TDM 011

[goldmods]

【 Thank you for choosing the Golden Peacock, 5-star resort and casino. You are currently registered as a WILDCARD in our system.

We are thrilled to announce that the Golden Peacock will be embracing autumn with a special outing. Current and new guests are invited to join us for a refreshing outdoor experience where participants can unplug, unwind, and connect with nature. During this time, all Watches will be disabled to the most basic functions (texting, calls, checking chip account) in order to encourage guests to disconnect.

Please look forward to two weeks of finding yourself amongst the trees. We hope you enjoy your stay, and have a fan-CAMP-stic time. 】

CAMPING

GETTING OFF THE GRID

As the resort moves into what it claims is autumn, the days grow shorter. The projected sun in the Vale sets in the afternoon, after which a faint chill falls. Then there’s the most excessive transformation of all – a portion of the Vale has transformed into a campground complete with a scenic lake, seemingly overnight. Statues nearby have been dressed up with flannel jackets and suspenders. Folksy banjo fills the air without any discernible source.

A section of the campgrounds have been reserved for tents. These tents vary in size, shape, and supplies. All tents, regardless of quality, are supplied with sex toys and lube. Staff and long-standing guests all agree — pretending to live in the wilderness and 'rough it' for a while is thrilling. This is what the peasants feel like all the time!

NOT ALL TENTS ARE EQUAL

► High-rank guests are allocated spacious and luxurious tents. These elaborate mini-homes come with TVs, beds, heaters, and plenty of supplies. Provided camping gear is high quality, ranging from state of the art flashlights to designer backpacks. It can't quite be considered roughing it in these tents, but glamping is camping too!

► Mid-rank guests are allocated moderate tents that comfortably fit up to three guests. These tents come with cots or sleeping bags, as well as standard camping gear to make their time living off the land fairly comfortable. While these tents lack the bells and whistles of the high-rank accommodations, they are more than enough for a comfortable but realistic camping experience.

► Low-rank guests are allocated the shabbiest tents. These sagging accommodations can shield one guest comfortably, but that doesn't stop staff from pairing low-ranking guests together in order to save space. Their 'sleeping bags' are a single blanket and hay bale pillow. There are no other included amenities aside from sex toys and a single lantern.

► Last but certainly not least: our Wildcards! All Wildcards have been randomly assigned. Whether they end up in a glamping tent or sleeping beneath a propped up sheet is left to chance. Wildcards also may find themselves waking up beside a current guest or another new arrival.

► Guests that "go camping" will discover that the door connecting the Vale to the rest of the resort has mysteriously vanished. Uh oh! Looks like there's no going back to the comfortable life anytime soon. Don't worry, the door will return when it's time to pack up and head home.

LET'S GET CRAFTY

► New characters still wake up naked save for a robe, as is standard for the Golden Peacock. This round’s robes are flannel gingham to embrace camping and autumn aesthetic. Some of these robes are much shorter than others; watch out that the lake breeze doesn’t reveal more than you wanted.

► Unlike the standard, there are no racks of clothes waiting for new arrivals outside of their tents. You're roughing it out in the woods, remember? Instead of clothing, Wildcards will find an assortment of raw materials to make clothes.

Fabric rolls, hemp, buckets of leaves, leather, and other assorted goods are waiting to be cobbled into something new. The staff have been kind enough to leave some small hunting knives and wooden needles to make crafting a bit easier. Of course, they won't stop anyone that wants to embrace the wild side and strut around naked.

HOME ON THE RANGE

Welcome to the Peacock Campgrounds! Nicknamed the Stomping Grounds by long-standing guests. Rustic and right off a sparkling lake, guests will find everything they need to live in the wilderness. Staff have expertly set up fire pits, benches, hammocks, and a wooden shed to act as a tool depository. There's even an outhouse, which is a real novelty to many of the long-standing guests. Do they just... squat over that hole and do their business? How wild!

Unlike previous resort-sponsored excursions, guests are expected to manage without the help of staff. That pile of wood won't be replenished once used; guests will have to go chop down trees and split their own. Food won't magically appear in their tents regardless of rank. Camping is all about living off the land. Though staff make themselves scarce to make the experience feel real, they lurk in the shadows, discreetly providing necessary tools and fixing broken equipment so guests won't struggle too much. It isn't fun if it's real hardship, after all!

DOES ANYONE KNOW HOW TO COOK?

► On the first camp morning, guests will find barrels of ingredients and cooking utensils left beside the central fire pit. These barrels are stocked with fruits and vegetables that won't spoil quickly, many of which are seasonal to autumn. They have also been left a few protein options like eggs, jerky, and canned ham. These ingredients are communal and limited. Once they run out, guests will have to hunt and gather in the Vale to collect more.

► Guests must prepare their own meals while camping. Not even the high-ranks are given any special treatment on this! While oil and firestarter are included in the initial supply, these too are limited and won't be replenished after use.

► Staff would never let their precious guests go without a sweet treat. A generous supply of hot cocoa and all the fixings for s'mores has been left behind as well. While none of the other food will be replenished, the hot cocoa and s'mores goodies seemingly never run out. A night around a campfire without roasting marshmallows or sipping cocoa would be too cruel to subject guests to.

SUPPLIES RUNNING LOW

► Guests will have to hunt and gather once ingredients dwindle if they want to eat. The wooden shed is home to a selection of tools that can be used to hunt: bows and arrows, hatchets, axes, fishing poles and line, etc. All tools are rudimentary and can break if not taken care of.

► The Vale is lush with wild fruits and vegetables. However, much like in reality, not all vegetation in the Vale is safe to eat. While some berries and mushrooms are consumable, others are toxic or psychedelics. One must also not forget that they're in the Golden Peacock: some unusual plants that grow in the vale may trigger arousal. Watch out that you don't eat something funky by accident!

► Before 'leaving', staff will explain that guests can fish or hunt small game running throughout the Vale. One particularly enthusiastic staff member will suggest guests track down the snoggleboffs, as they're extremely delicious after roasting on an open fire.

ACTIVITIES

TWO WEEKS OF ROUGHING IT

Camping can't be all about survival. Where's the fun in that? Before 'leaving', the staff arrange activities and events for guests to enjoy. A wooden bulletin board outlines times for group hikes, camping experiences, and wilderness delights. Adirondack chairs line the edge of the lake and a few tire swings hang over the water, tied to strong tree branches. For the first week and a half the weather is pleasant and sunny. Perfect for camping.

At night, acoustic guitars and other wooden instruments come out so that guests can make music around the bonfire. Projected stars dapple the night sky, forming various constellations sourced from guest worlds. The moon enters a different phase each night, shining a gentle silver across the campgrounds. Why not pull your sweetheart in and cuddle beneath the night sky? It's so romantic.

IN CAMP

► Guests that don't want a cold shower should make their way over to the shower stalls quickly. These outdoor showers hold very little hot water and run cold after about five minutes. First-come first-serve!

► A wood-chopping competition begins around lunchtime. There are two goals: to split as much wood as possible and looking sexy while doing it. Guests that chop wood unsexily immediately fail! Alternatively, sexiness with a pathetic number of chunks is more acceptable, but still a loss. Those that achieve both goals will instantly win a large payout. Failing to sexily cut wood won’t have any penalties associated with it, and you can always try again tomorrow!

► Bear hunting is a popular activity that even the spoiled long-standing guests are getting in on! No, not hunting real bears. That would be insane. Peacock's version of bear hunting involves hunting down bear-like guests and capturing them! Any guest that fits the criteria of big, thick, and strong may potentially be assigned the role of bear. Hunters who manage to tie up, handcuff, net, or otherwise 'capture' a 'bear' will instantly receive a large payout.

THE LAKE

► This sparkling lake is rich with fish. Enjoy sitting back on the long pier with a fishing rod or take one of the wooden boats out for a row around the lake. It's also safe to swim in, for guests that would like to take a dip and rinse off the sweat of camp living! Don't mind the random swim trunks or drink umbrellas that pop up now and then. This water is definitely fresh and not recycled from the summer beach extravaganza.

► Guests that do decide to take a dip may encounter a familiar friend. Fernando the tentacle monster is camping too! This randy tentacle monster is as horny as ever, eager to embrace guests and stick slippery tentacles into any reachable orifice.

► Once the sun goes down, many of the long-standing guests strip off their shoddily crafted clothes and sprint into the water for skinny dipping by moonlight! What's a camping excursion without a lake-side orgy? The best way to drown out those erotic moans from the lake is to head to the central fire pit and join in on some campfire songs.

OUTSIDE CAMP

► Those that head out of camp for a hike or hunt can enjoy any of the Vale's usual wonders. With autumn, shiny apples dangle from the trees and pumpkins pepper beneath their protruding roots. Along with autumnal fruits and vegetables, canned beef and ham have been mysteriously left in pockets close to the campgrounds. A little act of kindness from the staff; not everyone is cut out to hunt their own game!

► For those interested in hunting down some fresh game, walking around the forest in the morning may come with a stroke of luck. Strange little creatures the size of an adult's fist are active during this time. These hairy beasts come in brown and white, and screech, "Scrun scrun screeee!" when agitated.

Yes, these are the alleged snoggleboffs! Don't feel bad about hunting them, they're an invasive species that are unfriendly and eager to steal from unsuspecting guests. Their main strength is their speed, but once caught, they don't put up much of a fight.

► Guests that explore deep into the Vale may find a dark cave mouth that leads downward into a damp chamber. The ceiling glitters with stalactites and, along the wall, they'll find a horizontal crease with what seems to be... hair? If touched, this crease will creak open, revealing a large eye that darts back and forth before focusing on whoever woke it. Black pupils and iris bleed into one endless abyss.

Those that gaze directly into the eye will freeze. Their mind will remain active while their body locks in place, not unlike sleep paralysis. This trance will break once the eye blinks, which it will do after some time... but it can also be forced into blinking by force if there's someone who hasn't made eye-contact around to help. Frozen guests will be overwhelmed with the fear of abandonment for the duration of their paralysis. This fear will fade after the connection is broken, as if it wasn't their fear at all.

Like a regular eye, dirt or debris can force a blink. If this route is taken, the eye will go bloodshot and shut, refusing to open again. Any guest that inflicts damage to the eye may find that their suite, upon return, has been trashed. As if someone or something threw a big tantrum in there while they were gone. Wonder why that happened...?

HOWLING

CALL OF THE WILD

Temperatures drop drastically at night as the camping excursion nears its end. Nights become so chilly that morning dew frosts over, crunching beneath guest feet. Every day the light and its warmth set a little bit earlier. Staff remain elusive and do not provide warmer blankets or clothes for guests, leaving them to cuddle for warmth or find other ways to sleep comfortably during nightly cold snaps.

The moon hits its apex on the final night of camping. Unlike the other nights, this full moon shines blood red. The Vale stills under this ominous sign, silent. Snowflakes begins to fall, spreading an endless clean sheet across the campgrounds. That reflected pink hue is inescapable.

THE WEATHER TURNS

► Along with chilly nights, the last few days of camping feature inclement weather conditions. Clouds overtake the sun and rain falls, alternating between light mist and heavy downpour.

► Winds pick up, with speeds threatening to whip away the less stable tents. Guests that don't hunker down and add additional support to their tents may end up chasing them into the storm. Other loose items around the campgrounds may end up blown away as well.

BLOOD MOON

► Wild instinct rises with the blood moon. As crimson moonlight beckons, some guests may begin to feel ... strange. As if they need to claw their true selves free. Those that answer the call to bathe in the light of the blood moon will undergo a transformation.

► Basking in the light of the blood moon triggers a were-transformation. While the standard were that the blood moon inspires is the classic werewolf, guests may transform into any kind of were. Along with hybrid transformation, the blood moon stirs mating and sex impulses in these new weres. Remaining humans are at risk of being eaten... in the sexy way.

► Transformation into a were is not mandatory. Other guests may step into the blood moon's light and not experience any kind of transformation or impulse. These guests are now actors in a sexy horror scene, given the task of surviving the night surrounded by monsters! At least they're sexy monsters? Giving in and fucking on the wild side may be more fun.

PACKING UP

► After the crazy weather and horny werewolves, the staff judge that it's high time to wrap this excursion up. Guests will once again openly see these diligent workers the morning after the blood moon. They come flooding into the site with clothing, snacks, and other comforts while praising everyone for surviving for so long without the resort's usual luxuries.

► A first aid tent and cleaning station are swiftly erected. All guests that volunteer to treat injuries sustained over the course of the camping experience or help clean up the site will be compensated with a large payout.

► Every guest that participated in the camping event, regardless of whether they help wrap things up, will be issued a spa voucher. Go relax, you've earned some pampering after all of that hard living!

OOC NOTES

INVITES | RESERVES | APPLICATIONS

▶ BLANKET CW: altered states; eyes (descriptions only, incl. eye injury); exhibitionism; hunting (incl. hunting fantasy creatures); orgies; public sex; survival; temperature play; tentacles; transformation; violence

▶ All characters on the TDM are WILDCARDS, which means they have not yet been assigned a card value. Suits will not manifest until characters are accepted into the game.

▶ All TDMs are game canon. This TDM acts as the game's September event. Camping will ICly begin September 15th and end October 3rd.

▶ Current characters may top level on the TDM. Any current characters posting to the TDM should note they are current in their subject header.

▶ The top level directory is for new characters only. We want to make sure new characters are prioritized and receive attention! If you would be interested in a game invitation, you can note that in your comment header.

▶ Smut threads that take place on this TDM can be used for rewards. If both parties in the smut thread join the game, you may retroactively apply the character's initial card values to your 52 bank. If one character does not join the game the thread will not be applicable toward rewards (as that character would not have a card value). The character that does join would still receive a small payout for the encounter. Hopefully it was a fun thread regardless!

▶ We ask you to kindly add content warnings to your threads as appropriate.

▶ If you do not currently have permissions and kinks listed in your character’s journal we suggest leaving a note in your top level of any limits or boundaries for other players to reference.

NAVIGATION • LOG • NETWORK • OOC • MEME

Comments

ii.

[alytos]

[ There's a very real part of him that thought if Phainon was around he'd be here tending the kitchen, intent on serving meals to anyone unable or unwilling to prepare a plate for themselves. What he didn't expect was to find Kephale's chosen curled up in defeat, face pressed to an arm and skin so fevered it looks like it might burn a hole in the wood. As a test, Mydei gives him a poke.

Phainon's hand rises like a ghost's, gesturing to the sack of foraged goods. All toxic, no doubt. He wants to snort, but he manages to hold the sound in long enough to tie the sack and drop it to the floor. Now, Mydei could be courteous, hefting Phainon over his shoulder and hauling him back to the tents. Or, consider this. He could tease him instead, rubbing salt into the wound.

It's hardly the time, but the situation is absurd enough, low stakes enough that it feels strangely easy. ]

Pitiable Deliverer, felled by a simple berry. [ If there's any genuine sympathy in his voice at all, it's buried under the obvious taunt. ] Exactly how many did you have?

Re: ii.

[greatestworks]

[ Etch that on his epitaph; Phainon died as he lived, making questionable choices at his own expense for the sake of others.

His heart leaps into his throat at the sound of that familiar voice, only to sink again. He’s hallucinating, just like before, when his body started to feel cold and hot in cyclical turns, and the greenish sepia draining all the color from his vision began to warp and fragment. His shoulders start to shake with a laugh that’s scarcely more than a subvocal shudder of breath. Oh, comedy! You truly come hand in hand with- ]

Tragedy and hubris share an unbreakable bond, I’m afraid, [ he retorts, affable, aching. ] And misery desires company.

[ Phainon lifts his head, cradling it in a hand, propping it up by the elbow. The eye that peers up at him through the missed curtain of white is red-rimmed and unfocused, the golden pupil in blue irises blown and dazed.

Mydeimos. To say he’s a sight for sore eyes doesn’t do the complicated storm in his breast justice. What he sees when he beholds him - a vision that stirs pride and a nightmare that inspires shame - doesn’t find an advocate in his wan smile.

Maybe he’ll seem mad, speaking alone with shadows. He can blame it on his foraging mistakes; a paltry cost to dream of a reunion. ]

What good would the number do you? When just one would be enough to lay you low, Mydei.

[ Only he would get competitive over toxins. Even if the implied challenge is delivered with an understated fondness. Phainon covers his eyes with a hard exhale, then drags the sweat from his brow with the side of his hand. ]

I really don’t recommend trying.

[alytos]

[ Over the years, he thought he'd learned every facet of Phainon's laugh. He knows the boisterous, clipped bark that rises from the pit of his gut, jostled free from a jest that wasn't intended—or so unexpected all Phainon could do was laugh. He knows it, just as he knows the forced, wan sound of a laugh made as a courtesy, meant to curb the sting of an unlanded joke. He even knows the thinner, airier sound of it—a pleasant huff accompanied by a tender smile. And, obviously, he knows the haughtier, breathless laugh that comes after their duels; elated, pure, and sincere.

This is none of these. Phainon's shoulders shake with a breath verging on a chuckle, and Mydei's spine starts to tense. The tension only spreads as Phainon continues, voice affable but with an ache he's never known, not even the few times they've spoken of Aedes Elysiae.

He may have underestimated the potency of this toxin. It won't harm Phainon, at least. He doesn't think he misjudged that. However, he mistook it for a mere poison when from the other man's widely blown pupils and general demeanor it's clearly more of an intoxicant, much closer to wine. Difference being, this is clearly a stronger concentration, one that hits harder and with fewer mouthfuls.

Mydei starts in place, jaw freezing as Phainon goes on, taunting him. He breathes out in faint amusement, the sound hard and short, before circling and to place a hand on the back of the man's chair. ]

Flat on your back and you still have the nerve to be glib? [ He gives the chair a hard yank, pulling it away from the table to spare it the indignity of this boastful drunk's company. He delivers a swift kick to its foot, tipping the whole of the chair so it teeters onto its back legs, letting him look down on Phainon directly. The fires of competition may not be fully lit, but there's an unmistakable pride in his eyes that shows it won't take more goading to get him to taste one of the berries. ]

Was it one? [ As in, did Phainon only have one? Because he seriously doubts it. Still bracing the chair, he leans down to pluck the sack from the ground—only to deposit it on Phainon's lap. ]

You take me too lightly, Phainon of Aedes Eylsiae. A Kremnoan's tolerance for poison eclipses that of the average man. If you want to challenge me, make it a real one.

[greatestworks]

[ It's just a camping chair, lightweight and not too durable, and when Mydeimos yanks it tips back on the rear corners of its folding legs. Phainon sways, his back colliding with the fabric back of the chair, eyes flying wide in surprise. A compromised mind can deliver convincing dreams, poisoning sound and sight, but tangible hallucinations?

Phainon doesn't have the opportunity to continue that thought, because his foraging bag - containing a few handfuls of berries, a rock that looked like flint, a few mushrooms and some tinder he happened upon - lands a glancing blow precisely where few men care to be struck.

He reflexively doubles over, clutching the bag and his mouth, blanching. No, his stomach isn't about to launch an all-out assault in an act of gastronomical rebellion, he just happened to nail him with a direct shot, and Phainon knows that's beyond a mere phantom's abilities.

Phainon tries not to wheeze. He only marginally succeeds, his inhale hissing. ]

Eigh- [ owwwww ] Eighteen...

[ Give him a second - or multiple seconds - he's in a small (well, not that small) bit of agony. Of all the times, places, conditions to run into the god-king of Kremnos. Kind Georios, open up the vault of the earth and swallow him and his 'problem' whole, please and thank you. ]

[alytos]

[ Georios can't save him here, a certain lizard dragon doesn't have that power yet!

Which, unfortunately, leaves only one demigod for Phainon to pray to. A demigod who snorts as Phainon doubles over, recoiling from a blow he only half understands the extent of. Very dramatic of the Deliverer, acting like the meager weight of a bag was enough to land a mortal blow. He knows the man can take worse, so he circles around again without paying his pain any heed. ]

Nineteen, then. [ Mydei responds decisively, not pausing to consider how wise an idea this really is. ] I'll have nineteen.

[ Because nineteen is one more than eighteen, you see! And that means he wins this pathetic challenge. He'll down them all at once, but first things first.

Mydei kneels down, one hand gripping the flimsy fabric of the chair and the other locking around a metal leg. He heaves the whole thing up in a single go, letting out only a single grunt as the thing wobbles and crumples in his arms, folding in on Phainon. No matter, he can carry the whole thing like this. With no further ado, Mydei struts away from the table, arms filled with his Phainon bundle.

Phainon probably doesn't deserve this, but look at it this way. Al least he's getting a free ride back to the tents! ]

[greatestworks]

[ Phainon starts to protest, but Mydei scoops up a folding chair that was never meant to be held aloft bridal style, let alone with someone still sitting in it. It's an impressive enough feat of strength, considering Phainon is six feet of muscle, but it means all the air is pushed out of his lungs as he's practically folded in half in the chair.

He scrabbles at Mydei's shoulder, wheezing as he bats at him with his fist. The other hand squashes against the man's cheek, shoving at him. He's about as moved as a stone, probably. ]

Don't - be a fool - ugh!

[ There's a riiiiip as flimsy fabric starts to tear away from the cheap plastic nuts pegging the seat to the lightweight frame of the chair. By the time Mydei nears one of the tents, the structural integrity of the chair fails--and Phainon drops straight through, banging the back of his head on the frame remaining in Mydei's arms, and then his chin off his knees before he lands on his back in the dirt. ]

...

[ Phainon's dazed gaze features the graying artificial sky, tree limbs reaching towards it like a thousand supplicating hands, and Mydei's proud and rugged figure, his muscular legs terminating with the fabric he has knotted around his waist. There's a gap, due to the way he's tied the cloth, and to say that he sees everything wouldn't be an overstatement.

If some artist had poured Mydei into a mold created just for him, Phainon might just kiss them for the loving attention to detail. But then, he's always had an outspoken admiration for his rival and best friend's 'conspicuous and immortal body'.

But now is not the time to appreciate the view. His veins burn, his head spins, his heart is trying to beat its way up his throat, and all Phainon can think to do is aim a swipe for Mydei's legs as he starts to sit up, hissing at the stinging lines raked down his back. ]

There was no need for that! [ is a toothless argument; but he can pretend to be cross while he takes hold of Mydei's forearm, assuming he discards the broken chair, to help himself back up to his feet. He immediately stumbles, feeling like a great, hot fist is squeezing the whole of him. Chasing on its heels is a tingling over his arms and legs, a pressure between his temples.

He should consider himself lucky that the ailments don't include nausea. He's reeling enough from finding Mydeimos as it is. ]

[alytos]

[ And who's the fool who challenged him to a berry-eating contest?

Anyway, here he thought Phainon was on his last legs, but the man has more fight in him than he expected. The entire trip seems doomed from the start, with Phainon pushing and smacking at his body. The shoulder bump he could tolerate, even if Phainon's fist isn't exactly gentle, but his cheek? Mydei's exhale is as disgruntled as the curve of his lips, pulled low as he glares down at Phainon. However, the real tragedy of the trek comes at the tail end— sometime after that loud, ominous riiippp but before he safely reaches the tent. The entire chair collapses, and Phainon drops from his arms like a brick.

That much might actually make him laugh, however... A certain small, ill-fitting garment just happens to flap as Phainon descends, giving him a fleeting glimpse of a certain pale, girthy appendage.

Is he—?

Mydei barely has time to wonder before the robe falls over Phainon's lap, discreetly concealing all but a faint bulge. He's still squinting owlishly when Phainon grabs him, and unfortunately Mydei's much too distracted to brace himself properly. He, and of course the chair, go down, not expecting so much of Phainon's weight to suddenly pull on him. He at least catches himself before he hits his knees, but it takes him a second to recover and a second longer to truly react. ]

HKS! [ He drops the chair— which honestly he should've done a while ago— and grabs Phainon's arm, pulling himself upright. And Phainon too, somehow? He's doing both. ] You think I asked it to rip? Your struggling is what caused it to fall apart!

[ That's absolutely, totally what Phainon meant. ]

[greatestworks]

[ Possessing forbidden knowledge about the girth of your best friend and rival, whose magnificent physique is something you've been glazing on the regular... well, at least Phainon isn't alone in having something in that vein branded into his consciousness.

But it is a little funny that he's been dragging Mydeimos to the baths twice a day for how long? One might have thought this inevitable, but here they are.

...Ready to start fighting over a broken camp chair. Some of the argumentativeness is sapped from Phainon when Mydei is caught unprepared for his weight, his other hand reaching instinctively to catch him as he sinks. His hand is still on him when they're both back on their feet, and it's with this hand that Phainon gives his chest a shove, immediately stepping into the territory he gains. ]

I don't know how you use chairs in Castrum Kremnos, but everywhere else they're used for sitting? Not like... [ he visibly struggles, realizing palanquin are absolutely a thing, and adjusts vector ] -luggage!

[ Nearly chest to chest, he doesn't have distance to put between him and the ache that wrenches at him. A year - a meaningless drop in a vast sea of epochs - a year he had felt his absence like a jagged hole torn out of the world. It had never scabbed over.

Mydei had descended in glory, the terrible embodiment of Strife reborn, only for him to turn his back and abandon the Guardian of Amphoreus to the battlefield again- but he had never expected to see his fate from that accursed perspective.

Self-loathing bubbles up, venomous and acidic; it peels his lips back from his teeth when he shoves him again. Bracing his forearm against him one more time - as though he means to shove harder - his head droops, white fringe falling over his grimace. ]

... [ Though that arm remains braced against Mydei's chest, the slight push he gives it has far less fight than the first two. ]

[alytos]

[ ...Who would carry luggage like that?

Mydei means to contest, his lips already parting and hand raising to catch Phainon's. Before he can, something in the air shifts. Not due to Phainon's obvious struggle with soliloquy, but something else. A thing harder to spy than the frantic redirect, that started more as a gentle nagging in the back of his head than a genuine observation. He thinks... it may have started a moment before Phainon spoke, sometime, maybe, between the hand shoving at his chest and the way Phainon crowded close to his body. In the wake of it, its density, its depth— his mind fills with unease so profound it prickles his skin.

The passing seconds only deepen his unease, and though he isn't one to back away—he almost does, if only to gauge what may have shifted or if he's instincts are mistaken. Phainon's moods are never hard to read, or at least... they very rarely are. It's only when the topic shifts just so, touching on a wound not yet healed that he becomes completely indecipherable. Beyond him, and beyond his ability to know how to console.

Mydei's lashes flick, his troubled gaze falling between them to take in Phainon's insistent palm. It gives another prod, restrained and yet—somehow firm.

Again—that sense of unease arises, and along with it a question he can't entirely dismiss. Maybe he's wrong? For Phainon's mood to change so abruptly is odd—and he can scarcely wrap his head around the dissonance between their banter and this new, uncertain atmosphere. Not even a beat later, he catches the droop of the other man's long bangs, fringe cloaking his face in shadow.

For the third time, there's a push to his chest, albeit lighter than the last. That's when he knows—he isn't wrong.

...What will happen if he steps away? He feels a pulsing in his veins that reaches his ears, and knows right away.

If he does, he won't be able to take that step back. The path of retreat isn't one he can bring himself to take, anyway, so his hand finally falls onto Phainon's. ]

There's no need to second guess. [ He breathes, voice soft and head tilting low enough for the tips of his bangs to brush Phainon's. He puppets the white-haired man's hand, letting it brush over his exposed skin before gently working his fingers apart. Palm now open, he presses it into his chest—directly over his beating heart. ] Feel it for yourself, Deliverer.

OH FUCK OFF (lovingly)

[greatestworks]

[ When Mydeimos guides him to the strong and steady beat of his heart, the hot hand that cleaves to him does not quake out of weakness.

It's because the tumultuous storm of everything he feels - his grief and his loneliness, self-loathing and joy, the wrathful fury that blazes as violently as a newborn sun - is too great to be contained. He cracks like an improperly cured dolium in a kiln. His eyes, hot and stinging, blur over, agony condensate.

When that spill crests over his lashes, it evaporates into steam before a single trace can ever land on bare skin. His breath shakes out through gritted teeth that almost chatter with the venomous ferocity that fills him to the brim - almost, but not quite soundless.

Never in a million years did he mean to dishonor Mydei's sacrifice with tears, nor can he be redeemed for all he has done. He drags in air, steeling himself as though he can clap a cover over it all as it boils over, his throat tight as that breath seeks to claw its way back out.

He doesn't trust what it might sound like. ]

flies into the stratosphere, burns into a crisp

[alytos]

[ —It's the same as back then.

When he was nothing but a helpless child adrift in the endless sea, the world beneath his feet slipping further and further away. Like then, he floats without direction, bearings gone—lost amid an invisible tide, his only recourse to follow the whims of its ever-flowing current. Too startled to even breathe, or even feel the air in his lungs, he only stands frozen in place. It seems absurd, but there's no mistaking the light catching the corner of Phainon's eyes. Transfixed, he watches the tears form; watches them wetting the other man's lashes, following the arc of them until they threaten to spill onto his cheek. However, rather than wet his skin, they disperse—fading into nothing.

In all the time they've known one another, he's never seen Phainon cry. He knew the man could, that his heart was more delicate than he ever wanted anyone to know. But to think he'd fall apart like this...

Mydei's lips move, though in truth it's more of a tremble.

It takes what feels like an eternity before he blinks, all sound still caught in his throat. Slowly—then, frantically, he looks around, making sure no one's seen them. He's far out of his depth here, so far he can't free his knotted tongue, but at least no one seems to be around.

That's... good. Good.

Whether it really is or not, he doesn't know, but his hand squeezes around Phainon's all the same. Slowly, he places his other hand on Phainon's shoulder, urging him backward. If Phainon allows it, he follows quickly, keeping close as he nudges them both to the privacy of the tents. ]

cw: gently implied emeto, sorry

[greatestworks]

[ This marks the second time he has lost himself in front of Mydeimos.

Stripped of inhibition, afflicted with the amplification of both sentiment and sensation - these might be a tried and true recipe to encourage intimacy if there isn't more powerful ammunition in the proverbial chamber than attraction. Don't put before him the very catalyst of his growth and not expect him to feel every hateful regret that sits between parting after parting. Don't expect that this rage, burning futilely for thirty million epochs, would not readily turn back inward at the reminder.

The last thing he wants is to fall down before him. Before anyone. He has relinquished his role to another, yet still comports himself as though he has the ideal of the Deliverer to live up to. He needs this to stop. He needs this to stop. So why..?

Why can't he-?

Scarcely feeling the canvas flap brush his shoulder as he stumbles backwards into the tent, Phainon shoves a hand over his downturned face and strikes his chest with the other fist, once, twice, like there's something he means to dislodge.

Which is a hell of a time for him to twist away from Mydei and lose his lunch. ]

...

[ Eyes red-rimmed and his face pale, Phainon sits on the ground at the other end of the tent, his head propped up by one hand. After a lengthy and painfully awkward silence, he glances aside at Mydeimos. ]

...Sorry.

[ He's- he's good now, honest. ]

cw: above emeto (i was just out here having a good time making mydei fold phainon into a chair)

[alytos]

[ By some miracle they make it into the tent. Unfortunately, whatever possessed Phainon a moment ago chases after them, intent on keeping Kephale's heir in the throes of madness. It moves his hand, his body, and all Mydei can do is watch as his friend unravels—even beats himself, his fist drumming against his chest as if he means to rip himself apart. Or...

Means to rip the very heart from his chest. ...But why? His brows furrow, but frankly questioning won't do him any good here. He doesn't have to understand, only act. The second pound is enough for Mydei's hand to draw Phainon nearer, for a step to bring them closer together—only for Phainon to twist away in the very same instant. The sound wrenching itself from Phainon's lips is enough to provide an answer to that particular mystery, at least, but his hand hovers anyway. He reaches, almost brushes his fingers across Phainon's back, but... that's all he does. Reach.

After a long, tense exhale he decides—this won't do Phainon any good.

Quietly, he turns and pulls the tent's flap closed, sealing the both of them in. He waits restlessly, listening to the sounds filling the tent until he can hear the shuffling of Phainon's flannel robe, then his hoarse, low apology.

...Does Phainon even have anything to apologize for? This was unexpected. Strange, incomprehensible, and so much more, but he can hardly say it's Phainon's fault. It's—

Mydei's breath stills, catching in his throat as he tries to force himself to think. To find an explanation for himself, or a way to soothe Phainon that doesn't seem hollow. "It's all right" seems too tame, too easy. Asking what happened, too soon and personal. Anything else... too insincere, or perhaps too reckless when even a mention of what happened might worsen Phainon's already unstable mood. So for a while, Mydei only stands stiffly, chin lowered as he thinks and occasionally steals a glance at Phainon's face. ]

...Even the most hardened warrior would struggle with that much poison coursing through their veins. [ Since he's already hovering close, there's no need to approach. He doesn't sit yet, though, it isn't long before he makes a decision, marked by the click of his tongue against the back of his teeth. Barely a moment later, he drops to the ground, sitting right next to Phainon. Though he doesn't obviously offer his hand, he rests it on the knee closest to Phainon—palm up and fingers outstretched. ]

[greatestworks]

Are you trying to comfort me? [ he teases, a deflection to attempt to salve his battered dignity.

That swift unraveling has left a proverbial crater, and questions undoubtedly threaten to mount and fill the empty space left behind. Phainon rakes his hair with a hand, ignoring the strange and quivery weakness that lingers after ridding himself of that toxin.

He'll recover. His pride, on the other hand... ]

I recall hearing a boast that you could stomach nineteen of those berries, [ needling his friend surely will help re-establish some kind of equilibrium. ] It's not like you to back out on a challenge, Mydei. Getting cold feet?

[ Mydei's continued presence is a boon he doesn't deserve. But it's different than usual; it's not that Phainon doesn't see the wordless offer for what it might be, but he refuses to trust the hopeful lurch in his chest enough to take it. He's made enough of a fool of himself.

He thinks, continuing to make a damn fool of himself. ]

[alytos]

[ ...Of course he is.

Mydei's hand sits leaden on his knee, its unbearable weight driving his fingertips to twitch just once. Comfort, console, these are things the Deliverer needs, no matter how he presents himself. The problem is, the man is as much a warrior as he is. His weaknesses aren't shared freely, no matter their source—physical, psychological. They both keep themselves contained, always projecting the image of stable strength for sake of the people around them. And... their own pride.

He can tell without a telegraph that Phainon might need a hand on his back, on his own. However, he didn't reach out. Mydei's gaze, averted to distant corner to offer Phainon some modicum of privacy, moseys toward the other man's knee, staring at it as his brows crease. What he can't tell is why Phainon didn't take his hand. The pride that leads them to hide their weakness, that he didn't see the gesture for what it was—if it was too subtle, if he didn't reach far enough, then that would be his failing.

Mydei's fingertips curl into his palm, his eyes straying toward his own hand.

...If it's Phainon, then. It could simply be because he doesn't know how to reach back, finding the desire too selfish, too painful to act on. For a time, Mydei sits like that, thoughts drifting through the murky depths of his mind. If he knew that was it, if it was because of something as foolish as not feeling the gesture was deserved... Reaching for Phainon would be easy. Unfortunately, it isn't so clear-cut, and Phainon gives him no cues. He only prattles on in his usual way, and Mydei's hand retreats, folding under an elbow as he crosses his arms. ]

When have you ever known me to break my word? I'll have those berries, and a dozen more just as soon as you have a drink.

[ He rises quickly, walking to grab a pitcher from atop the stacks of luggage nearby. Returning, he holds it out to Phainon—and no, he didn't bring a cup. ]

Water.

[greatestworks]

Unfortunately for you, you'll not have the chance, [ Phainon counters airily, ] I lost the pouch on the way.

[ It's probably among the wreckage of the camp chair, honestly. He lost track of it when he fell straight through to the ground. It's for the best; even if Phainon leans towards challenge when he really should have leaned toward an offered hand, he doesn't want that spiraling madness for Mydeimos.

Besides, if his own reaction was anything to go by, he'd worried the shockwaves of Mydei's outburst might flatten the whole Vale.

The bitter taste of his guilt follows him, as he steals a glance at the warrior's retreating back. Not even that feels the same. It's as though an effigy has been dropped from a height, chipped, but not broken. Irreparably changed, even if at a distance, not much appears different. Where once he could look at Mydei's back with admiration, respect, and even a longing for just one more minute, one more battle-

He sees untarnished gold behind his eyelids, enough to fill a sea.

Mydei should have never told him his weakness.
He should have taken his hand.

Angling his face as Mydeimos turns back around, he has to turn it back when he realizes he's brandishing a sloshing plastic pitcher. Speechlessly, his hands move before his brain catches up, clasping it by the bottom with one, the other around the side of it, under its handle. He tries not to think about how he can feel the warmth of his knuckles not even centimeters away.

Phainon eyes him a little suspiciously, ] Don't tip it.

[ Please, tipping Mydei's cup when he tries to drink from it might be on-brand for a provocation from Phainon, but Mydeimos isn't one for such dirty tricks. He'll drink straight from the pitcher, albeit a little messy for the quantity of water and the width of the pitcher's mouth. And the fact that, one swallow in, he realizes just how parched he is, and stops at three more only because his lungs are burning for air.

He drags the back of his hand across his dripping chin with a pant. ]

[alytos]

[ Hmph. Goading him into partaking only to turn around and say he can't? As if he can't find the pouch. It, like the chair, remains in a heap just outside the tent—and if the berries have been squashed amid their struggle, it won't be hard to find more. If there's a real issue, it's this: the longer he's away, the more he'll worry over the Deliverer's precarious state. That... episode came on quickly, sweeping over Phainon with a force that could rival the black tide, and there's nothing to suggest it can't happen again.

Phainon is nothing if not adept at hiding his pain, his scars. It's only because he knows the man as intimately as he does that he's able to see through his facade.

At least in the wake of Phainon's sudden crash, he has time to think. To work his dizzied mind, searching for a reason behind the sudden shift. Fortunately, it isn't difficult to find one. Unfortunately...

His chest lurches, the warmth of Phainon's hand over his heart setting his skin ablaze. He'd intended the gesture to soothe Phainon, to show him that he survived what must have seemed like a doomed encounter. But if Phainon reacted so violently, then the man must have seen something—and he can't imagine that "something" was limited to only his fight.

Mydei exhales slowly, his shoulders rising with the quiet sound. They lower quickly after, as does his hand as it tips, bending so the pitcher might meet Phainon's lips. This shameless man... Turning a prince, a god into a waterboy? He, with a single furrowed brow and a downward tick of his lips, stares down at Phainon, his eyes smoldering. ]

Hmph. Only a scoundrel like you would consider depriving a parched man of drink. [ Just as only a scoundrel like him would be so bold as to make his rival into a glorified cup handle. Mydei wastes no time dragging the pitcher away, placing it on a nearby chest before he sits back down, taking up the very same spot he abandoned a moment ago. ]

[greatestworks]

[ Mydeimos is many things - Kingslayer, God of Strife, Guardian of Amphoreus - but he's still Mydei to him, to them, the Chrysos Heirs who devoted everything to the Flame-Chase. His rival, his friend, and the man who stood in his path again and again, wishing him eternal victory. The man who placed himself on the front lines, holding back one insurmountable foe after another, taking on a thousand wounds, a thousand deaths, for the hope of a true dawn. ]

Maybe, [ Phainon breathes a single, mirthless puff of laughter. Wouldn't be the worst thing he's done. He lifts his head, pushing the damp back of his hand over his brow under the fall of his white hair with a smile, ] Thank you, in any case.

[ Paltry words that don't even begin to scrape the surface of his gratitude and guilt. There are others, too - the ones he doesn't say, built up brick by brick into this mountain he must scale if he ever hopes to join him at his side the way he used to.

...The way he used to? That's impossible. And yet... after losing so much, getting back even one sliver of light, these stained hands want to grasp it tightly, with an all-encompassing ferocity that could make him shake.

He's made enough of a fool of himself. Perhaps he could use that and distance himself from his embarrassing display by supplying another.

Clearing his throat, Phainon projects his voice, pressing his fist to his heart as he dredges up from the primordial chaos of his memory a few pithy lines from a story, adapts them for the situation, and gives Mydei an earful of that eyeroll-worthy melodrama he's so fond of. ]

I pledge to you a return of your gift, God of Strife. Even if I have to squeeze a hundred pomegranates and milk the goat myself, in Kephale's name, it will be done.

[ Professor Anaxa may have been the performer, but Phainon's not too shabby at hamming it up, either. ]

[alytos]

Hmph. I should have spared a drop for your head while I had the chance. Maybe that would've splashed some sense into you.

[ Despite the snort, there's not a hint of remorse or scorn to be found in Mydei's voice—or on his face, for that matter. His lips curve in a smile, warm in the afterglow of Phainon's own attempt. The man hasn't entirely recovered, he can tell. What he saw back in Okhema must weigh heavily on his mind, but the smile itself, the way he gave that puff of laughter, mirthless as it was, begins to ease Mydei's mind. There's familiarity in this, in the way they banter toothlessly, that frays edges even Mydei didn't realize he had.

Phainon will recover slowly. He may never hear what happened from the man himself, not without prodding—and he might, in time—but right now that wound doesn't need to be shared.

Slowly, he reclines, pushing the bulk of his weight onto a single palm. His leg extends while the other raises, his hastily made skirt sliding off his knee from the slit, revealing his muscular thighs but maintaining the rest of his modesty. His gaze has drifted now, settling on a random point in the tent rather than the allure of Phainon's face with its damp, tousled strands—for a second there, he was quite the sight. Handsome, even if his smile didn't quite reach his eyes—and every bit the Deliverer he's come to know, and... come to miss over the past year. ]

...By the way, the traditional Kremnoan way of preparing pomegranate juice differs by occasion. For an act as sacred as a god's tithe, that would be... Hand-picked pomegranates, a drop of honey to pay homage to Phagousa's first gift, an iron chalice, and a blessing from a priest—if you can find one.

[ His head tips, braid swinging idly in the air as he leans the slightest bit closer to Phainon. ]

But seeing as you're a companion of Strife... I guess I can let you get away with a mere hundred pomegranates and freshly squeezed goat milk. [ ...That's his favorite anyway, so like he was really going to say no. ]

[greatestworks]

[ Had Mydeimos decided to upend the rest of that pitcher over his head, he would've deserved it after that ridiculous display. Turning towards him, Phainon spies the smile curving his mouth out of the corner of his eye and knows that, in some small way, his foolishness has borne fruit, and that softens his expression in turn.

Deliverer. Companion of Strife. Can he still keep these titles without sullying their essence? Despite the burden of buried truth, Phainon reservedly basks in Mydeimos's hard-won trust; that Mydeimos reclines in his presence, that he permits Phainon to occupy space within five paces of the man, is a testament to it. He sits almost shoulder to shoulder with him, one leg pulled up, an arm draped over his raised knee, propped up by the straight line of the arm closest to him, palm pressed to the earth. Even without looking, Phainon can register the sway of Mydei's body by his fingertips alone. ]

Then, in the name of 'Worldbearing', [ he says, jovial and quiet, leaning towards him with his chin down, a wry smile curving his mouth, ] I swear to you, Kephale will remember this.

[ A little equilibrium has been restored. A companionable silence settles in, a welcome change. Not that it's quiet outside the tent, where he can hear someone stomping through the woods several yards away, and voices in the distance, the steady hammering of someone attempting to stake down a tent even further away. Sounds of life, removed from the little theater for two.

His eyes are downcast, thinking, angled more towards Mydei than the space between them. ]

...Miss Cipher is here, [ Phainon confides, taking a little longer than he means to on the journey from the other man's sturdy thigh to meeting the flames of Mydei's gaze. ] As is Dan Heng.

He tells me he's been here for nearly a year by the Light Calendar, but before my own arrival, it hadn't been but an Hour and some quints since I had eyes on our friend.

[ He's fishing, hoping to coax Mydeimos into sharing his own experience, or at the very least, to engage him in a subject adjacent enough that he can inquire without being too pointed. ]

[alytos]

[ Kephale.

Mydei takes in the vow along with the name, his lashes slowly lowering. Jovial as the man's voice is, he has no doubt of his sincerity. This old tradition, one holding no value to anyone here save him, will be remembered—etched into the annuals of the historian's mind, sharing space with every other piece of Kremnoan history and tradition he's learned. Warmth unexpectedly rises in his chest, tightening it. But what causes Mydei's mind to truly swirl isn't the quiet promise and the swell it causes, but the name. Kephale, the Titan bearing the final flame of the Flame-Chase Journey.

Did Phainon make it through his trial? He'd bought time, but he could hardly call it enough. If Phainon reached the basin, he had only one chance to inherit the Coreflame and Kephale's might. One, when that hadn't been enough for Strife.

His gaze returns to Phainon's dazzling features only seconds before the man speaks. He catches the vivid blue of his eyes just as they ascend, but he thinks little of it. Their gazes keep straying, just as they keep drawing back together. But all it means is there's too much for them to process, and even more they need to eventually discuss. ]

A year? [ Mydei's brows furrow, his fingers curling loosely into his palm. Does that make sense? Honestly, he isn't sure. Time may stop for the dead, but the same can't be said for the living. It marches on, relentless in its inexorable flow. However... one thing he does know is this. This news brings with it a new possibility, one that explains the reason behind Phainon's violent reaction.

He hates to consider it, but what if his entire concept of time is off? If their farewell in Okhema wasn't a year ago like he believed—or their next, brief exchange not minutes ago, then... ]

It's been less than that for me, though you couldn't call our encounter much of a conversation. It seems I'll have to track down our trailblazing acquaintance myself to have a word with him, but that can come later. [ Cipher, too. For now, however, he has one Heir right next to him.

He's silent for a moment, eyes studying the fine contours of Phainon's face. He senses more than knows there was more behind the other man's statement, a leading question he didn't have the courage to ask outright. Mydei doesn't particularly want to ask it, either. Yet it sits in the pit of his stomach, a heavy weight that can't be shaken or removed. ]

How long has it been since we saw each other?

[greatestworks]

[ Something a little like pride tinges Phainon's regard of the Kremnoan. That answers the question Phainon couldn't bring himself to ask directly, and aligns with his own muddled observations, too. Mydeimos might have had fewer years walking Amphoreus than Phainon did when they first met, but he was always the wiser one, by far, so of course he sees the thread and doesn't shy away from seizing it.

He never loses his edge. ]

About as long, [ Phainon answers. His arm lifts from his bent knee, starting to reach across his body, as he seeks to reassure him. ]

I see your meaning, [ his hand falls on Mydei's shoulder, ] And I owe you an apology. Though we've clashed countless times, I should not have laid a hand on you in anger.

[ The hand resting on his shoulder squeezes it, punctuating his sincerity. His thumb shifts. ]

I'm sorry, Mydei.

[ He's slower than he'd like in retracting that contact, selfishly reluctant to relinquish his hold. For as long as he's known him - for the many versions of him that Phainon has encountered, countless times - Phainon still cannot say he understands Mydei's inner workings, but he knows him well enough to guess that Mydeimos takes everything at face value, and this would be no different.

Phainon should put this to rest. His arm retreats across his body to rest once more on his bent knee, a sigh caving his chest. ] What I meant to fight back wasn't you, but... my regret.

[ He lifts his head and with it, his tone, although split by a crack of sentimentality. ] Given the choice, the chance, I would have preferred a happier reunion. But I'll take what I can get!

[alytos]

[ He's ever been an honest man, however, he's never more honest than when he's caught unaware. There's no hiding the abrupt pull of Mydei's brows or the oval arc of his lashes when Phainon speaks, sharing an apology for a slight Mydei hadn't registered. Not even a quint passes before his brows arc back down, furrowing in thought. ]

Anger? [ When? Not in Okhema, there hadn't been time for that. Not after the trial, or during their adventure in Castrum Kremnos. So... here? Logically, it's the only place that makes sense.

Mydei's fist raises toward his chin, his eyes straying to the hand squeezing his shoulder in comfort. He watches Phainon's thumb as it shifts, gliding across the bright red of one of his tattoos. Here. It takes longer for Phainon's hand to retract than it does for him to recognize what Phainon means, and when he does... The corners of his lips curve, the line of his frown subtle.

The shove?

That isn't what it felt like at the time. Bewildered as he was, he hasn't forgotten the sight of the other man. How his brilliant blue and honey eyes turned from his gaze, hiding beneath a veil of white. How his hands pressed at him, forceful and rough, but his feet closed any distance gained. How at the end, his efforts tapered... his hand pushing but without sincerity, as if what he wanted was to pull, not shove. That—was anger?

Mydei's skin prickles, starting at the tip of his scalp and spreading past the back of his neck. The sensation overwhelms, and as Phainon continues he can't help but recall the shift of Phainon's thumb to his shoulder, though at first he can't put to words why. ]

...I almost made a mistake. [ He breathes, his voice impossibly quiet—and... leaden with reproach. Unfortunately for him, his held breath isn't the only sign of his shame. Warmth gathers in his face, reddening the tips of his ears as his embarrassment builds, more realizations slowly washing over him.

When he pushed Phainon back, when he nearly pulled him into his arms. That... would have been a mistake. His stomach churns, unsettled by his misstep. No wonder Phainon pulled away as quickly as he had, Mydei hadn't thought... Well, it doesn't matter. His eyes close and he exhales, slow and steady. In the end, he hadn't embraced Phainon, hadn't made things worse by bringing him closer in a fit of uncertainty. The distance Phainon gained was purely motivated by the berries, throwing the both of them off.

Mydei means to sit up, only to find he already has. His head shakes from side to side before he tips it back. ]

It isn't like you to be so coy when you want to fight, Phainon. Those berries must have done a bigger number on you than I thought. [ Dispelling his disquiet, Mydei rises to his feet and drops a hand onto his hip. ]

A happier reunion is made, not given. Let me find something for you to eat to settle your stomach once and for all. After getting rid of those accursed berries, you must be hungry.

[ Food will do the both of them good, anyway. After all, what's better than sharing a meal together? ]

[greatestworks]

[ It's for the best that Mydei hadn't; Phainon's pride and dignity have come out of this bruised, but if he'd instead clung to his friend, overcome with grief, neither would have been salvageable.

Phainon's eyebrows lift. Did Mydei say something? It's also possible that this was the sort of thing - such as a personal reminder, or another comment - unintended to be heard. Curious, he only tips his head, surreptitiously scrutinizing Mydei's pensive expression.

Except what he sees isn't what he expects to find there. If anything, instead of reassured, Mydei looks... - maybe not agitated, exactly, but he recognizes the dusting of pink on the tips of his ears. He's-- flustered?

As Mydei shakes his head, Phainon's gaze retreats, searching the floor to the opposite side, his brow creasing. His distraction doesn't last; Mydei stands, and Phainon lifts his head to track his movements. Out of respect for him, Phainon doesn't press - he doesn't know what about his explanation prompted that reaction, but he'd rather spare his dignity than do him the dishonor and disrespect of wounding his pride.

Phainon pushes himself to his feet, spreading a palm over his own chest as his eyebrows arch into his damp fringe. ] What's this?

Further blessings? I could get used to the perks of being a "Companion of Strife"!

[ Standing must have reminded his stomach of its emptiness, because the snarl it emits prompts him to drop that hand to his middle with a lopsided smile. ] Haha, uh... I don't suppose you've come upon a surprise windfall of provisions? [ He had to forage for a reason! ]

[alytos]

[ They'll never know how their pride almost suffered this day. If Phainon had wept harder, if he hadn't turned away, if Mydei had dragged him back and pressed him close... Any one of these would have cost them something, even if they might have gained something in return. Surely, their pride is worth more than the trade-off, though. Surely.

For now, Mydei's content to let his comment go unnoticed, and just as content to forget his earlier embarrassment. Let it remain in the past, even if "past" in this case amounts to scarcely more than a minute ago. ]

Use your head. Obviously, I mean to forage for supplies. [ A task he's much better equipped for, given Phainon's earlier blunder. And, yes. His tone makes his opinion on this exceptionally clear. ]

I saw mushrooms in your bag, so I'll make that the foundation of my dish. Wait here, I'll return when I've made something worth eating.

[ In fairness, he isn't going to be horribly picky about what he puts in his soup. And in fairness, no matter what he manages to find? It'll probably be tasty. Just, you know, it might also have a surprise aphrodisiac in it. ]