we reach the sprangle just at dawn

"Your fate is not that of all Blades."

"Not that of all Flesh Eaters," Minoth amends meaningfully, with a nod (whether physical or metaphorical) to their mutual acquaintance and connection. "Even putting this-" he gestures at his twice-lurid (and-back-again) Core "-aside, it's not all fates created equal."

"As if it ever is." Melia nods. "But yours was not a preventative measure, as hers."

Save for the stray glance out of bottom-cornered eyes, Melia is a remarkably direct person. Well, most High Entia are. Her every dialogue is grounded, dignified, much less flightly and cloud-minded than the wings would suggest and have you believe.

Even this conversation is a bit of a bush-beater.

"My lady..." Cole begins, and it's the fealty that does it, makes him old, "I would answer an infinite roster of your questions. As many will attest, there's nothing I love more than talking to those who don't mean me harm."

"But you'd rather I show you confirmation."

Well, now he feels like a right old fool, laying out the personality as if she hasn't just flourished it before him.

He probes into her eyes for a smile, but she doesn't give it. Why, why, why?

"Think of me as a Telethia who hasn't turned."

Melia's line-set mouth twists.

"Emphasis on Telethia. A strange creature, but one you can talk to."

When he puts it like that, she begins to unravel Minoth's unconundrum on instinct; very nearly, on offense. But he is, as ever, the essence of anti-grift.

"I cannot help my suspicion."

"I know. But I can."

And after that courtside exchange, Melia offers Sir Cole of Alrest her hand. He kisses it, holding just enough of the fingertips afore the palm.

Oh, Nia has very strange friends.