[center][img]https://i.ibb.co/ssxt53R/Thalia-Evercrest.png[/img][/center][hr][right][sub]Location: Eye of the Beholder ---> Communal Barn
Interactions: Open[/sub][/right][hr]
[indent]Thalia’s fragile equilibrium lasted precisely seven bites of pastry. The porridge had cooled to a tepid sludge, her father’s smug amusement had dulled to a bearable hum, and the memory of Elio’s proximity had been successfully buried beneath a mental avalanche of livestock chores. Then the universe, as it so often did, opted to remind her that peace was a myth invented by poets and fools, neither label falling under her identity.  

A door from upstairs banged open, and [i]he[/i] made his way down to the main floor. 

She didn’t look up at first. Not until the words “[i]Who wants a hug?[/i]” echoed through the tavern like a curse shouted in a sun temple she still frequented. Thalia’s head turned slowly, the way one might when spotting smoke wafting in from a corner and debating whether it’s worth acknowledging the fire yet. Her gaze found the man—four-armed, loud as a storm, and clearly held together by last night’s strong liquor. 

Her expression didn’t shift. Not visibly. But internally, her soul might have just lain down on the tavern floor and whispered, [color=#663399][b][i]No[/i][/b][/color]. Because surely there were men the gods intended to deliver her from a life of root vegetables other than the strange potentials that had captured her attention thus far. First the drunkard, then the mysterious and definitely up to no good, then the loud and [i]way[/i] too happy, and now this. 

Her father, for his part, only raised an eyebrow at the spectacle across the tavern.

“[b]Another friend of yours from last night?[/b]” he asked, entirely too casually. 

Thalia shook her head vehemently. Alcohol or no alcohol, she would have remembered meeting this one for sure. She picked at the crust of her pastry, not because she wasn’t hungry anymore, but because the alternative was making eye contact with the man who might think she had somehow summoned him to fulfill her wishes. 

“[color=#663399]I think,[/color]” she said carefully, already rising from her seat, “[color=#663399]I might check on the livestock.[/color]”

Her father blinked, surprised. “[b]The animals?[/b]”

“[color=#663399]Yes,[/color]” Thalia replied, brushing pastry crumbs off her lap. “[color=#663399]You know. The cows. The chickens.[/color]” The only semblance of the role that they’d previously occupied. 

“[b]You… want to help with the livestock?[/b]” Her old man was rightfully confused. Taking care of the animals was not a task she'd ever been in a rush to complete.  

“[color=#663399]I want,[/color]” she said, adjusting her scarf with stiff dignity, “[color=#663399]to go where it’s quieter. And maybe give Lark his walk. Save him some food, ok?[/color]”  She got up, making her way to the exit, her last request to her father being, “[color=#663399]And if I come back and [i]that[/i] one’s declared himself king of the tavern, I’m moving into the barn, and I’m not coming out.[/color]” 

The cold outside was a slap, crisp and clarifying. She inhaled, the air sharp as a whetstone, and let the communal barn’s distant musk—hay, dung, animal warmth—anchor her. Lark materialized at her side, ears seemingly cocked in silent censure.

“[color=#663399]Don’t look at me like that,[/color]” she muttered, scratching his ruff. “[color=#663399]You’d have fled too.[/color]”
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