PapaOso

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

WIP Started writing this before Milo was interacted with elsewhere. Apologies for breaking timeline. Will fix and repost later

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Mentions/Interactions: Ezekiel @helo

She led him with graceful ease, her stride fluid, the kind of effortless confidence that made her movements feel more like a glide than a walk. Her presence was magnetic in that quiet, unspoken way—like candlelight in a still room. She didn't try to charm, yet there was something undeniably alluring about her: the softness of her voice with that ever so faint rasp that adds eccentricity, the way her gaze lingered a heartbeat too long, how her fingers trailed lightly along the rail as they descended the next flight of stairs.

They walked down a narrow, lesser-used corridor that curved toward a maintenance stairwell—one of the many veins in the ship’s vast body that most passengers never even glanced at. The buzz of life above faded, replaced by the ship’s pulsing heart: the hum of arcane engines, the faint hiss of pressure valves, the creak of wooden bones with metal joints.

Finally, she paused beside a closed hatch. She turned to face him fully, her voice lower now, almost intimate.

“There are two people in the cargo hold. A man and a woman.” Her eyes searched his face, and something like vulnerability passed through her expression. “They’re very sick. Fevers. Coughing blood. Too weak to move.”

She hesitated, just enough to seem unsure, then looked down briefly before continuing.

“They’re not on the manifest. Stowaways.” She glanced back up, voice soft, confessional. “That’s why I haven’t gone to the ship’s medics. I’m afraid if I report them, they’ll be thrown off at the next port or left to die in a locked room. But if someone like you… someone with healing hands and no need to judge… were to help them quietly…covertly”

She let the implication hang, unfinished.

Her eyes held his again. No flicker of deception. No twitch of guilt. Only that same unnerving stillness, cloaked in certainty.

"Please...they are my parents. 

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Gears

Interactions: Phia @princess, Meiyu @Tae, Val & Scratch @Apex Sunburn

The bar was getting louder by the minute, and Gears was fairly sure her napkin-to-chaos ratio was officially unsustainable.

Steam hissed softly from her arm vents as she tidied a corner of the bar that didn’t need tidying, just to give her hands something to do while Phia unleashed yet another round of wonderfully unique questions her way.

She was really starting to take a liking to the girl; naivety and all.

Phia’s next words hit with full force, though.

“You are… for war? You are a warrior? That’s why you have covered yourself in armor, Miss Gears!”

Gears blinked. Slowly.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Considered. Then gave a little shrug and leaned a hip against the counter.

“Well, darlin’, I suppose you’re not wrong. I was built for war, sure enough. But I prefer pourin’ liquid peace these days.”

She reached across the counter and gently set down a refill of water—mostly to make sure Phia was staying hydrated.

“And this armor?” Gears knocked on her own chestplate with a soft tink-tink. “Came with the frame. Can’t take it off, not unless someone’s lookin’ to do some real invasive tinkerin’, and sugar, I’m not exactly a tea kettle.”

Gears paused after the next words out of Phia’s mouth, just for a second.

The noise of the bar faded around her, the clinking glasses and shouting voices softening under the weight of Phia’s words.

“You are a blessing upon us all, Miss Gears. Continue to be kind, and the spirits will favor you.”

That one settled deep—right behind her reinforced plating, somewhere dusty and quiet she hadn’t touched in years.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just reached for a clean towel and polished a spot on the counter that didn’t need polishing.

Then, with a slow smile that reached her optics, she looked back at Phia.

“Well now... ain’t that the kindest thing anyone’s said to me in a long while,” she said, voice low and warm like a lullaby by lantern light.

She leaned in a little, her tone turning to that gentle hush you use when handing someone something precious.

“Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll tuck that right next to my spark core where it’ll stay warm.”

A smile bloomed, not performative or polished—just real.

“Kindness don’t cost much, but it sure carries far. If the spirits are watchin’, I hope they see you first.”

Before Gears or Phia could say more, a familiar tension crackled in the air. She didn’t have to look far to find the source.

Her optics narrowed.

The dragonborn bastard was still seated, but he’d made himself plenty known—and it hadn’t gone unnoticed. Several nearby patrons had already bristled. Some were stepping in.

Her optics flicked once—up, past the crowd—and landed on the little girl sitting beside the man, blue-scaled and clutching a marble like it was a lifeline.

Gears' jaw clenched just slightly, then relaxed.

“Count your blessings, you dumb bastard,” she muttered under her breath. “If that kid weren’t watchin’, I’d have given you a real teachin’—one you could feel in your tail.”

She made no move to step in. Not this time. Others were already making their opinions known of the man. And the star-skin girl—Ayra—well, she wasn’t alone.

Gears exhaled a little puff of steam, cleared a few empty glasses, and let the moment settle. Though she had to admit, seeing her new friend Phia go from sweet as sugar to a force to be reckoned with like that in an instant was not only impressive, but it drew an urge in her to join in. Even now, a few years away from her last battle…that feeling bubbled just beneath the surface. That silent cry for her original purpose.

Then came a new presence, and gear’s thoughts and feelings recalibrated back to normal.

Smooth. Steady. Not loud—but somehow impossible to ignore. She turned just in time to catch the woman’s gaze—poised, unreadable, and sharp as a winter wind.

Gears met it calmly. Respectfully.

“Something strong, when you have a moment,” the woman said.

Gears gave her a slow nod and a soft smile, already reaching for the unlabeled bottle from under the counter—the one she reserved for customers who didn’t need to brag.

“Mmm. Say no more, sweetheart. I got just the thing for a lady who doesn’t waste words.”

She poured with precision, slid the glass forward without a clink, and gave a subtle gesture of approval. The woman leaned against the bar like she belonged there, and Gears had no interest in challenging that.

And then—

“Hello, Miss Gears!”

That voice. She’d know that voice in a crowd of hundreds.

Gears turned to see Vallena clambering up onto a stool like a squirrel on a mission.

Her face immediately softened. There was something about Val that cracked through the morning’s weight like sunlight through shutters.

“Well hey there, sugar,” she said with a grin. “You’re lookin’ bright as ever.”

Then came the questions.

Squeakiness. Stiffness. General discomfort.

Gears held still, amused, letting Val finish her full checklist with all the seriousness of a field medic.

When it was over, she tapped her chin thoughtfully.

“No stiffness,” she said playfully, rolling her shoulder. “Joints feel smooth as churned butter.”
“No squeakiness,” she added, giving a little knee bounce. “Though I think the popcorn machine behind me’s tryin’ to steal my thunder.”
“And as for discomfort—” she winked, “not unless you count emotionally, sugar.”

She gave Vallena a warm nod. “You done good, hon. Looks like someone’s been payin’ attention to their lessons.”

Then came Scratch—quiet, calm, pleasant…at least to her. He spoke without fuss, kept an eye on the room like he always did. Gears liked that about him. She never had to guess his angle.

“You tell the Captain I’m dry as driftwood and twice as sturdy,” she said easily. “Rain didn’t do more than mess my shine.”

Her optics shifted toward the gnome he had referred to as a hired hand. She gave a small shrug.

“As for the this fella—don’t get jealous, hon. The Gnome’s not here for a long time, just a good time I’d wager. He’s just a passenger who got a little too enamored with my curvature.”

The bar bustled, the clouds rolled on outside, and in her little corner of the sky, Gears kept everyone steady—one drink, one dry quip, and one warm smile at a time.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Bastion & Talis

---

Interactions: Meiyu @Tae

---

Talis was still smoothing her robes when she realized Bastion hadn’t left. He was just… standing there. Like a particularly polite statue.

She peeked up at him.

“You don’t have to keep watching me, you know,” she mumbled politely, brushing a curl behind her ear. “I’m not going to fall again. Probably.”

“I am verifying,” Bastion replied, as if this were obvious. “You said it was part of your character development. I am unsure if your character is to be developed further in this way.”

That made her snort. Like, full-on shnort. She clapped a hand to her face immediately, as if she could cram the sound back in.

“No sequels, promise!” She assured him through her fingers. “I think the arc is complete. Unless there’s a spin-off where I fall off a different piece of furniture.”

Bastion looked at the bar stool.

Then at her.

“Perhaps you should refrain from spinning off of this seat,” he said with gentle sincerity, completely misunderstanding her reference. “I could hold it while you sit, if that would help.”

“That’s… very thoughtful. But I think I’ll take my chances.”

She eased back onto the seat with exaggerated care. Bastion watched the whole time, scanning her movements with not an ounce of subtlety.

When she was finally settled, she offered him a small, grateful smile.

“You’re very… thorough.”

“Yes,” he said simply. “I was made that way.”

She hesitated. Looked down at her lap. Her fingers tightened slightly around the strap of her satchel. That same look returned—something between worry and full on exhaustion.

“Sometimes I wish I’d been made differently,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

Before Bastion could ask what she meant, another voice cut gently into the moment.

“You seem uneasy,” the woman said, her voice calm and precise. “Is it the company, or do you always carry something that makes you nervous?”

Talis startled slightly—again—then twisted awkwardly toward the new speaker. Her eyes flicked up and caught a striking gaze: elegant, unreadable…she was beautiful in the same way as a lightning storm; equal parts gorgeous yet dangerous.

“Oh! Uh, I—I didn’t mean to look...nervous,” she lied, terribly. “I’m not nervous. Just—thirsty! That’s all. I haven’t hydrated. Very unhydrated over here.”

She pointed to her throat like it might explain something.

“Also the bar stools are taller than they look. Sneaky things.”

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

The airship's dining hall was quiet, save for the faint hum of the engines below. The man sat at the polished mahogany table, a solitary figure amidst the fine dinnerware and utensils. He was an island of stillness in the otherwise bustling atmosphere, his posture impeccably straight, every movement precise. His cold, calculating eyes scanned the plate before him, a dish laid out with the sort of care one might reserve for a work of art: Karrnathi Ironplate. That is what the chef had called this masterpiece.

The seared meat strips glistened with a sheen of perfectly rendered fat, the edges caramelized to a rich brown. He inspected them first with the sharpness of a master, considering each piece's texture, the precise crispness that marked the perfect execution of a dish. His fork moved delicately, picking up a piece as though handling a precious artifact. Slowly, deliberately, he brought it to his lips, his pale mouth savoring the tender meat in measured bites, not a shred of it wasted.

The dark rye beneath the meat was thick and hearty, crusted with grains that cracked faintly under the weight of his knife. He sliced through it with an elegance that seemed almost ceremonial, as if he were performing a ritual. The crumbs fell in perfect, uniform patterns on the plate. No errant bits. No mess. As he dipped a piece into the butter, he studied the golden sheen of the herbs, his gaze lingering just a moment too long before bringing the morsel to his mouth with a slow, deliberate motion. It was as though he were testing the limits of his own restraint, every bite an exercise in control.

The pickled roots came next, their sharp, tangy aroma mixing with the richness of the meat. His fork pierced a root, lifting it to his lips with the same meticulous care. The bright, almost unnatural color of the vegetables stood in stark contrast to the dark tones of the plate, yet he examined them as if contemplating a philosophical question. The sharp vinegar bite hit his tongue, and for a moment, his eyes flickered in discomfort, but only for a heartbeat, before he suppressed it with a smooth, calculated breath.

The buttered herbed potatoes were the last to be touched, the soft, creamy interior broken open with a slight pressure from his fork. A perfect golden halo of crisp skin encased the potato like a delicate shell. He pressed the soft insides against the plate, then swirled them with the butter, watching as the herbs clung to the surface. With measured calm, he took a bite. There was no rush, no indulgence—only the barest hint of satisfaction that passed over his lips in the smallest of smiles.

His gaze never wavered from the plate as he ate, his movements so graceful and precise that it seemed he might have been orchestrating a lifesaving surgery. Not a single bite was messy. Not a single motion wasted. The entire meal unfolded like a performance—one that he was masterfully in control of.

Once the plate was empty, he set his utensils down with a soft clink, the quiet sound hanging in the air like a closing note. His napkin came to his lips, dabbing them with a clean, slow motion, and his eyes cast upward, almost as if savoring the silence that followed.

After a few moments, the man, satisfied with his meal, pushed the chair back with caution as he stood, returned the chair to its rightful and respectful place, left a handsome tip on his table for his waiter…and departed.

His footsteps echoed softly along the polished corridors of the ship. The faint scent of death—always present, no matter how much he tried to mask it—clung to him like a shadow, noticeable to those who might have been attuned to such things. As he reached his quarters, the door opened with a faint creak. Inside, the room was meticulously arranged, the furniture sparse but elegant, bathed in the faint glow of the sun through the windows.

He moved to a corner of the room, where an intricately carved wooden trunk sat—unassuming at first glance. He knelt before it with the same careful precision he had demonstrated throughout his meal, his hands moving with purpose as he unlatched the brass clasps.

Inside, the bag lay waiting—its contents hidden beneath layers of fabric. As he slowly unzipped it, the innards were revealed with an almost reverential touch.

A severed head, its face frozen in a grimace of despair, and several severed hands, their fingers still curling slightly as though trying to grasp at something just out of reach. The sight was unsettling, yet his gaze softened with something approaching joy. He ran a finger lightly across one of the hands, his expression filled with hints of subtle pleasure.

Without hesitation, his hand reached over and delicately picked up the severed head, bringing it slowly to meet his eyes. He studied its lifeless features, his fingers tracing the edge of the jawline as though he were reacquainting himself with an old friend.

"You’ve been quiet," he murmured, his voice soft, almost affectionate. "I missed our conversations. Do you remember the last time we spoke? Of course, you do." He tilted his head, as if waiting for a response, then sighed. "Always so stubborn."

His eyes narrowed slightly, and with a sudden, unsettling tenderness, he leaned in and kissed the head on the lips. The gesture was slow, deliberate, and disturbingly intimate—lips meeting cold, lifeless skin in a moment that seemed to stretch on unnervingly long.

The silence that followed was thick and palpable, and as he placed the head back into the bag with the same reverence as before, the air in the room seemed to grow heavier, more suffocating. But not for the man…not for that dreaded Necromancer. He was right at home.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Mentions: Ezekiel @helo

---

By the time the soldier disappeared into the corridor leading toward Sick Bay, she was already descending the stairs behind him, footsteps quiet, deliberate. No one noticed her leave the upper deck. No one ever did...until she wanted them to.

The air in Sick Bay was cold, sterile, efficient. She did not enter fully, only lingered at the threshold of a side hallway, mostly obscured behind a half-parted curtain meant for privacy. From here, she could see clearly.

The boy lay on the cot, pale but peaceful in sleep. The damage had been set properly by the medics—splinted, stabilized, and managed with practiced hands. But this was the real work.

The man stood at the child’s side, glove removed, palm resting lightly against the boy’s arm. An amulet pulsed faintly on his wrist. Not just a symbol. A conduit.

The glow that spilled from beneath the cloth over his missing eye shimmered like a wound in reality—quiet and unflinching. His voice, low and steady, broke the silence in quiet prayer. Words in reverence to the Silver Flame, spoken with conviction but not spectacle. A soldier’s prayer, plain and stripped of ornament, yet filled with weight.

She watched intently.

The way his shoulders rose and fell, the stillness of his fingers, the utter concentration carved into every line of his body. This was no charlatan healer, no hedge-priest mimicking power. This was faith, channeled like a scalpel. He believed—and worse, his belief worked.

The boy’s breath steadied. Color returned to his cheeks.

Interesting.

The Silver Flame. How quaint... and yet, how terribly effective. Even those heretical, zealot cunts could be useful from time to time.

She waited until it was done.

Waited until the boy was tucked in again, the healing complete, and the soldier’s hand had withdrawn. The soft hum of clerics and medics returned to the air like birdsong after thunder.

Only then did she step forward.

No footsteps. No fanfare. One moment the hallway was empty, and the next, she was there—standing near the edge of the curtain, still cloaked in the faint scent of old paper and strange perfume. Her voice came like wind behind his shoulder.

“And here they say the age of good men has come and gone...” she announced, followed by the slightest of pauses before continuing.

"Yet you care for the wounded with real conviction,” she said softly. “And skill. That is… rare.”

Her tone wasn’t reverent. Just matter-of-fact. Like a scholar noting the properties of a rare mineral.

“I watched you. Not just now.” She stepped into view fully, hands folded at her waist, expression unreadable. Her dark coat clung to her like a second skin, and her eyes—sharp and unsettlingly calm—did not blink as they found his.

“You carry yourself like a man with purpose. That, too, is rare.”

A long pause. She studied him for just a breath longer than was comfortable.

“I have a task. A sensitive one. And I find myself in need of someone… like you.”

She glanced toward the boy, then back at Ezekiel. “Someone with a steady hand. And a discerning eye.”

Her lips curled into the faintest, most elegant approximation of a smile. Not warm. Not unkind. Just... precise.

“If you have a moment, I’d like to speak with you in private.”

There was no command in her voice. Just a quiet certainty that this was an invitation one did not ignore.

She waited.

Unhurried. Patient.

As though she already knew the answer.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Gears

Interactions: Mentions pretty much everyone at the bar. Interacts directly with Phia @princess

Steam puffed softly from Gears’ shoulder vents as she observed the growing circus around her bar.

One minute it was just the pretty pink-haired rock-trader and her frost-flavored protector, and now—

Well.

She blinked slowly as it all unfolded.

Wendel had appeared and was asking about mead. He was kind to her in a real way. A good way.

Then, Bastion introduced himself. The name fit. Sturdy, soft-spoken, with a kind of quiet strength that didn’t need announcing. He stood a little apart from the others, like he didn’t quite know if he belonged. She knew that stance. Knew it deep.

For a moment, Gears just watched him.

Something about the way he carried himself… gentle, but reserved. Braced like someone always half-expecting to be called a weapon again.

She felt it in her chestplate. That old, hollow pang.

He’s like me, she thought. Not just Warforged—forged different.

The sight of him pulled at memories she kept boxed up and rusted over. Days she didn’t talk about. Orders barked. Friends fallen. The sting of knowing you were built for something you didn’t choose.

And yet...

Her optics softened slightly as he glanced her way, unsure. Kind. Too kind for something built for battle.

That made two of them.

Then…he complimented her movements…which was a new one, for sure.

It was at that time that Bobi cannonballed into her chestplate and was now waxing poetic about her “plating curvature” like some kind of tiny, bearded pervert. A tiefling girl had been called filth by some self-righteous dick of a Dragonborn, and a squirrely red-headed girl yeeped herself off a barstool like a clumsy child.

It was a LOT.

Gears stared at nothing for a long second.

She tapped the bar once, twice. Then let out a slow, metallic sigh that said more than words ever could

Still, her hands were already moving. A warm cup of tea for Menzai here, a steaming bowl for the tiefling girl there. Mead for the Dwarf. The food Phia ordered, with a few veggies to make the wolfman happy but not enough to ruin he sweet girl’s meats. She even placed a fresh cloth near the fallen scarf-girl without saying a word…just in case she needed to clean herself off.

Then she heard it again.

That voice. Bright and airy.
“Thank you, shiny one.”

Gears turned.

Phia was standing there, eyes wide and filled with earnest curiosity. She looked like she belonged on a festival float, not in a bar. The air around her practically jingled with magic and mischief.

“Can you tell us your name? And what species you are?”“Are you a rock girl?”

Gears blinked.

And for a moment, everything stilled.

Then she let out the gentlest little puff of a laugh. Almost motherly.

“You are just too sweet, aren’t ya?”

She leaned her elbows on the bar, chin tipping slightly, voice dropping to a softer tone.

“I’m Gears, sugar. Just Gears. And I’m a Warforged, though if you wanna call me a rock girl, I’ll allow it. Ain’t the worst nickname I’ve earned.”

Her eyes—those warm cyan lights—softened a bit more.

“And you must be Phia.” She nodded slightly toward Menzai, then back to the elf. “He looks after you real careful. That says plenty good about you.”

She reached beneath the bar and came back with a simple pastry—a little twist of bread drizzled with sweet glaze. She set it in front of Phia with care.

“Maybe this can make up for those yucky veggies, eh? And don’t you fret none about the coin just yet.”

Then, more gently, almost a whisper.

“Also, do you mind if I ask you something sweetheart? You doin' alright? Sky this high can be a lot, especially on your first flight. Just takes some gettin' used to, is all.”

She didn’t push. Just let the words hang there like a warm blanket left nearby, waiting in case someone needed it.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Bastion

Race: Warforged
Class: Warrior
Location: Airship; Top Deck - Bar
Interactions: Talis
Equipment:

equipment

☼ Tower Shield
☼ Greatsword made of Glacium (A material as hard as steel, yet formed from eternally frozen ice.)
☼ Titan Chain – A reinforced tow chain housed in his left palm, functioning as a powerful grappling hook.
☼ Aged Leather Satchel
☼ Worn but cherished scarf
☼ Maintenance Kit .
☼ Heavy-duty rations (for companions, not himself).
☼ A delicate glass figurine of a bird—an old keepsake.
☼ A locked, timeworn journal—contents unknown.

Attire:
☼ Etched and weathered plating with bronze accents.
☼ Fitted harness for carrying supplies.
☼ Worn scarf
Gold Balance: 25 gold
Injuries:
☼ None, but signs of past battle damage remain.

Bastion had gone very still.

Not out of fear. Or confusion. Or even concern.

Just... stillness. Like a sculpture that had been animated for just long enough to walk into this moment, and was now deciding what to make of it.

A lot had happened in the time it took him to sit down.

There was the gnome with the beard and the velocity, and the complete disregard for spatial awareness. He had made contact with the bartender names Gears in a manner Bastion could only describe as "not normal." Bastion had winced internally at the sound of the collision—a solid clang, followed by a flurry of commentary, admiration, and what he suspected might be... flirting?

Then the cloaked girl had become the not-cloaked girl, and she was made of stars. Truly—her skin shimmered like the night sky, like someone had bottled midnight and poured it into her veins. Bastion thought it was beautiful. So did Wendel, apparently, whose gentle kindness in the moment made Bastion feel... something. He didn’t know what, exactly. But it was good.

There was also yelling.

Not from Wendel. Not from the girl. From the dragonborn.

Again.

The same one who had shouted at Bastion earlier. The one who saw threats in metal and now shadows in skin. Bastion didn’t react this time. Not outwardly. He just noted the pattern. Logged it. Watched.

But then Menzai moved.

The man in white. The wolf. There was a sharpness to his motion—graceful, yes, but also controlled. Contained. Like something dangerous had just brushed against its leash. Bastion watched as he crossed the deck with purpose, quiet and low like a storm cloud on four legs.

It was a lot to process.

And then...

There was a sound.

Not a scream, exactly. Not quite a yelp.

More of a... yeep.

His eyes turned.

She had fallen. The red-haired woman at the edge of the bar—the one with the big eyes and the papers trying to escape her bag, and the posture of someone who had been holding their breath for far too long. Now she was on the floor, limbs tangled, dignity slightly dented, insisting she was fine in a voice that said otherwise.

No one else moved.

So Bastion did.

He stood up slowly, the joints in his legs releasing a soft hssssk as he did so. One step. Two. His footsteps made no hurry, but they were heavy enough to be heard. He stopped beside her, tilting his head down like a confused animal.

"You fell," he observed.

Talis blinked up at him from her seated sprawl. "Yes," she replied weakly. "That... that did happen."

A pause.

"Do you require medical assistance? Or a blanket, perhaps?"

Talis stared at him.

Then laughed. Just once. A startled, breathless sound like a hiccup got caught on a giggle. "No blanket, thank you. But a do-over would be great. If you have one. Do those come standard, or...?"

Bastion crouched down. It was not a graceful movement. His knees made a mechanical creak, and his scarf hung awkwardly around his plated legs.

"I do not have a do-over," he said. "But I can offer a hand."

He extended it. Carefully. Like he was presenting her with a gift.

Talis looked at the hand. Then at him. Then back at the hand.

"You're very... tall," she said. It sounded like a warning. Or maybe a confession.

"Yes," he agreed. "And you are very on the floor."

That earned another tiny laugh. She took his hand.

He pulled her up with alarming gentleness. For someone made mostly of metal and wood, Bastion moved with the kind of careful precision you’d expect from someone holding a newborn chick. He even dusted off her satchel for her when she wasn’t looking.

She swayed a little as she regained her footing.

"Thank you," she murmured, cheeks redder than her curls. "That was very kind. And I, uh... I meant to do all of that. Just so you know."

"The fall?"

"The whole thing. Dramatic flair. I call it character development."

Bastion paused, processing.

Then nodded.

"I don't understand."

There was a long pause.

Talis stared at him again, uncertain if she was supposed to walk away now. Bastion stared at her, uncertain if she was perhaps broken. Neither moved.

Finally:

"I'm Talis," she said, because someone had to talk if neither was going to leave. "Professor. Formerly. Kind of. It's complicated."

Bastion inclined his head. "I am Bastion. I am not a professor. Formerly or currently."

"Noted," Talis said, lips twitching.

Another silence.

Then:

"You have excellent posture," Bastion added.

Talis blinked. "Oh. Wow. Thank you. I... try. To... stand."

He looked pleased. Or at least he tilted his head in a way that suggested someone had told him this was the correct reaction to a compliment being accepted.

Behind them, the bar continued to buzz with life. Menzai still loomed near the dragonborn, Wendel sat like a wise old sentinel, the pretty pink-haired girl shimmered with energy, and the gnome was probably doing very gnome related things.

But for a moment, none of that was imperative.

Bastion had found someone who had fallen.

And now she was standing again. And sometimes, that's all that matters.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

The woman at the end of the bar looked like she was losing a very intense argument—with herself.

She perched on the stool like it might buck her off at any moment, knees glued together, spine ramrod straight, hands clenched in her lap as if they might go rogue and knock something over. Her red curls had frizzed into wild, anxious spirals, a few strands sticking to her forehead like even her hair was sweating. Her robes—once, probably, the mark of an academic—hung open over a wrinkled blouse that screamed “I’ve been wearing this for two days but please don’t judge me.” A satchel at her hip bulged like it had secrets, and one rebellious piece of paper was poking out the corner like it was trying to escape the stress of its owner.

She wasn’t eavesdropping. Not… exactly.

But her eyes kept sneaking sideways toward the group a few stools down. Big, bright, very green eyes—like fresh spring grass if that grass also had mild anxiety. Every time someone laughed, she smiled reflexively, like maybe she could be included by proximity. But every silence made her shoulders inch up toward her ears like they were trying to hide her. She was frazzled to say the least.

But more than anything she was very, very thirsty.

Her mouth was so dry it felt like her tongue had been replaced by parchment. She reached a trembling hand halfway toward the bar—and froze. Gears, the Warforged bartender, was in the middle of a conversation with other patrons. Lots of hand gestures, too. Talis didn’t want to interrupt. That would be rude. Worse—what if someone looked at her?

So she sat. And waited. And slowly melted into a human puddle of mild panic and dehydration.

A single bead of sweat traced a dramatic, theatrical path down her temple. She stared at the empty spot of the bar before her like she was trying to manifest a glass of water through sheer force of will.

Endearing, though. Something about her was just… root-for-the-underdog adorable. Maybe it was the way she bit her lip and kept mouthing the phrase “Excuse me” like she was practicing for a spelling bee. Or the part where she swatted at a fly, missed entirely, and then apologized to the fly. Out loud.

The fly came back. She sighed. A deep, world-weary sigh of someone just barely hanging on.

“All right,” she whispered, rallying. “Hydration is a basic need. You can do this. Just… words. You know words.”

She turned toward the bar. Drew in a breath. Steeled herself. Lifted a hand—

—and then bam! A gnome arrived, all sudden and cheerful and incredibly gnome-shaped.

Talis flinched. Like, full-body flinch. Shoulders shot up, eyes went wide, and then—uh-oh—there was momentum.

She yeeped, or at least let out a noise that could only be described as a “yeep”. It was an involuntary sound, somewhere between a gasp and a hiccup, and it escaped her just as she slipped right off her stool in a spectacular tumble of limbs, bag, and dignity. She hit the floor with a solid thump, blinking up at the ceiling like maybe it would offer a do-over.

But! She had managed—miraculously—to cling to her satchel in the process. Her arms were wrapped around it like it was a small, terrified animal.

“I’m fine!” she called from the floor before anyone could even think to ask, voice muffled slightly by the scarf now halfway across her face. “Totally fine. Just testing the… uh… gravity. Works great. Still functional.”

She peeled herself upright slowly, like she wasn’t entirely sure her bones had survived the landing.

The satchel remained firmly in her grasp.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Mentions: Meiyu @Tae, Ezekiel @helo, Scratch & Val @Apex Sunburn, Irrelevant Child [@PoorBabyWithBrokenArmOhWoeIsHim]

---

She sat alone, poised on a simple bench of darkwood bolted to the Stormrider’s upper deck.

The wind toyed gently with the loose strands of her dark hair as she watched the commotion unfold from some distance away. Around her, the airship bustled with life—passengers laughing, engines humming softly beneath the floorboards, the distant creak of rigging. But to her, all of it was filtered through glass, irrelevant. Her attention was singular.

The woman in the gold and black kimono was the first to draw her eye.

There was violence in her stillness. A perfected calm. Every movement deliberate, every word calculated to control the temperature of the room around her. She comforted the child she had maimed with the same hands one might use to pour tea.

Beneath the woman’s poise, Liana could sense it: the coiled tension of someone who had long since ceased pretending to be good. Not out of malice, but efficiency.

Then came the soldier, or whatever was left of him. Not by uniform, but by bearing. One eye glowed faintly—a sign of lingering arcana. His anger was measured, his morals worn like old armor. The way he stood, shoulders tight, hand never far from the blade at his side—he was a man who still believed the world could be corrected by the edge of a sword, if only he swung it at the right people.

Naïve.

The Dark Elf—he was a different kind of instrument. Sharp. Detached. The type who didn’t flinch at cruelty because he could already see how it all fit together. He did not guess. He deduced. He was not emotional, but he was curious.

Curiosity was far more dangerous.

And the girl with him—the assistant, his shadow. Eager and bright. Liana figured she hadn’t yet realized how sharp the world could become. She would, eventually. The question was whether she'd survive the lesson.

The boy was irrelevant.

Pawns often thought they were players until the board shifted beneath them. This one had tried to steal and learned what hands like the gold-clad woman’s did to thieves. He would walk away from this changed, but not in any meaningful sense. A footnote in someone else's story.

She turned her eyes briefly toward the clouds, then reached into the folds of her coat and withdrew a slender device—a cross between a monocle and a tuning fork, its surface etched with concentric glyphs that pulsed faintly with shifting chromatic light. A quiet chime sounded as she pressed it to her temple.

A flicker of arcane light passed before her right eye, unseen by any but her. It whispered truths. Names, perhaps. Fates. Glimpses. She did not flinch as the device hummed—just the faintest twitch of her brow as it settled with a quiet tone and dimmed.

She tucked it away without ceremony.

The moment she’d activated it, her body language had changed—posture straightened, chin lifted. Not arrogance, not quite. But something just adjacent. A sense of superiority so complete that it no longer required defense.

Her gaze returned to the group. She studied them like one might examine insects in a jar—fascinating, grotesque, and pitifully unaware of the walls that confined them.

They thought they were solving something. That this moment mattered.

How quaint.

The faintest curl of amusement touched her lips as the scene played on. She did not smile so much as acknowledge the idea of one.

Let them posture. Let them teach their lessons and dress up righteousness in pretty words.

She was of a different ilk.

And them, well...they were simply not important.