[color=E0D6C0] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/wFqApY1.png[/img][/center][color=E0D6C0][center][img]https://i.imgur.com/fXzi00H.gif[/img][h1][b][color=30A4D9]Bastion[/color][/b][/h1][/center][center][img]https://i.imgur.com/wFqApY1.png[/img][/center] [center] [color=30A4D9][b]Race:[/b][/color] Warforged [color=30A4D9][b]Class:[/b][/color] Warrior [color=30A4D9][b]Location:[/b][/color] Airship; Top Deck [color=30A4D9][b]Interactions:[/b][/color] A kind young girl [color=30A4D9][b]Equipment:[/b][/color] [hider=equipment][color=F9D972]☼[/color] Tower Shield [color=F9D972]☼[/color] Greatsword made of Glacium (A material as hard as steel, yet formed from eternally frozen ice.) [color=F9D972]☼[/color] Titan Chain – A reinforced tow chain housed in his left palm, functioning as a powerful grappling hook. [color=F9D972]☼[/color] Aged Leather Satchel [color=F9D972]☼[/color] Worn but cherished scarf [color=F9D972]☼[/color] Maintenance Kit . [color=F9D972]☼[/color] Heavy-duty rations (for companions, not himself). [color=F9D972]☼[/color] A delicate glass figurine of a bird—an old keepsake. [color=F9D972]☼[/color] A locked, timeworn journal—contents unknown. [/hider] [color=30A4D9][b]Attire:[/b][/color] [color=F9D972]☼[/color] Etched and weathered plating with bronze accents. [color=F9D972]☼[/color] Fitted harness for carrying supplies. [color=F9D972]☼[/color] Worn scarf [color=30A4D9][b]Gold Balance:[/b][/color] 10 gold [color=30A4D9][b]Injuries:[/b][/color] [color=F9D972]☼[/color] None, but signs of past battle damage remain. [/center] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/wFqApY1.png[/img][/center][/color] [center][h2]Top Deck – The Morning After Ascent[/h2][/center] The wind was light this morning. Just strong enough to tug on the edges of Bastion’s worn scarf as he stood near the rail of the upper deck, motionless in a way few organics ever were. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t pace. He simply stood, anchored like a statue, as if he had always belonged there. He watched the birds. They had been trailing the airship for the past hour, gliding along the slipstreams like living kites, their feathers catching the morning sun. Bastion’s glowing eyes tracked each one, every twitch of a wingtip, every little course correction. He didn’t blink. He didn’t need to. A soft hum pulsed behind his eyes as internal systems calculated their patterns, logged their velocities, and silently admired their precision. They made more sense than people. Birds didn’t lie. Birds didn’t speak in riddles or say one thing while meaning another. They flew because they wanted to. They ate when they were hungry. They migrated because the world told them to. They existed in a harmony he had never understood, but always admired. Bastion often wished people operated the same way. Predictably. Honestly. Simply. This was his first time on an airship. He had heard the term “skysick” tossed around earlier, murmured between pale-faced passengers clinging to rails and barrels. The sway of the vessel in the open sky had left more than a few stomachs uneasy. Bastion did not experience nausea, or fear, not in the way they did. He was not immune to danger—his calculations had confirmed that much. If this machine were to fail—if it tumbled from the clouds like a wounded bird—most on board would perish. His own internal risk assessment placed his chance of survival at 47%. That number seemed low. Unacceptable. Concerning. It was the sort of statistic that should cause fear, or at least discomfort. But it didn’t. Instead, it settled in his mind like a fact of weather. Present. Impersonal. Immutable. He tilted his head slightly and turned from the birds to the passengers mingling across the deck. He observed how they stood casually during conversation, how they shifted their weight from one leg to another, how they laughed with narrowed eyes and waved their hands when excited. He watched how some winced at the movement of the ship, how others scowled at the sky as though it had wronged them. He studied it all. Then he tried to copy it. He placed his hands behind his back like the old captain nearby. He tilted his head to mimic a sailor’s laughter. He furrowed his metal brow plates—not that it did much. He was... rehearsing. Practicing. Performing something close to humanity. He adjusted his stance in subtle increments, shifted his shoulders, bent slightly at the knees to mimic weariness. It felt like mimicry. But it also felt like... hope. [color=CBA0E3]“Are you okay?”[/color] The voice startled him. Not because it was loud, but because it was directed at him. He turned, blinking with a soft whir. A small dragonborn girl stood beside him, her scales a shimmering shade of lavender, her eyes wide and unafraid. She was hugging a ragged toy shaped like a griffon, the seams at its wings barely holding together. [color=30A4D9]"...Yes,"[/color] he said after a pause. [color=30A4D9]"I believe I am."[/color] She tilted her head, tail swaying behind her. [color=CBA0E3]“You looked weird.”[/color] [color=30A4D9]"That is... very possible,"[/color] Bastion replied. Then, with a flicker of something close to amusement: [color=30A4D9]"I was practicing."[/color] [color=CBA0E3]“Practicing what?”[/color] He thought for a moment. [color=30A4D9]"Being like you."[/color] She beamed, clearly delighted. [color=CBA0E3]“I’m Kaelira. What’s your name?”[/color] [color=30A4D9]"Bastion."[/color] [color=CBA0E3]“That’s a cool name,”[/color] she said, and reached into the little satchel slung at her side. From it, she withdrew a small, folded paper airship—slightly crumpled, but crafted with care. [color=CBA0E3]“Here. You can have it. I made it myself.”[/color] He accepted it like it was made of glass, holding it delicately between his massive fingers. [color=30A4D9]"Thank you."[/color] He turned it over in his hands, noting the care in the folds, the uneven symmetry, the soft creases from where she had clearly pressed hard. There was a brief silence. Comfortable, at first. Then: [color=CBA0E3]“What does it feel like to be dead?”[/color] Bastion looked at her, surprised again. [color=30A4D9]"What?"[/color] Kaelira shrugged, looking up at him with curiosity. [color=CBA0E3]“My daddy says you people aren’t really alive. That you can’t be alive. So that means you must be dead, right?”[/color] He was quiet. Then, softly: [color=30A4D9]"I don’t think I’m dead. But... I thought I was. A few days ago."[/color] [color=CBA0E3]“But I thought you people didn’t sleep.”[/color] [color=30A4D9]“We don’t,”[/color] he said. [color=30A4D9]“I wasn’t sleeping. I was... gone. For a while. I thought I was gone forever.”[/color] [color=CBA0E3]“Why?”[/color] He opened his mouth to answer. And then— [color=DB7B38]“Kaelira!”[/color] a gruff voice barked across the deck. A dragonborn man strode toward them, eyes narrowed and posture rigid. [color=DB7B38]“Get away from that killer!”[/color] Kaelira frowned. [color=CBA0E3]“He’s not a killer, Dad. His name is Bastion.”[/color] [color=DB7B38]“They’re all killers,”[/color] the man growled, taking her arm. [color=DB7B38]“I don’t want you near them. Not now, not ever.”[/color] Bastion didn’t move. He watched as Kaelira glanced back at him, her little fingers fluttering in a hesitant wave. [color=CBA0E3]“Bye, Bastion…”[/color] And as she walked away with her father, he heard her soft voice behind him: [color=CBA0E3]“Okay, Dad. I’ll stay away from those people.”[/color] His head tilted slightly, like a curious dog hearing a strange sound. He watched her disappear down the stairs. Then he looked back to the paper airship in his hand. He raised it slowly. Lined it up with the breeze. And tossed it. It wobbled awkwardly at first, but then caught the wind and glided—a fragile little creation drifting through the sky beside the airship, dipping, turning, dancing for a few seconds before spiraling gently downward and vanishing beneath the clouds. Bastion watched until it was gone. His fingers closed slowly into a loose fist, as though trying to remember the shape of the airship. Of the moment. Of the child. And then he turned his gaze back to the birds. [/color]