colors, and seasons, and how to spell their name

Chapter 01: nyra (for kuma)
Chapter 02: rexshulk (for matilda)
Chapter 03: galabart (for zest)
Chapter 04: moraghid (for bubble)

A soft smile can be a weapon, when Pyra wears it. A confidence that wells not in heels and arches but about elbows and kneecaps; a fire, berthed and banked alive, that both cannot and can't not burn.

(And it burns, and it burns, and it burns.)

Of course, the contradiction. Of course, the unattainable.

Of course, what Nia can't have when she needs it most.

To scream would be unthinkable. Pyra never cries.

Nia's fingers, always gloved, sift with ash and confession.

Here, at the stake-tip of wailing and might...

She smiles softly, and her love is her shield.

What do you do when a marriage of inconvenience becomes one of convenience?

Because, let's face it, gettin' your arm chopped off and your eye poked out is pretty bloody inconvenient.

Acting as each other's faculties, though, is the most natural thing in the world. Mental as well as physical - a reminder here, a counsel there.

True equals, aren't they?

And Rex has to appreciate that. He's never had something so core like this, man to man.

It just makes sense. A ridiculous amount. An Elysium full of it. An Origin, too.

The end, the beginning...and back around again.

Bart likes to take deep breaths upon arriving somewhere new. He says there's nothing like "smelling the salt air" (even if they're inside, so long as the place is at least somewhat cavernous).

Gala is well used to cataloguing smells. Comforting scents? An easily understandable phenomenon, the same as textures that might ground you if you're feeling anxious. You just have to be lucky enough to find some that actually are comforting, whether objectively or subjectively.

So, then...

Bart himself.

Bold, and bright. Uncautious, yet not quite in-your-face. Somehow guardedly grounded.

The scent of an adventure that feels like home.

Two things must always be said of the Jewel: that her mythical eyes have never been seen to have opened, and that one constantly feels her watching. Waiting, but never for very long. Judging, but only just as much as she needs before she strikes.

Many have commented to Mòrag that it must be disconcerting, trusting such a watchless faithful with your life and your measured steps.

As if there could ever be any doubt, what patience Brighid contains. What volumes. What stillness.

To know her is to be known by her, and to love, and never once to fear.