skirt. He shifts a bit to give the ample fabric more room, and to make certain the high-quality silk doesn’t brush against his dust-covered armor.

“Neraaaaas,” Drama turns with a bright smile, “You wouldn’t believe what I just found out.” They do not elaborate, but the look on their face says they are aching to continue.

He supposes he should humor them. “What is it?”

“I just learned the name of the Storyteller Festival’s winner!”

Neras raises an eyebrow at that. “Weren’t you part of the judging panel for it this year?”

“Of course!”

“You shouldn’t be telling me, then. It’s a secret.”

Drama rolls their eyes with a huff and then leans forward conspiratorially, “It’s just wonderful, Neras. This year is going to be so much fun.”

Neras is surprised that Drama did not submit a story this year as well. Though they have been working for about thirty years now on a play; it seems to have taken up most of their time and creativity. Besides, they would claim that if they entered then others wouldn’t stand a chance.

Neras supposes that’s likely. It is hard for newer storytellers to be recognized when senior artists in Henne’thel’s court submit pieces every year. It is a high honor, to be chosen to recite your story to Henne’thel herself.

Neras has never met her personally. It is not that their kind leader holds herself too lofty to meet those who live in her city but she is very busy, and it can’t be expected of her to have introduced herself to everyone who lives in Banasyl’an.

And there is nothing very remarkable about Neras anyway. He was surprised when Drama first befriended him, and even more confused that they continued to seek him out.

“Come here,” Drama crooks their finger, before leaning in even closer. Neras can smell their perfume; wisteria blossoms, their favorite scent. Neras swallows as they press their lips close to his ear, “It’s Thenvunin.”

It takes a moment for Neras to put a face to the name, but then it clicks. “The one who writes about Thenassaran?” He remembers it being a point of contention among some of the Storytellers though the details are a bit muddy; Neras himself is not a great fan of the arts. Drama’s tragedies are the only ones that have ever moved him, and he’s never had a desire to sit down and read a piece rather than see it performed.

“Eloquence is going to be livid,” Drama’s smile is gleeful as they nod. They pluck a pomelo from the basket near their feet, and hand one to Neras as well.

“Isn’t Eloquence your friend?”

“Hm?” Drama blinks, looking up from the fruit they’ve begun to peel. “Does that matter?”

It is times like these that Neras is reminded that Drama can be unknowingly cruel in their pursuit of entertainment. He pops a bit of the pomelo flesh into his mouth and shakes his head at the sight of Drama happily devouring their own. “I find myself grateful for being boring. I never have to worry about you plotting some mischief in my regard.”

“You’re not boring at all!” Drama waves their hand in dismissal. “You are my muse, how could I find you boring?”

Neras has to look away, and keep his emotions tightly coiled as he tries to push down the fluttering in his stomach at their words. They’ve called him that since the beginning, after he’d stopped to watch one of their open air performances and had found himself awestruck and in tears. Still, no matter how many times they say it, it doesn’t lessen the effect it has on him.

How someone as talented and beautiful and dynamic as Drama could find inspiration in him is still a mystery. He clears his throat, and hurriedly tries to change the subject, “Are you going to tell Eloquence?”

“Why would I do that?” They laugh, “It wouldn’t be nearly as fun if they new beforehand. Oh I wonder what they’ll do.” As they begin speculating on Eloquence’s reaction, Neras finds himself unable to look away.