Rita had never seen a snake molt. The idea of one slithering out of a husk of itself made her a little queasy if she was being honest. Not that there was never any need to see it in the first place; not with her sister around. Once in the sunkissed fields of their father’s lands Wren explained, excitement burbling unstoppable as young children do, that the process was brought about by the snake needing more room to grow. That it needed to to feel more comfortable and continue doing whatever snakes did. Her sister’s wonder over this achievement of nature felt misplaced. Why didn’t the snake’s skin grow with it? Why was the the snake built with this glaring error in design? Surely a skin that had grown used to the world, calloused with experience, would be much more useful. Feeling naked and fresh only presented living creatures with one option: to submit themselves over and over again to strife in order to build up that thick outer layer once more.
If you’d asked her when she first arrived, Rita would have asserted that nothing in the land of the fae was done by halves. Everything was too loud or too quiet; too bright; too harsh. Too much. Yet just now the breeze that swept through the thin white fabric of her shirt wasn’t. In these quiet moments she took for herself she’d grown used to the way the winds fluctuated in temperature, how they moved in curly ques, the slight scents they carried with them. Just enough so that it felt like they were saying “pay attention to me. I’m here!”
Her hands pulsed with warmth. She’d been gripping the sword too hard again–or what she used as a practice weapon, she wasn’t sure the porous material could count as an actual sword. Hot and cold the winds moved between her fingers, coaxing them to open, release their tension. She was full tension, though, and even with the heavy release of breath that flowed light a thin, nearly overflowing stream Rita felt only the tiniest bit of relief.
A relief that wavered the moment she realized she wasn’t alone. It was slight, but it was all she needed, that shuffling of sole against dirt, before she whipped around and marked her target.
“…How long have you been standing there?”
The weapon barely made the sad, hollow thud it usually did as it bapped her guest on the side of his neck. “You should know better than to sneak up on someone with a weapon.”
“It’s not sneaking if y’know I’m there.”
Rita quirked her mouth into a frown. “Still….”
Lowering her weapon, she returned to focusing on the very important nothing she was before. As a contemplative silence fell, the breeze whistled its way out. She’d think it was pouting if that wasn’t completely ridiculous. “For a while.” His answer came quicker than she thought, and with less riddles too. “Thought you were going to cut right through the sky for a moment. Makes a man wonder just what it is you’re–” Cillian cut himself off, thinking better of the question of his lips, which Rita would have answered truthfully whether he wanted that truth or not. “Are you getting used to this? Being here, I mean.”
She wasn’t exactly sure why he cared. Maybe he was just curious. “Getting used to it?” Could a mortal ever truly get used to living in a place like this? Mulling over the past month (or what she assumed to be a month), she could at least say that it no longer came across as strange when she saw fire being created right in front of her or when loud arguments erupted into raucous laughter. “I… don’t know.” She said truthfully, a hint of confusion tailing behind. “I still feel like it would have been better if we figured out a way for Wren to be here instead.” She had been expecting him to jump in, but only heard him humming along, almost urging her to continue. She hated that she did. “She’s been dreamin’ of this.”
“Haven’t you?”
“Yeah, but…” her brow furrowed. “It’s not the same.”
There weren’t words to explain how it wasn’t the same, just that feeling that it wasn’t. It couldn’t be; they were two completely separate people, after all. Wren wouldn’t have let herself rest until she’d started at least five different studies on the world around her; each plant and animal subject to her meticulous notes. Wren would have been able to figure out the mysteries, to make them more accessible and less terrifying to those on the other side of the veil. But what was Rita doing? She didn’t even know where to start–she’d just been doing the same old thing she’d been doing back at home. It felt… like she didn’t deserve to be here; what could she possibly do that Wren couldn’t do better?
Cillian took a seat in the open air beneath him, toes barely touching the ground. “Right. And?” She could hear the raising of his eyebrow, but didn’t know what to do with it. “How do you plan to turn it into your dream?”
Rita thought for a moment. Then thought some more, eventually turning back to the fae with her mouth slightly agape. “I… don’t? Don’t have any use in experience something that isn’t how it is.”
His laugh didn’t strike her as judgemental, so why did it feel like needles were shooting through her? All at once she felt entirely too naked without her leathers, now resting in the back of one of the troupe’s many carts. “How ‘bout this: what do you want to do? What do you like doing?”
She stared at him. When the answers wouldn’t come, she began staring out of the corner of her eyes at the ground, as if the answers would suddenly sprout from the ground itself. Confusion seeping into his voice, Cillian offered, “You like fighting, right? What about that?”
“No,” Rita mused. “It’s not that I like fighting. I don’t feel either way about it. I’m just good at it, and it’s something that needs to be done.” Cillian made a noise as if he didn’t believe her, but again she wasn’t sure if she had the words to say what she really meant. “I like–” She started, but immediately stopped, the ghost of unintentionally cruel childhood words silencing her. “I want to make sure that there’s a familiar face to visit when Wren’s able to come back.”
She was in the middle of letting out another thin trickle of air when she felt the jab of something unfamiliar right in the center of her gut. With a hurgh and a sputter she looked down to see Cillian’s shoed toes firmly planted in place, her skin taking new form under his “attack”. He continued his assault, drawing both agitated rebuke and unwilling peals of laughter from his target, until at last she batted his foot aside, spinning the opposite direction and momentarily beyond his reach.
Her chest heaved, thirsty for breath. “What… what was that for!?”
“Liars get punished.” He smirked–or was it more of a sneer?–seeming more aggravated than his countenance would let on.
Arms still firmly wrapped around her stomach in defense she took a defiant step back towards him. “You’re the biggest liar I know!! Don’t be sour ‘cause it’s not the answer you wanted.”
Cillian groaned, dramatically falling back in the empty air behind him. “She doesn’t get it. You don’t get it! It’s like you’re not even a person. You know that, right?” He sat up quickly, black hair bouncing around his face. “What kind of person doesn’t know what they like?”
“You’re the one who wanted me to be a rock,” Rita mumbled, narrowing her eyes. “Besides, what do you care? You’ve made it abundantly clear that y’don’t even like me. Yet you keep creepin’ on me when I go off on my own, and trying to get information from me for some reason.”
The low-pitched twittering of a creature echoed from the distance while the two stared each other down in silence. Rita was primed to continued when Cillian’s exhaustion peaked through. “You two are alike in the worst ways,” his fingers pinched at the center of his forehead, “You know that, don’t you?” She didn’t like what he was saying, but didn’t know enough of what he was talking about to deny it. “No, you’re the one that belongs here. You’re as miserable as the rest of us.”
“What?!” Rita strode over to him, standing on her tiptoes to smoosh his cheeks together. “And jus’ what do ye mean by that?
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his mouth muscles strained against her palms, trying to put on a smile. It served no warning, however, and in what felt like an unfairly quick turnaround, Rita found herself thrown across his shoulder, contained in the loop of his arm. “What I mean is why brood by yourself when you can brood with the rest of us?” A huff escaped her, and a sense of regret took its place as Cillain commented, “That’s the spirit.”
If this was an olive branch, it was one of the most unconventional olive branches she’d ever been witness to– and she’s the one who gave her sister a bowl of snails, twigs, and dirt after one of their worse fights. Yet even in the unwelcomed position she found herself in, Rita couldn’t help but take some pleasure in what Cillian said. You’re the one who belongs here. Maybe she was. Maybe she deserved this, too. For now, she’d bask in the warmth of the thought, not allowing the shame of want to creep in until the memory of it drifted away in the winds.
Okay, this is the Xaela OC I mentioned a few days ago. Her name is Baiyar Torgud, and she's a mischievous little mage. She left her home in the deserts to head to Ul'dah after hearing word of the Thaumaturge's guild, because she wanted to learn more about magic. She has strong opinions about many things, including how to respect the dead, and the annoyance of excessive clothing.
Bonus image by @the-littlest-kojin of Baiyar being distressed by the requirements of city folk modesty.
One of the things I feel like I should explore more is Unhinged Chess content. Like, yes, they're very good at keeping a lid on everything and playing it off most of the time, but that's a learned survival tactic more than any kind of innate quirk of their nature.
Like, they may be 4'8" and act like a goofball, but under that thin layer is a degree of anger and emotion that is constantly being wrestled into submission. They aren't just a Warrior because I like the aesthetic. They have a beast inside them that screams. And while they may not be the strongest out there, they know every way to make something hurt.
