Cha0s Gaming - Lyra Eos

EasyThreads added AsaniDraws to the group. 2/12/2026 5:50 PM

Soon Emough, Laika Arrived to Lyra. Thanking the crew for the ride as she looks around.

*Walking around. Frantically searching for Dante. Trying to see if his ship had arrived yet*

The **Silver Current** comes home on a rising wind. Lyra Eos is first a smudge in the distance, then a pale crown in the sky, terraces stacked like feathers of stone. Dante stands at the starboard rail in his harness, one hand on a line, watching the familiar shape grow larger as they climb toward the sky-docks. The airship banks, ether-fins flaring to bleed speed. The hum of the core deepens. Ahead, one of the upper mooring platforms lights up with guiding sigils—Lyra welcoming one of its own back into the roost. “Hands to docking stations!” the first mate’s voice cuts through the wind. “Lines ready, eyes open! Nobody dies within sight of home, understood?” A rough chorus of “Aye!” answers her. Dante’s is one of them. He moves without thinking now: checking the gangplank stays, bracing his feet for the small jolt as the Silver Current eases sideways toward the stone. Below, there is no water—only empty air and a scatter of clouds far, far beneath them. The hull shudders as the belly-struts reach for the dock, metal teeth sliding into carved sockets with a heavy, satisfying **CLUNK**. Mooring lines fly, are caught and looped fast; the ship rocks once, twice, then steadies as stone and sky-share her weight. Home for the ship. Not quite home for him.

*keeps his hand on the line until the last shiver settles, then exhales slowly, shoulders loosening.* “Still alive…” *he mutters under his breath.* “Didn’t fall. Didn’t get thrown. That’s something.”

Crew begins their practiced chaos—securing vanes, setting ramps, shouting down to dockhands. From the Lyra side, officials in neat harnesses move in to check seals and manifests. On the platform itself, a few figures stand apart from the bustle, waiting. One of them is robed, hands tucked in his sleeves, silver eyes sharp against the wind. Dante recognizes the stance before he sees the face. Mirror-Priest Neris does not wave. He simply watches the last lines tighten, the gangplank swing down, and the first returning crew step onto Lyra stone. “Exchange complete! Shore leave by roster!” the first mate barks. “If your name is on column one, you’re off the ship for Quiet Shore. If it’s not, touch my rigging and I’ll feed you to the turbines. Move!” She slaps a slate down by the gangplank as men and women crowd around it. Dante edges in, finds his name—there, in the first column, neat and clear: **Dante – Quiet Shore (Lyra).**

*lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, fingers brushing the etched letters once before he shouldered his pack and steps down the gangplank onto the dock.*

Lyra’s stone feels strange under his feet after so long on living decks—too still, too certain. The wind curls around the edge of the platform, tugging at his fur, carrying the familiar clean scent of high air and city water. He doesn’t get three steps before Neris is in front of him. The priest doesn’t reach for him, doesn’t pull him into an embrace. He just stands there, the way he did the day Dante left, letting Dante come the last pace on his own. “You came back standing,” Neris says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement, calm and measured, but there’s something in his eyes that wasn’t there when they first met—something like quiet satisfaction.

*huffs a tired almost-laugh, shifting the weight of his pack on his shoulder.* “Did my best not to give them a reason to throw me over the side,” *he answers.* “Figured you’d be disappointed if I arrived by falling past the window instead.”

Neris’ mouth twitches, acknowledging the joke. “Disappointed, yes,” he says. “Also annoyed. The paperwork would be terrible.” He lets that sit for a beat, then tips his head slightly. “Do you have one thing?” he asks. “From your list.” Dante knows what he means. The three things he’d written with Neris before he boarded—three promises to himself for the season. One of them, at least, he was supposed to live out there.

*looks past Neris for a moment, out over the drop, remembering stormfronts and shouted orders, the first night a younger deckhand froze on the lines and he moved without thinking, hands steady, voice firm.* “I… stayed,” *he says, slowly.* “First big squall we hit, I wanted to bolt. Not from the deck, just… from the… everything.” *He makes a vague gesture that takes in the ship, the sky, himself.* “But they needed hands on the lines, and the kid next to me was shaking worse than I was. So I stayed. I held my corner. Didn’t make it about me.” *He shrugs, a little self-conscious.* “Might not sound big. Felt big.”

Neris studies him, that same measuring, mirror-like gaze he used at the lake. THEN he nods once. “Good,” he says. “That’s one.” He steps to the side, freeing the space between Dante and the rest of the dock. “You’re on Quiet Shore now,” he continues. “That means three things:” He lifts a finger. “First: you answer no big questions. Not from me, not from the Assembly, not from yourself. No life oaths, no grand declarations. Your body has been braced against wind for a season; let it forget the angle before you decide which way to lean next.” Second finger. “Second: you eat, you sleep, you let the ground teach you what it feels like again. If you find yourself itching for the deck under your feet, you are allowed to miss it. Missing is not failure.” Third. “Third: when you’re ready, in a few days, you come find me at the lake. We’ll talk about the rest of your list.” He pauses then, a subtle shift in his posture. “And yes,” he adds, quieter, “I have news of Pua Hala. And of those who went there. But not today. Today is for landing.”

*flinches just a fraction at the mention, ears angling back, then forward again. His hand tightens on his strap, then relaxes.* “…Right,” *he says.* “Landing first. Questions later.”

Around them, crew continue to spill off and on the Silver Current. Some clap Dante on the shoulder in passing—a brief, solid weight of acknowledgment from people who have only ever known him as rope, sweat, and curse-words in the wind. Malakai and Charitoména are not at this dock—this time, only Neris waits. It makes the platform feel wider, the sky bigger. Lonelier, too, but in a clean way, like the feeling right after a deep breath. “Go,” Neris says, stepping back. “There’s a bunk in a guest tier with your name on it, and food that doesn’t come out of a ship’s pot. Use both. If you wake in the night thinking you’re falling, remember: for now, if you fall, you hit stone, not sky.” He turns away then, giving Dante the rare courtesy of being left to walk on his own without the priest’s eyes on his back. For the first time in months, Dante crosses a sky-dock toward Lyra’s inner stairs **as someone returning**, not fleeing and not being sent away.

*takes a slow breath of high, clean air, adjusts the strap of his pack, and starts walking, boots steady on pale stone. For now, that’s enough.*

*The Aether Sella from Pua Hala hangs in the air a heartbeat longer than feels natural—lift-fins humming, hull poised over the yawning blue below. Then the belly-struts extend with a metallic sigh, reaching for Lyra’s upper sky-dock.* *Stone answers steel with a heavy, hollow **CLUNK** as mooring claws bite into their sockets. Guiding pylons along the edge flicker once, then settle to a steady glow. A breath later, the ship’s hum shifts down; weight transfers from sky to stone. Lines fly, are caught, drawn tight. The envoy is home.* *Laika thanks the crew at the gangplank with a soft word, then steps out into Lyra’s high air. The wind curls around her, ruffling fur and clothes, carrying scents she remembers: cool clean stone, lake-water, a faint trace of polished metal and incense from the inner halls. The drop beyond the dock’s edge is as dizzying as ever; clouds drift far below like torn silk.* *The dock is busy but not chaotic. Crew in Lyra harnesses move with practiced efficiency, checking clamps and manifests. A few curious onlookers linger back from the marked work zone, watching the Pua Hala envoy’s colors with interest.* *Laika’s ears are already turning, searching. Tail low, bag strap cutting into her shoulder, she moves away from the gangplank, scanning faces, harnesses, feathers, fur—anything that could possibly be Dante.* *Nothing. At least, not at first glance.* *She walks the length of the dock, eyes darting from one moored ship to another. A slim courier craft two platforms over bears the sigil of the **Silver Current**, lift-fins folded, crew either aboard or scattered into the city on leave. No familiar black-and-white fur on this dock, though. No easy slouch with a rope over his shoulder.* *Her heart kicks up; the wind seems to press harder.* *One of the Lyra dock clerks—a broad-shouldered swan-kin with a slate in one hand and charcoal in the other—glances up as she passes. He recognizes the Pua Hala patterns on her clothes, the way she lo

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oks like she’s searching for something that isn’t on any manifest.* *He steps a little closer, respectful distance, voice pitched to carry over the wind without drawing the whole dock’s attention.*

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*Dock Clerk* *tilts his head slightly, slate tucked under one arm.* “You just off the envoy?” *he asks, not unkind.* “Looking for someone in particular, or just seeing if the wind’s different up here?” *His eyes follow her last glance toward the distant courier dock, where the Silver Current sits in its cradle.*

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*He shifts his weight, adding in a practical tone:* “If you’re hunting crew from the **Silver Current**, she came in earlier this day. Offloaded a bunch of tired faces and sore backs.” *A small half-smile.* “They scattered quick—half to the guest tiers, half to the food stalls.” *He taps his slate with the edge of his charcoal, thinking.* “Some of them’ll be down in the **mid-tier market** by now. Others got sent to Quiet Shore bunkrooms.” *He nods toward an inner stair descending from the sky-dock into Lyra’s higher terraces.* “If you tell me who you’re after, I can at least tell you if their name is on our roster, see if they signed off the ship proper.” *The wind tugs at the edge of his harness; the envoy creaks softly behind Laika, still settling against its clamps. The clerk waits, slate ready, eyes steady, letting her decide whether to speak the name, ask for help, or turn and search on her own.*

Dante, The one I'm looking for from that ship. H-His name is Dante...

The dock clerk’s charcoal pauses halfway to the slate when he hears the name. “Dante…” *he repeats quietly, eyes flicking to Laika’s ears and tail as if something clicks into place.* “Furred, worked the Silver Current this circuit, came to us from Dawn Assembly care.” *He tucks the slate against his hip with his elbow and flips to a thin leather strip threaded through the top—names etched in neat, ruthless lines. The wind tugs at the pages; he steadies them with a practiced thumb.* “Let’s see… Silver Current, incoming crew…” *his finger tracks down one column, then another.* “Here. Dante.” *A small nod.* “He checked off the ship proper—Quiet Shore notation. So he’s not on duty, he’s not in holding, and he’s not signed out of Lyra. He’s here.” *He jerks his chin toward the inner stair that curves away from the sky-dock, down into the city’s higher tiers.* “He was assigned a bunk in the **Quiet Shore guest wing**—that’s where they send the ones coming off long circuits to remember what stone feels like. If he’s not sleeping, he’ll be within a few levels of it. Most of them drift between there and the **mid-tier market** for food their cooks didn’t burn.” *He shifts his grip on the slate, then softens his tone a little, noticing the way her eyes keep sweeping the docks anyway, as if he might just appear between two cargo nets.* “From here,” *he says,* “take the **inner stair**—not the cargo ramp. Follow the blue inlays in the floor; they’re for guests, not workers. When the tiles turn from plain stone to that fancy pale stuff with the little dawn-stars in it, you’re in the Quiet Shore levels.” *He taps his own chest lightly where a pendant would hang, a little mnemonic gesture.* “You’ll see a corridor with doors marked with a **soft wave glyph**—looks like a sleeping curve, not the sharp ones for pilots. That’s the wing you want. If he’s not in his bunk, someone there will know if he wandered off to the baths or the market.” *The clerk glances once toward

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the distant courier dock where the Silver Current rests, then back to her.* “If you get turned around,” *he adds,* “ask any of the stewards in gray sashes to point you toward Quiet Shore. They all know that path by heart.” *He shifts the slate back into position, the conversation already drawing an impatient look from a dockhand waiting to get a manifest signed, but he gives Laika one last, straightforward nod.* “Welcome back to Lyra, Laika of Pua Hala,” *he says, as if he’s only just remembered to say it.* “May you find who you’re looking for before the wind changes.” *The dock’s noise rolls back in as he turns to his work: shouts, the creak of mooring clamps, the low hum of the envoy’s ether-cores winding down.* *Ahead, the inner stair yawns like the throat of the city—stone steps curving down and inward, lit by soft sky-lanterns, blue inlays glinting along the path that leads toward the quieter tiers: guest wings, baths, and the rooms where people learn how to land after too long in the sky.*

T-Thank you.. *Making a Mental note of the Direction. But knowing she should probably wait for her own mentor to show up. She'd rather not get in trouble for searching out Dante before she can meet up with her.*

The dock clerk gives her a small, understanding nod and turns back to his manifests. Around Laika, the sky-dock settles into its usual rhythm: shouts passed hand to hand, the creak of mooring clamps, the low, fading hum of the envoy’s ether-core winding down into rest. The wind on Lyra is thinner than Pua Hala’s—cooler, cleaner, edged with the faint chill of altitude instead of reef-scented warmth. It plucks at the loose edges of her clothes and ruffles the fur along her arms and neck. Below the stone, there is only blue and distant cloud. She stays where she is. Not at the edge, and not back at the gangplank—just off to one side of the marked work zone, where guests are supposed to stand. Bag strap cutting into one shoulder, fingers worrying lightly at the hem of her sleeve, eyes drifting now and then toward the **inner stair** the clerk pointed out… then back again. Waiting. Time stretches a little. Dockhands finish offloading the envoy’s messenger crates and traded goods. A pair of Lyra stewards in gray sashes come and go, checking passenger lists, guiding two other visitors toward the guest tiers with practiced lines: “Follow the blue inlays. Yes, that stair. Watch your step, don’t lean over the rail.” Every so often, Laika catches a glimpse of the **Silver Current** two platforms away: lift-fins folded tight, hull in its cradle, a few crew still visible on deck coiling lines or checking fittings. No Dante among them. His name sits in her mind now like a stone—the way the clerk said it, the confirmation that he isn’t gone, that he is somewhere in this city of stone and air. The wind shifts. Sandaled footsteps sound from the inner stair—unhurried, light, carrying the faint whisper of cloth brushing stone. A small cluster of figures emerges: one young steward in gray carrying a message tube, another dock official, and at their center a familiar outline in soft, layered robes. Seliane. She pauses just clear of the stair mouth, letting her eyes sweep the

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dock once. It doesn’t take long; Laika is one of the few not moving with a task, her Pua Hala clothes and fur easy to pick out against the white stone and harnesses. Seliane comes toward her, the breeze tugging gently at the edges of her garments. She doesn’t rush, but she doesn’t make her wait either. Up close, she smells faintly of lake-water and the mild incense used in Lyra’s inner halls. There are a few new crease-lines at the corners of her eyes, but the way she carries herself is the same: composed, grounded, present. She stops at arm’s length first, giving Laika the space to decide whether to close the distance. “On time,” she says, voice pitched just for the two of them despite the wind and dock-noise. “And exactly where you said you would be.”

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There’s quiet approval in that—not for obedience, but for the fact Laika is still where Lyra expects guests to be, not already halfway down some stairway chasing a shadow. Seliane’s gaze travels once over her—bag, clothes, the way she’s standing, the tired edges around her eyes, the tension in her shoulders. No judgment, just inventory. Then she offers a small, warm smile. “Welcome back to Lyra, Laika of Pua Hala,” she adds. “It’s good to see you on our stone again.” For a heartbeat she simply lets the words and the wind sit there between them. Then she shifts slightly, making room at her side as if to invite Laika to stand nearer, or to walk with her when she’s ready. “I’ve received your letters,” she says, tone turning gently practical. “Word from your kin as well. There’s much we can talk about—what you’ve carried, what you’ve left, what you found there as mother instead of patient.” Her eyes flick briefly toward the inner stair, then back. “But first things first. You’ve been in the air half the day, and before that at sea and reef. Your body and mind both need to land.” She gestures with a tilt of her head toward the stair the dock clerk pointed out earlier. “From here, we go down together to the **Quiet Shore wing**. There’s a bunk with your name on it and water that doesn’t move under your feet.” She hesitates, just long enough for Laika to notice that there’s something more unsaid. “You are not the only one returning from a season today,” Seliane adds quietly. “Lyra has welcomed home more than one traveler.” She does not say his name. She does not have to. The information is there like the edge of a card turned just enough to see its suit, not yet its full face. Her gaze returns to Laika’s, steady but gentle. “When you’re ready,” she says, “we can walk down. Or, if you need a few more breaths of open sky first, we can take them here. You’ve earned that much.” She falls silent then, leaving the next motion—the first step toward the stair, or a

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question, or anything else—to Laika.

*Listens intently before she turns to the stairs.* I-I'd like to go down there now..

Seliane inclines her head once in simple acknowledgment. “Very well,” she says quietly. “Then we’ll go now.” *She gestures with an open hand toward the inner stair and falls into step beside Laika as they leave the busy edge of the sky-dock behind.* --- The **inner stair** curves down into Lyra’s body like a smooth, pale shell. Each step is worn by a thousand feet but kept spotless; thin lines of soft blue stone run along the center, like a river inlaid into the floor—guest-path, not worker’s route. With every turn of the spiral, the world changes: * The **wind-thin chill** of the sky-dock eases into a cooler, denser air that smells faintly of lake water and polished stone. * The echo of shouted dock-orders fades, replaced by quieter sounds: the distant splash of water in some unseen channel, muted voices, the soft chime of a bell far below. Seliane keeps pace without hurrying, her sandals whispering against the stone. Now and then she rests her fingertips lightly on the inner wall, more out of habit than need. “There,” she murmurs once, tilting her head toward a break in the stone—a tall slit-window that looks out over empty air. Through it, Laika can glimpse the **world below**: clouds far beneath, the faint, shimmering suggestion of ocean even farther still. A reminder of just how high Lyra sits. The blue inlay underfoot eventually changes—plain lines becoming **small dawn-star shapes**, scattered like constellations in the stone. “We’re in the guest tiers now,” Seliane notes, matter-of-fact. “Quiet Shore is just ahead.” --- They pass an arched threshold marked with a carved glyph above eye-level: a simple **curving line**, like a sleeping wave, flanked by two smaller marks. The air beyond is different again—warmer, gentler, carrying the scents of soap, light oils, and cooked grain. The **Quiet Shore wing** feels more like a cloister than a barracks: * A long corridor, floor still inlaid with those small dawn-stars. * Doors along both sides, each w

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ith a tiny wave-glyph carved beside it. * Niches in the walls holding unlit lanterns and small bowls of smooth river stones. * Somewhere nearby, a low murmur of conversation and the occasional soft laugh—muted, never raucous. A **steward in a gray sash** sits at a low stand near the entrance, a flat tablet of polished stone in front of them. They rise as Seliane approaches. “Mirror-Priestess,” the steward says, giving Laika a quick, politely curious glance. “Guest Laika of Pua Hala,” Seliane replies. “Returning from a Pua Hala season. She is to have the room we set aside.” The steward touches their palm to the tablet; faint runes ripple across its surface. After a moment, they nod and retrieve a small **carved token** from a bowl—a smooth oval of pale stone etched with the same wave-glyph as the doors. “Room **Seven**,” the steward says, offering the token to Laika. “Baths are at the end of the corridor to the left. If you need food brought here instead of going to the halls, touch this token to the gong-plate at your door.” They add, almost as an afterthought: “There are a few other Quiet Shore guests this cycle. One from the **Silver Current**, a couple from other routes. The walls keep sound well enough; you won’t be disturbed unless you wish it.” Then they bow slightly and sit back down, attention returning to the tablet. --- Seliane leads Laika down the corridor. The seventh door is easy to spot: the wave-glyph beside it is freshly oiled, the wood panel smooth and unscarred, a simple cloth cord hanging from a small hook where a guest might hang a token or charm. She does not open it for Laika. Instead, she steps a little to the side, leaving clear access to the door and enough space for Laika to move without feeling hemmed in. “There is water inside,” Seliane says gently. “Fresh clothes, if you wish to change, and a place to set your things that is

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not the floor or someone else’s table.” Her gaze flicks briefly along the corridor—taking in other doors, a faint scuff mark on the stone where someone’s boot dragged, the way the lantern light softens toward the baths end. “If you listen, this wing has its own tides,” she adds, almost conversationally. “The hours when people drift to the baths, the hours when everyone’s doors are closed and the snoring begins.” Her eyes return to Laika’s, steady. “For now, this room is **yours**, for as long as your Quiet Shore lasts.” She folds her hands loosely in front of her. “I can stay and talk a little more,” she offers, “or step away and let you land in private before we pick at anything. There is no lesson waiting behind this door, only a bed, water, and a bolt you can slide from the inside.” She falls quiet there, leaving Laika alone with the door, the token in her hand, and the simple choice of whether she wants Seliane’s presence inside that space right now—or a little time with only her own breath and the stillness of Lyra’s stone.

I.. Would like to have a bit of time to settle in on my own. Thank you..

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*Looking at the Token. Examining both sides of it*

Seliane inclines her head once in acknowledgment, the hint of a smile softening her eyes. “As you wish,” she says quietly. “Your feet know the rest from here.” *She steps back a pace, enough that her presence no longer crowds the door, then turns and walks soundlessly back toward the entrance of the wing. Her sandals whisper against the stone; the faint swish of her robe fades with her. By the time she reaches the steward’s stand, the only sign she was ever here is the echo of her scent—lake-water and mild incense—and the memory of her voice.* --- *The corridor settles into a hush again. A distant door closes with a soft wooden thud. Somewhere near the far end, someone laughs once under their breath, then it too fades.* *The **token** is cool in your hand: oval, palm-sized, smooth as river stone.* * One side bears the **wave-glyph**—a simple, flowing line that suggests a sleeper’s spine or a resting tide. * The other is etched with a tiny cluster of **dawn-stars**, like the ones inlaid in the floor, and beneath them a subtle mark that’s more felt than seen: a small indentation where a thumb rests naturally. *As your fingers trace it, the stone picks up a hint of your body warmth, the way a seashell does if you hold it long enough.* Next to the door: * A small **gong-plate**—a round bronze disk set into the wall at shoulder height, with a shallow groove underneath where the token clearly fits. * Above it, a neat carving in Lyra script; you don’t need to read it to understand: *touch token here if you want someone to come*. The door itself: * Solid, light-colored wood, oiled to a soft sheen. * The wave-glyph carved beside it is fresh, the edges darkened slightly where someone recently worked the groove. * Inside, you can feel the faintest draft of cooler air through the jamb—water-scented and still. *When you press the latch and push, the door swings inward with very little sound.* --- Inside, the **room** is simple, but it’s the kind of simple that was

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built on purpose: * A **low bed** against the far wall, wide enough to sprawl, with a thick, firm mattress covered in clean white linen and a light woven blanket in soft dawn-colors. * A **basin** and **water-pitcher** set into a stone niche: the water inside is still and clear, cool vapour just barely kissing the air around it. Beside it, a folded cloth and a small block of gently scented soap. * A **bench** and a **small table** beneath a high, narrow window that lets in a sheet of diffuse light, bright but not harsh. From this window you can’t see the drop outside, only a slice of sky—pale, cloud-streaked, indifferent. * On the table: a strip of parchment, a simple writing stick, and a small bowl containing three smooth, flat stones dark as wet river rock. At the back of the room, separated by a half-partition of carved wood: * A tiny **alcove** with hooks for hanging clothes, and a low chest with its lid ajar. Inside the chest, neatly folded, are a few pieces of Lyra guest-clothing in your approximate size: soft trousers, a tunic, a wrap. Nothing elaborate. Everything clean. The floor bears the same **dawn-star inlays**, but here they’re spaced farther apart, leaving plenty of bare stone between them. The air has that Quiet Shore quality—neither warm nor cold, just comfortably there, holding scent and sound gently instead of throwing them back. Faint through the wall, you can hear: * The muffled thump of something being set down in a neighboring room—pack or boots, it’s hard to tell. * A short, low cough. * Then silence again, as if whoever’s there has settled the same way you’re about to. *The door closes easily behind you with a soft click if you nudge it; the **bolt** on the inside is a simple, reassuring piece of metal that slides home with a solid little drag and drop.* For the first time in a long time, there is: * A bed where no one else has a

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claim on your body. * A room where no one expects you to serve, smile, or perform anything. * A door that can stay open, or be shut, purely because **you** choose it. *Quiet Shore lives up to its name. The room does not ask anything of you. It simply waits, the light shifting slowly on the wall as the day moves on above the stone.*

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*Once she shuts the door behind her. She takes a moment to look around the room. Before inhaling and exhaling deeply as she begins to undress. Going to set her things down and lay on the bed for a few minutes to just relax. And breathe.*

*being in the next room over sore and exhausted, tosses his bags down on the floor and flops face first into the bed groans loudly and closes his eyes*

*Would fall asleep right there. If she wasn't hungry at the moment and thinking about seeing Dante. But sure she'd have to wait awhile. At least until she talks to Seliane more. So she sighs and sits up. Rubbing her eyes before going to take a quick shower and change*

*Once she finished with that. She heads over and does the gesture previously instructed to summon someone to bring her something to eat.*

The **token** fits easily into the groove beneath the gong-plate. The moment you press it there, the stone under your fingertips warms—not hot, just a brief pulse of awareness. The bronze disk answers with a soft, contained **chime** that doesn’t so much ring as hum through the wood and stone. The sound is gentle, but it carries. In the small stillness afterward, the Quiet Shore wing answers in its own way: * A door further down the hall opens and closes. * Footsteps pass, then fade. * Through the wall at your back, there’s a faint, muffled **thump** as someone in the neighboring room flops heavily onto their mattress, followed by a low, exhausted groan that the stone swallows almost as soon as it’s made. Then the corridor settles again. The only constant is the soft rush of air through a hidden vent and the quiet tick of cooling stone. It doesn’t take long. A few minutes after the chime, there’s a **light knock** at your door—no pounding, just three careful taps with enough pause between them that you could ignore it if you wished. “Guest Laika?” a voice calls softly through the wood. “Quiet Shore steward. You rang.” If you open the door, there’s a **steward in a gray sash** waiting just outside, hands folded in front of them. They’re young-ish by Lyra standards—early adulthood, feathers still bright at the temples, expression open and respectfully neutral. Their sash bears a small wave-glyph pin, marking them as specifically assigned to this wing. They keep their voice low, as if mindful of sleeping neighbors.

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[Steward] *offers a small bow of the head.* “Welcome back, Guest Laika,” they say. “Your room is recorded; the token reached us.” Their gaze flicks once over you—freshly washed, changed, hair still a little damp—and then back up, no prying. “We can bring food and drink to you here,” they continue. “Simple or hearty, as you prefer. The kitchens are between main meal hours, but Quiet Shore guests eat when they need to, not when the bells say so.” They lift a hand, counting off on their fingers as they speak. “Today, the options are:” * “**Fish stew** with root vegetables—Pua Hala style, or as close as our cooks can manage without offending your elders.” The corner of their mouth quirks slightly. * “**Grain porridge** with dried fruit and nuts, if you want something easy on the stomach.” * “A **cold plate**—smoked fish, sliced fruit, soft bread, a little cheese.” * “Or just **bread and tea**, if nothing heavy appeals right now.” They add, with the ease of someone who has done this many times: “And for drink: water, lake-herb tea to settle you, or a mild fruit brew.” The steward’s posture stays loose, unhurried; they don’t crowd the doorway, leaving you the full width of it to lean on, hide behind, or step through as you like. “Tell me what you’d like,” they finish gently, “and whether you want it **left at your door** or brought **in**. Quiet Shore has rules, but we bend them toward comfort first.” They fall quiet there, waiting for your choice before they move a muscle.

*She smiled warmly* I think I'll have the cold plate for now.. thank yiu.. and Lake herb tea sounds lovely.. You could bring it in.. I'd rather it not be left out at the door.. just to be safe.

The steward’s smile warms a little at your choices, the tension in their shoulders easing as if this is an answer they know how to take care of. “Cold plate and lake-herb tea,” they repeat, as if sealing the order into the air. “Brought inside. Very well.” They incline their head. “It won’t be long.” --- The corridor goes quiet again once the door closes. Soft light from the high window lays a pale stripe across the bed; the stone under your bare feet holds a faint, pleasant coolness. Through the wall to your right, there’s that same low presence as before—the sense of someone in the next room. A faint creak of mattress. A brief, cut-off snore or groan that could be either discomfort or the border of sleep. Then stillness again. The Quiet Shore wing breathes around you: a place designed for in-between states. Not quite home, not quite travel, not quite ritual—just **landing**. --- It’s only a few minutes before you hear the steward’s steps again: soft, measured, stopping just outside your door. The knock is the same—gentle, three-tap rhythm. “Guest Laika,” comes the quiet call. “Food and tea.” If you open the door, the steward stands there with a **small tray** balanced easily in both hands. On it: * A **wide, shallow plate** with: * thin slices of **smoked fish**, edges just a little darker where the salt and wood-kiss did their work; * wedges of **soft yellow fruit** that smell faintly floral and sweet; * a few crisp **vegetable slices**—pale and green—arranged in a small fan; * two pieces of **soft bread**, still slightly warm, with a light scattering of seeds on the crust. * A simple **clay cup** of lake-herb tea, steam curling lazily upward. The scent is clean and calming—minty-green with a deeper, almost earthy note beneath it. The steward waits for your invitation, then steps inside only as far as they must to set the tray on the small table near the bed. They move with the quiet efficiency of someone used to entering private spaces w

7:46 PM

ithout disturbing their shape. Once the tray is placed, they straighten and take half a step back to give you room, hands folding lightly at their waist. “If you find the tea too strong, add a little water from the pitcher,” they say. “It’s meant to help your body remember that it’s not moving anymore.” Their gaze sweeps the room briefly—bed slightly rumpled from where you lay earlier, your things where you’ve set them—and then returns to your face. “Quiet Shore expectation is simple,” they continue in the same low tone. “Today, you **eat**. You **rest**. You **do not** make any binding decisions. That’s all.” The hint of a smile touches their mouth. “If you need more food, or if the room feels wrong in any way—too cold, too bright, too quiet—touch the token to the plate again. Someone will come.” They shift their weight slightly toward the door, making it clear they’re ready to leave you in peace, but they don’t turn their back just yet. “Is there anything else you need **right now**?” they ask gently. “Blankets, more pillows, different clothes, a basin for washing feet—small things we can fix quickly.” They fall silent, eyes steady but not prying, waiting to see if you ask for anything more before they slip back into the hall and let the room close around you again.

Um..N-No that'll be all. Thank you Miss. *Bowing her head a bit*

The steward dips a small, courteous bow in return, mirroring your gesture with just enough warmth to keep it from feeling formal. “As you wish,” they say softly. “May your landing be gentle, Guest Laika.” *They step backward toward the door rather than turning their back on you outright, then ease it open and slip into the corridor with the same quiet step they arrived on. The door whispers shut behind them with a soft click, leaving the faint scent of lake-herb tea and clean cloth in their wake.* --- *Silence settles again, but it’s a different kind of silence now—one punctuated by the clink of ceramic when you lift the cup, the faint rustle of blanket if you shift on the bed, the low creak of wood under the tray when you move it.* The **cold plate** holds its simple comfort: * The smoked fish is tender and salty, not too strong, flaking easily under your fingers or the edge of the small knife. * The fruit is soft and sweet with just enough tartness to wake your mouth up. * The bread tears with a quiet sigh of steam, the crumb warm and pleasingly dense. The **tea** is the real anchor: its warmth seeps into your hands, then your chest as you drink. The herbs carry that lake-green calm—like breathing in a shoreline at dawn. Through the wall to your right, the presence in the neighboring room shifts: * Another faint creak of mattress. * A muffled exhale, this one longer, the sound of someone rolling from stomach to side or dragging an arm under a pillow. * A brief, wordless noise that might be a half-choked complaint at sore muscles, cut short when they sink back into the bed. Then stillness again, matched to your own in a way the stone carries more than your ears. The light from the high window has shifted slightly, stretching the stripe along the wall toward the basin, the edges of it blurring as the day begins its slow lean into later hours. The room doesn’t demand anything—not even sleep. It just **holds**. For now, Quiet Shore expects nothing more of

7:50 PM

you than exactly what you’re doing: * Being here. * Breathing. * Letting the world be small enough to fit inside four walls, a tray, and a bed that belongs to no one but you.

*Slowly eats her food. Taking her time to savor and enjoy each bite. Letting her mind wander. Sipping her tea here and there. Glancing to the wall across from her. Wondering who is on the other side who sounds so tired... it was muffled and yet she felt it a familiar sound she's heard before... perhaps she'll go find out once she's finished.*

The food goes down slowly, bite by small bite. The smoked fish, the fruit, the warm bread—none of it is fancy, but all of it is **kind**, in the way of food that asks nothing more from you than to be eaten. The lake-herb tea cools in your hands. Each sip settles a different piece of you: * first your chest, * then your shoulders, * then that knot just behind your eyes that’s been aching since the ship and the docks and the goodbye. The room around you stays the same: the clean bed, the basin, the strip of sky in the high window, the quiet. What changes is your **awareness** of the wall. Every so often, between bites and sips, a small sound comes through the stone: * the creak of a mattress shifting under a heavy body, * the low, abrupt exhale of someone rolling onto a sore limb, * once, the faintest, half-swallowed groan that sounds… familiar. Too muffled to be sure. Clear enough that your heart stutters anyway. Then, stillness again. Quiet Shore moves around you: * distant footsteps passing down the corridor, * a door far away opening and closing, * the soft, steady whisper of air through hidden vents above. But here, in your room, it’s just: * you, * the almost-empty plate, * the cooling cup, * and that sense of a tired presence on the other side of the wall. You finish the last bite, tear off the last piece of bread, chase it with the last swallow of tea. The tray sits warm and solid on the small table. Your stomach feels pleasantly full, your limbs heavy in that *could-sleep-if-I-let-myself* way. Your gaze keeps coming back to the same place: Not the door to the hall. Not the bolt. The section of wall where, if this were any other building, you could knock and someone might answer from the other side. You **haven’t moved** yet. Right now, Laika is: * sitting on the bed or at the edge of it, * plate and cup mostly empty, * ears pricked just a little toward that wall, * mind drifting between *rest* and *go find out*. The corridor outside is emp

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ty. The neighboring room is quiet for the moment. The world is holding still enough that **either** choice—stay, or get up and go—would ring clearly. Quiet Shore offers no opinion. It simply exists, waiting to see what you decide to do next.

*Sets down the empty tray. And decided to get up to go investigate. Curious as to who she's ben placed next door to. Exiting the room and closing her door carefully behind her as she makes her way over to the next one. And lightly knocks on it.*

The knock is soft, but in the hush of Quiet Shore it might as well be a bell. On the other side of the wall, the tired presence shifts: * mattress creaking, * a muffled grunt, * the sound of someone dragging themselves back from the edge of sleep they only just found. There’s a brief pause—two, three heartbeats—then bare feet hit stone with a dull thud. A low, wordless complaint escapes whoever’s in there as they stand, joints protesting, fabric rustling. Footsteps cross the small distance from bed to door. The latch clicks. The wave-glyph beside the frame catches the lantern light as the door eases open.

*blinks against the corridor glow, fur rumpled, shirt creased, eyes still heavy with exhaustion as he starts to speak out of habit* “Yeah, what—” *He stops dead when he sees who’s there. For a heartbeat he just stares, hand still on the latch, the rest of him suddenly very still.*

8:00 PM

“Laika…?”

*As soon as she saw who opened the door. She also froze. Her eyes widened in surprise. As soon as he said her name she felt her heart skip a beat. And a single tear drips from her eye as they watered* D....Dante?...

*realizes he looks like absolute shit* I.. didn't know you were back... uhh... come in.. i'll uhh... go get cleaned up...

*She shakes her head to get out of her dazed state. And nods quietly* O-Okay...

*opens the door more for her to come in hurrying to pick up his clothes and things off the floor and get them into a closet, or tucking them under the bed, anything to hide how much of a slob he looks, despite only being there for what feels like a few minutes*

*Just smiling a bit* Dante.. Relax.. You don't have to rush to clean anything.. I'm... tired too but.. I had to come see who was roomed next to me..you sounded like you couldn't get very comfortable.

8:07 PM

Here. Let me help. *Going closer to start helping him pick up and put things away*

Not even back 5 minutes and already trying to take care of me huh?

*She blushed a little bit* Sorry...

It's alright, so, how was it. *knowing full well she must be aware by now what he did*

I... It was nice.. Did.. you get the Letter i sent you?...

If I said no, would you just tell me in person? Because my memory is a bit hazy... jet.... errrr.. airship lag.

*She giggles* I would..

8:30 PM

But I hope you did get it. I left something special inside... *Smiling a bit*

I did get it, yes.

*She smiles.* Thank gods.... She's... She's gotten so big... And Guess what?... She... Said her first word..

Please tell me it wasn't yea?

*She couldn't help but snicker* No no... Actually it was Water.. Cause we were playing in the Water... But here's the Amazing Part... Hala had been teaching her Sign language before she even actually spoke... She comunicates so well that way... It's.. Incredible...

Is that so? So what do you two talk about then?

She talks to him Mostly.. But when we do Talk. She expresses what she wants. Or i tell her something and she understands it clearer.. Does as she's told... Also she's spoiled rotten and now No food is to be served until it's approved by her *She giggles*

11:09 PM

And her favorite Fruit is Pineapple...

sounds like she's become quite the talk of the town then.

Mostly within' our little group but.. others are taking to her... I don't feel quite as out of place there anymore.. But tell me. How was your Season? They didn't work you too hard did they? *She teases and nudges him*

You kidding, best cruise ship ever! Lots of activities, like, swabbing decks, cleaning toilets, securing ropes, Oh, and then there's move the box, that one's my favorite....

*She laughs a bit. and goes to flop down on his bed. Laying with her legs dangling off the edge* Sounds like a blast..

No but really, felt good being a part of something, you know? Being responsible for not just myself, but others. Not to mention all the places I got to see. Just wish you could have seen it with me. You know, minus the backbreaking labor..

*She sighs softly* I do too... And Her.. Hey... Maybe we'll go on more adventures together someday... But y'know... As a family. hm? *Smiling over at him*

*Sitting up a bit now* Do you know how hard it is to not Kiss you right now?.... *She asked with a small chuckle. Blushing a bit*

Who.. me? *pretends to strike a pose*

*Rolls her eyes and Giggles* No. The Guy behind you.... Of course you, Silly!

*turns around* Looks like he ghosted you. Sorry to dissapoint.

I'm not Disappointed at all.. *She said. Standing and going over to him. Taking his hands in hers and looking into his eyes* In fact... I'm rather happy that it's you...

11:27 PM

Cause i don't want anyone else the way i want... No... Need.. You...

11:28 PM

I... I love you so much, Dante..

11:28 PM

And i've missed you terribly...

Yeah, i've missed you too.

I uh.. I.. Guess I should head back to my room now.. get some rest.. heh.. *Rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly. Before turning to head back out the door*

*reaches his hand out to hers, grabbing her wrist to stop her* Wait... *pulls her back spinning her back around in the process embracing her* Who cares what they have to say... *pulls her in the rest of the way and kisses her deeply*

*her ears and tail stand up in shock. But soon she relaxes as she melts into his kiss. Returning the Embrace and deepening it even more.* Mmh~

*after a moment pulls back out then scritches under her chin* Goodnight Laika..

*Catching her breath as she looks at him. and then biting her lip and wagging her tail when he gives her chin scritches. giggling a bit* Goodnight Dante.... *Nuzzling his neck softly as she hugs him once more. Breathing in his scent. Not caring he hasn't washed up yet. And makes herself let him go gradually so she can Go back to her room. Giving him one last glance before shutting his door behind her. and walking back through her own. Going to lay in her bed and stare at the ceiling. Her heart fluttering as a small smile spreads over her lips*

*reaches his arm up, takes a sniff, almost gags* Yep... shower... *and walks off to do just that*

*Soon falls asleep. Needing a nap herself.*

After ahwile.

*Wakes up and heads out sometime when the sun was starting to set. Not realizing how long she was out. But curious about dinner.*

*in his room yelling at the stone mount* FOOD!!!! (edited)

*Walking around outside*

*Also around Mingling with the other locals*

*smacking it with the stone now* hello?! Food!

*Once she found out what the options for dinner are she heads back to her room. But not before hearing him on the other side of his. And raising a brow. Approaching his door and knocking on it* Dante???

*opens it*this damned thing doesn't work! Just put the stone to the tablet they said. It'll summon us they said, *banging it against it* hello!!! The damned thing doesn't work.

*She snickers* Dante.. *She carefully takes the stone from him. And places it against the door carefully*

A voice on the other line says. "Ah, I see you're finally awake. What can we do for you?"

*Gives him the "go ahead" gesture*

I'm hungry

Certainly *the voice asks* do you know what you want?

well, no, nobody gave me a menu..

There's a full schedule of what's available each day in the drawer to the nightstand by your bed.

Well that would have been nice to know.

I'll give you a moment.

wait no no no no.....

*click*

fuck I'll never get him back, you know that right?

well you can look at the schedule. See what's available.. and I can go get it. We could eat it here together?

Sure.. that sounds good... *goes over to the night stand to pull out the menu*

“BREAKFAST — served from first bell to late morning, available on request for Quiet Shore guests any time until midday: Lake-Grain Porridge Steamed grains cooked in lake-water and a splash of nut milk, topped with: choice of dried fruits (berry mix or sliced sunfruit), toasted nuts and seeds, a drizzle of light honey if desired. Sky-Eggs & Greens Soft-scrambled eggs from cliff-nesting fowl, with: wilted bitter greens and herbs, a side of toasted flatbread. Steamed Dawn Buns Soft buns filled with: savory herbed fish paste, or sweet bean and honey filling. Served with pickled vegetables on the side. Fruit & Yogurt Bowl Thick cultured milk with: fresh sliced island fruit, crushed nuts, and a sprinkle of roasted grain for crunch. Simple Start Plate For unsettled stomachs: plain rice-grain, a soft-boiled egg, and a little dish of salt.” You hear the faint scratch of a stylus as the voice tracks along. “MIDDAY / LUNCH — centered around mid-bell, but again, for Quiet Shore we flex: Cold Harbor Plate Smoked lakefish, pickled river-vegetables, soft white cheese, fresh greens dressed with citrus, and seeded bread. Clear-Broth Bowl Light fish or vegetable broth (your choice) with: strips of flat noodles, sliced greens, and a soft egg if requested. Grain Cakes with Relishes Pan-seared cakes of mixed grains served with: roasted root mash, bright herb relish, and a spoon of tangy yogurt. Traveler’s Wrap Thin flatbread rolled around: shredded herbed fish or grilled vegetable, crisp greens, and a mild sauce. Easy to eat without sitting up too straight.” “EVENING MEAL / DINNER — served from dusk-bell, but Quiet Shore can have portions earlier or later as needed: Baked Lakefish & Root Hearth Whole or filleted fish, baked with: lemon-reef herb crust, roasted roots (tubers, river-carrot, bulb onion), and a side of steamed greens. Braised River-Stew A mild stew with: chunks of fish and soft root vegetable, thickened with grain, served with

5:03 PM

a heel of dark bread. Sky-Pilaf Fragrant mixed grains cooked in broth with: chopped greens, toasted nuts, and bits of smoked fish or cheese (your choice). Warm Evening Plate (Light) seasoned steamed vegetables, a spoonful of pilaf, and a small piece of grilled cheese or fish.” Another page shift. “And for A LA CARTE — available at any bell to Quiet Shore rooms: Broths: clear lake-herb broth, fish broth, or simple salted vegetable broth. Bread & Spreads: plain or seeded bread, herb butter, soft white cheese, or mashed bean spread. Fresh Fruit: slices of whatever is good in the market today (sunfruit, river-pears, stone-berries). Simple Proteins: boiled eggs, small portion of smoked fish, or grilled cheese slices. Sweets (Small): honey-sesame bites, soft dawn-cakes with a hint of citrus, dried fruit and nut mix. Drinks: plain water (room temperature or cool), lake-herb tea (calming), ginger-leaf tea (for unsettled stomachs), light fruit infusions, warm milk with honey.”

*Looking over his shoulder. Reading with him. Her arms around his waist* so what did you want?

No idea now....

Then I'll just have to surprise you *She said before hurrying back out*

*standing there like an idiot, cause she left so fast*

*A little while later she alongside one other carry the food to his door* Dante! Food!

Finally!

*when the door opens she hands him his platter of food and then takes hers from the other individual helping her carry them. Thanking her before she leaves. And then coming into Dante's room*

Not even back twenty four hours and already taking care of me.

Okay so I decided on the Baked Lakefish & Root Hearth, lemon-reef herb crust, roasted roots, and a side of steamed greens. That okay?

9:52 AM

Wait what? Oh.. *Blushes*

9:53 AM

Well. Of course I am...

I'd eat this rock if I could stomach it. But, thank you. It does sound good.

*Smiles* Of course..

*takes his tray and sits on the bed and begins eating*

*Closes the door and goes to sit beside him to eat hers*

After Dinner Laika Decided to stay in Dante's room with him for the rest of the night. At first unsure how close she could be. Until they decided they didn't care. And held eachother close until they both drift off to sleep