[SE] only here for the boos

I will be your lighthouse

One does not stand outside in the rain and ask it not to soak you. So it is with Mel and her motives in the world, ever dancing on the border of danger. He's been reassured enough of her skill set, a far cry better than his own, and a god clearly watching over. If he wanted to do anything like holding her back, which he ever hoped to avoid, he meant to be able to at least stand beside her to do so.

While not having known his father makes it rather easy to do just that, imagine something else, like a shitty serial killer, he also doubts it. All the brave and grand stories he'd heard of his father wouldn't pair well with such a monster, and he doubts his mother would have succumbed to such grief. "How awful," he lands on instead, sighing in despair for poor Violet. Reaching for his own chips to dip alongside her. The heat and color that finds his cheeks soon thereafter could be due to the kick of spice on his tongue, or could be the subtle embarrassment at misunderstanding. "Oh," he says around a crunch of tortilla chip, frowning as he chews. "That's fucking tragic." His own hope dashed now, he really feels the impact of the loss of all those friends for Violet.

Swiping at more salsa with new chips, more mindless than hungry now, he continues to lean into the tale's progression. "Surely her father wouldn't kill her... he had all that time to do so and never did." Iskra tries to reason when Mel quiets to chew (or choke on heat). The golem plan earns an approving lift of his brows around a fresh chomp of chip. "Oh Calla. How wrong I had it, I hope she's ok." How quickly the tables have turned.

Iskra

girls can be dangerous and still win

Melita was, perhaps, a touch overly fond of vengeance. Her stories, while some mired in tragedy, weren’t going to be diminished into naught but wallowing, melancholic tales; she wanted fire and brimstone against the transgressions. A reflection of her own life in some ways – though she never quite got the lacquer of resurgence against some; too little, too late. The same wouldn’t be said for her heroine, and while Iskra contemplated the sudden alterations and changes, the Honeybee plunged forward, intending to wrap up the saga. “One would think. Hope. But maybe he'd just wanted to find other victims first. Leave her for last.” Who could fathom the way such demons worked? She shrugged, taking hold of another chip and going for milder means, half inclined to bug him and break off his so he might have to go fishing for it in the salsa lagoon. “Violet couldn’t hear everything said or the actions that took place that night. She probably didn’t want to. And so she waited, below the window, thinking of the ghosts of those girls. When the sun rose the next morning, the house was silent. Only then did she go in, finding exactly how she’d pictured the scene – signs of a struggle, her father mysteriously dead on the floor, and the golem too.”

Dusting her hands off again, she leaned back against the bench, eyes flickering towards the horizon, then back to Iskra. “She snagged a piece of his shirt, her own little trophy, before heading to the haunted house. She placed it amongst the things of the girls, recognizing the last piece her father had left – Calla’s ring. But then Violet could hear the sound of the spirits – the thank yous, the quiet pleas disappearing, laid to rest and gone to the realm of the dead. Thereafter though, she had to decide what to do. Everyone would think her just as perished.” She wrapped her hands around her knees, tucking them into her chest, granting a slow smile. “So she headed down the road, on to the next village – starting something anew.”

Her nose wrinkled, uncertain if she was satisfied with everything, but nonetheless, the story was out there and complete. “There. What’d ya think?”

Melita

she knew exactly what she was doing when she invited the wild in

I will be your lighthouse

Calla is, in fact, not okay. Iskra sighs a haggard sound as she slumps into his hand at the reveal of the ring, muttering a morose, "gods damnit Calla." One eager to read books to pass his time, Iskra bonds quickly with even the fictitious characters of his life, and he feels he's done Calla such a massive injustice in his wrong assumptions. Unfortunately, there's nothing to do but sit with the feelings after a story is complete, because unlike those characters in life, there's no changing what can be done. The tale is not Violet and Calla down the road, waiting for aid, but either fake or distant or long past at least.

Mournful, he snags more chips and dip, glancing up at Mel after getting it loaded and into his mouth. The flaming skull near her fizzles out, and now it feels almost too dark in its absence. "I think my story is not nearly as good in comparison," he manages around chewing. "That was very compelling. I hope Violet lived a better life and didn't become so traumatized she becomes a killer too." There's a cycle to that, after all.

Iskra

girls can be dangerous and still win

Without the eerie lighting beneath her, she was back to normal – brow arching, waiting for his opinions on the finale. When he admitted to defeat immediately, she huffed like a grouse, mildly bothered he’d handed her the victory without the air of competition (but given how actively they’d been contending all day, perhaps he’d simply tired of the rivalry efforts). Instead, he aired on the side of the fictional characters, and her gaze lifted, watching the sky, imagining how things might’ve been for the youth she’d concocted. “I don’t think she’d want to fall under that influence,” she hummed eventually. “She’d want to make a better life for herself.”

Whether or not that’s a metaphor for anyone in close proximity wasn’t for analysis today, and she polished off another chip before dusting her hands, surveying the damage they’d done to the taco fest. “If you don’t want to try,” at which she arched her brow in a little challenge, just in case, “then do you want to head out?” It’d been a long day of bingo, animal and people watching, and stories by fire incantations. “Sorry we didn’t see any of the really rare creatures.” But maybe that was for another day.

Melita

she knew exactly what she was doing when she invited the wild in

I will be your lighthouse

Competition is only worthwhile if the end isn't already known, and in this, Iskra is assured of her victory. It doesn't mean he's not willing to participate still, if only because that also means prolonging time with her, the end of this to mean he returns to Halo, and she returns to all her fuckery until such a time as they meet up once more.

"I wish her luck," Iskra says with a grunt, seeming to know how difficult it is to try and break out of the dangerous folds of a life once known. As Mel begins to gather their day up into a conclusion however, Iskra lingers, shaking his head faintly. "Just means we'll have to come back some day," he grins in easy response to her apology. Not her fault for what beasts are in recovery, and his answer is proof enough that he'd enjoyed his time here and would look forward to something similar again. "Maybe next time we do a scavenger hunt, or eye spy."

Not outwardly signaling to her that she ought to remain seated and ready to be spooked, he instead reaches around to pull up the pack he'd first slung over his back when they arrived here. From inside, he withdraws a small ship, setting it down on the table between them. It's the Firecracker, at a much smaller scale, but quite exact otherwise. It takes both his hands to fully support her, and as he holds her out in his palms, she seems to list a little side to side, as if bobbing in an imaginary sea. "Here," he tells her, holding her gaze steadily with a warm glow of adoration. "I finally finished working on this for you." His original apology gift, whittled out of Hollowed Forest wood, he'd eventually shelved and pocketed, deciding it not good enough. He'd fretted for some time over what to make instead, and while he's a long list of ideas, he likes this one for now.

"I'm going to make a twin version for myself, that'll light up when you're onboard and flash the closer you are." A helpful tool in preparing for her arrivals. "And it's what inspired my story," he declares, drawing forth a fresh batch of fire into the space between them, although this has forgone the skull for a ship instead, lacking the detail to be deemed any particular ship. "This particular ship stands out from all the rest, because it is piloted by the dead."

---

Iskra gives Mel a small, identical version of the Firecracker that replicates the vessel exactly in real time and can float in water or sail in the air if the Firecracker is too.

Made here [RQ] then listening is gold

The Gilded Market: Maker’s Whimsy: Members of the Artisans’ Guild can create minor magical items that exist purely for narrative flavour. These “unimportant” creations might include a kettle that always stays warm, a quill that never runs out of ink, or a spoon that makes any drink taste of honey. Such items are whimsical and useful for storytelling, but they never provide combat or progression advantages.

Iskra

girls can be dangerous and still win

The way he wanted to linger instead made her heart sway, the devilish decree and degree to her grin turning into something warm rather than menacing or demonic. “Yes, please,” instead of picturing the inevitable parting, her imagination ran rampant with the thoughts of ridiculous games and schemes with him again, mind already broadening to scavenger hunts and eye spy pursuits while the rest of her soul gleamed from the excitement.

Ducking her head down, figuring they’d be packing up and she should move to take care of their garbage, she hardly noticed him rummaging through his packs until there was a figurine in front of her. She recognized it instantly – as it was one of her favored possessions, in miniature form – and her jaw dropped, before she glanced back up at Iskra in the same bewildered benediction, her own adoration peeking through the surprise. “Wha -,” and then she was clutching it, turning it back and rotating it around as if inspecting, even if she already knew the answer. Of course he would’ve made a striking replica, taken the time to ensure each and every bit had been memorized and rendered complete.

Clutching it to her chest, she granted a low whisper, just for him. “It’s perfect. Thank you,” and if a tear appeared in the corner of her eyes, so be it. Even as he continued, gone were the eaves of competition and purposeful provocation; drinking in the sight of him and all these ideas that seemed so genuine and real and wholesome that she had to swallow something down. “Well, that’s brilliant,” she laughed, already wondering if it’d be able to bypass her invisibility tricks on days where she wanted to surprise, or if she’d have to become wilier. She would’ve reached for him then, hands full of ship and heart full of adoration, if it hadn’t been for the sudden story cropping up.

Delighted beyond measure, she shook her head, leaning forward with the ship still in her hands and towards the eerie, ghoulish ornamentation again. “Oh I’m being spoiled today. Go on.”

Melita

she knew exactly what she was doing when she invited the wild in

I will be your lighthouse

The story is there, curled on his tongue and waiting to be kindled, but the sight of her clutching the little Firecracker to her chest makes something in him go painfully, wonderfully still. Iskra watches her turn it over in her hands, watches the surprise soften into something warmer, brighter, and far more dangerous to his composure than any story. The thanks, whispered low and meant only for him, lands somewhere deep enough that his smile comes slower than usual. There are few greater joys than a crafter watching their creation be cherished, or seeing the woman you love partake in such honest joy.

"Yeah?" he asks, quieter than intended, the warmth in his eyes answering long before his mouth manages anything useful. "Good. I wanted it to be." Perfect. A thumb brushes absently against the edge of the table, as if his hands need something to do now that they are empty. The laugh that follows at her remark about being spoiled is softer, bashful at the edges, before he clears his throat and lets the new flame between them swell. The little ship of fire rocks, its sails flickering softly in the low light as he watches her for a beat longer than necessary—just long enough to drum up the story once more.

"Piloted by the dead," he repeats, and nudges the fire with a thought. The tiny vessel drifts a little farther out, a suggestion of waves forming beneath it. Nothing elaborate, just enough to give it motion. "It only shows up in someone’s path when it’s acquiring new crew. To most, it appears nothing more than ordinary when it's sighted. Although it's always strangely empty, given its size. Always in tip top shape though." The ship tilts faintly, as if caught by a passing current.

"People being people…they board it." A soft huff of breath, knowing well the risk of curiosity and good intentions. "Some become concerned, think there's something wrong. They get on board thinking they can help, searching for survivors...or supplies worth taking." The fire shifts, a second ship appearing, and little embers jumping from one to the other. "What they find is a ship that looks freshly vacated. Cigars still burning in ashtrays. Food still hot on the stove. Cups left half full." His voice lowers and he taps the edge of the table lightly with his finger, punctuating the detail.

"Yet, there’s no one to be found." A small pause. "Not until they try to leave." The ship gives a subtle, unnatural lurch of flame. "That’s when people start noticing things. Movement, mostly. Just quick—" he gestures vaguely, "—something passing by at the edge of your vision." The fire flickers, and for a second, a shape slips along the side of the ship. It's barely there, gone as quickly as it came. "Enough to make them think they missed someone." His eyes lift to hers again, knowing exactly how that would go. He'd experienced those very feelings plenty of nights on his own.

"So of course, people follow it. Once they do, doors start closing behind them. Not all at once. Just… one at a time. Slow enough they don’t panic right away." He leans in a little, voice dipping lower again. "By the time they realize they can’t find your way back, the ship’s already… shifted." The flame tightens subtly, the little ship rocking harder now, caught in a tide that isn’t visible. "That’s when the crew finally shows up."

The flaming ship expands out slowly, and instead of just the hull on the sea, Iskra builds a room now, fire flicking at the edges he shapes it into as various figures flit around the deck. "Not all at once. Not clearly. Just…" he exhales softly through his nose, searching for the word, "…echoes." Another flicker—this time a figure stands at the stern for half a second before dissolving back into the fire. "They don’t talk. Don’t really see the strangers aboard their ship. They just… keep doing whatever they were doing before they got stuck there. Sailing. Working. Dancing."

The ship shrinks and becomes the exterior once more, simplified again as it rocks faintly between them. "And by then…" he adds, glancing up at her with a crooked, almost apologetic half-smile, "they’re already part of it."

Iskra

girls can be dangerous and still win

She would’ve done many, many things to simply reach across and have him right then and there – but she maintained her composure, gave the slow turn of a smile again as he watched her for a beat too long. If there weren’t stories in place and promises to be kept amidst a public area, that all might’ve suited her just fine. For now, she had to be still and vigilant, and it ached something fierce in between her ribs; rich temptations and ways she had to cease in her avarice. Not much art to her patience, when it was often found wanting.

Her head tilted, studying him, trying to listen to the tale and watch the eerie glow flicker across his features. She hadn’t been akin to many a myth – save for ones her mother used to express at the kitchen table or down by the woodstove, where she and her sister could giggle over something fanciful and light. She could barely remember the soft, soothing tones now; too long separated from beings that sacrificed for their daughters. Instead, she was going to be partial to spooky ships and ghostly visions, and she gave him a grin for his efforts, torn between watching just him and the spectral, fiery ship brought to life and flame.

Her imagination went along with the galley – of a vessel so alluring that no one would be able  to stop themselves from the immense curiosity, nor from the lurking wraiths in eventuality. She even wondered if there’d be ghost whales lurking nearby, a sign of impending doom, or a simple trap, meant for a crew to become that much bigger. “Not gonna lie, I’d probably try to board it at least once,” she murmured when he was done, clapping at the end of the tale. “I bet that’s a big ass crew by the end of it too,” tapping on her chin, already beginning to summon a maelstrom of questions that might be unending until they’re finally done. “Maybe we should go searching for it sometime,” with a tease and a taunt to end the date – leaving him to ponder if she meant it or not.

[FIN]

Melita

she knew exactly what she was doing when she invited the wild in