ROLEPLAY

In the cool Avendale morning, the first glimmers of daylight slipped through the half-open shutters of O'Tall's apartment.
Lothie, a young homine barely out of her teens, stretched with a satisfied sigh.
Her unruly hair formed a veritable crown of tousled feathers around her head.
The official owner of a neighboring apartment, she often liked to hang her hammock right next to O'Tall's, just like in the good old days.

She leapt out of her hammock with the agility of a harried yubette,
slipping on a crumpled tunic - without even checking if it was on the right side - before hopping towards the kitchen.

There, O'Tall, his half-brother, was busy in front of a pot of chai with toub butter.
His usually serene face betrayed a slight anxiety, reinforced by the concentrated grimace he threw at his toast.

- Doy, Ny-Tall-Tala!" said Lothie, sitting down at the table with the energy of a spring storm.
You look as relaxed as a varinx in a trap!

- Hello, ny-Lothie," replied O'Tall, handing her a steaming mug and a generous piece of cereal bread.
It's that izam from Meany..." he said, grimacing. It's not like him to summon us for no reason.

Lothie shrugged, grabbing a mouthful of bread and chewing it with a delighted expression.

- You worry too much, O'Tall.
Maybe she just wants to admire how I've grown - or check if you've finally found a homine to teach you to dance.
She stuck out her tongue at him before continuing with a wink:
And it's been a long time since we've been up to Silan, I must say.

Resigned O'Tall sighed as he sat down opposite her, his gaze more serious.

- Maybe so...

But I can't help thinking there's more to it than that.
His message was too... dry. Too discreet.
Our mother isn't the type to organize family gatherings to compare haircuts.

Lothie put her cup down with a dull thud, then, leaning forward, patted her brother's hand as if to reassure him.

- Don't worry!" she said with a bright smile.

We go upstairs, listen to him, kiss him, eat a couple of good things...
and we're back in the lochi before the market trykers have even finished discussing the price of fiber!

And whatever it is, we'll handle it together. We always have.

O'Tall, with a curious smile at the corner of his lips, nodded, warmed by his little sister's naive - but devilishly contagious - faith.

He knew she was right.
Whatever the reason for the summons, they would face it together.
As always.

The carefully laid table was decorated with traditional dishes:
yubo stew with Silan herbs, crispy cereal patties and a carafe of steaming chai.

Lyner, Lothie and O'Tall's meany, was bustling around the table, adjusting a napkin here, repositioning a plate there, clearly nervous.
O'Larch, her husband and O'Tall's father-in-law, watched the scene in silence, a strained smile on his face.

- Settle down, my children," says Lyner, trying to mask his agitation.

Lothie, as lively as ever, sat down, swinging her legs, while O'Tall took his seat more cautiously, casting worried glances around him.

- So, Meany," began O'Tall, "you wanted to talk to us about something?

Lyner hesitated, playing with the edge of his towel.

- Well, yes, but let's eat first. The stew is getting cold.

The meal passed in tense silence, punctuated by the clatter of cutlery and Lothie's awkward attempts to lighten the mood.

- ...And then, you should have seen that bandit's face when I drew my sword! He didn't understand when his head rolled in the sawdust...

O'Larch let out a nervous laugh, while Lyner forced a tight smile.

Finally, Lyner put down his spoon and took a deep breath.

- Lothie, O'Tall, your father and I have been doing a lot of thinking.

Lothie raised an eyebrow, intrigued. O'Tall stopped chewing.

- We think it's time for you, Lothie, to... to think about your future.


Lothie, wary, froze, a wafer still halfway to her mouth.

- We've made the decision to marry you off," Lyner blurted out.

A deafening silence fell over the room.

Lothie put her wafer down slowly.
His eyes darkened.
She doesn't say a word.
She simply fixed her mother with a hard, icy stare.

Lyner, troubled by this silence, hurried on, her voice trembling:

- It's for your own good, darling...
You're a strong, up-and-coming neu-homine.
But you need a home, you need support.
This young man comes from a good Tryker family...
It's a good match, kind, hard-working...

O'Tall frowned.

- Meany, you know that Lothie isn't cut out for this kind of life...
She's an adventurer, a fighter!

Lyner turned a pleading gaze towards him.

- I raised you alone, ny-leany, ny-O'Tall.
I know what it's like to fight for survival.
I want better for her.
Not a life of danger, injury and loneliness...

- Maybe, but force it?! protested O'Tall, his voice trembling.

Lyner clutched his towel, squeezing it nervously between his fingers.

- She'll be happy, I know it. She'll understand.


Lothie hadn't moved.
Not a word.
No movement.
The silence, as heavy as a fyros, vibrated around her.

Then, without a word, she slowly pushed back her chair.
She stood up, straight as a line.

His gaze met his mother's. A gaze without warmth.

O'Tall, alarmed, rose to his feet.

- Lothie, wait...

But she pivoted on her heels and, with a controlled, almost too calm gait, headed for the door.

As she crossed the threshold, she stopped and glanced over her shoulder one last time.


Then she slammed the door behind her with a dull violence that made the whole household shudder.

Lyner, petrified, brought a hand to her mouth.
Her eyes glistened with tears.

O'Tall stood helplessly, staring at the closed door.

O'Larch reached out a hand to Lyner for support, but she gently pushed it away, as if suddenly needing to face the weight of her choices alone.

In the empty room, only the smell of cooled stew and a stifling silence remained.

Sagaritis bathed Silan in a pale glow, casting dancing shadows between the giant fongice.
O'Tall, worried, walked the familiar paths of his childhood, looking for his sister.

He knew exactly where to find her:
her secret hideaway, a small clearing hidden between intertwined roots, where she used to take refuge as a child to escape chores or parental sermons.

As he approached, he heard muffled noises:
grunts, sighs, and the snap of a blade hitting the ground.
Lothie was there, training furiously, her two-handed sword cleaving the air with raging precision.

Every sword thrust, every swearword dropped between his teeth, seemed to carry his tumultuous thoughts.

No, to run away would be cowardly.

She sliced through the air - Submit? Never!

She growled, her blade vibrating with energy - Break up with them?

A cry of frustration escaped her as she brought her sword down on a rotting stump, shattering it into splinters.

O'Tall, standing back, didn't dare interrupt.
He knew that with his sister, movement always preceded reflection.

Finally, panting, her arms trembling, she planted the tip of her sword in the soft ground.
His shoulders slumped for a moment.

Then, in a flash, she raised her head, a mischievous smile lighting up her tired features.

- I've got an idea," she whispered. If they want me to get married, fine. But on my terms.

O'Tall approached, eyebrows furrowed.

- Lothie... What's on your mind?

She turned to him, her eyes shining with a determined gleam.

- You'll see

O'Tall sighed, running a hand through his hair.

- I hope you won't do anything stupid.
Lothie gave him a mischievous smile.

- You know me... And you love me.

The shadow of the fungus gently closed in around them, enveloping the clearing in a peaceful darkness.
O'Tall remained motionless, staring into space, a dull worry knotting his stomach.
He knew his sister too well to believe that her mischievous smile heralded a safe solution.

The next day, the family gathered around the table once again.
Lyner, visibly relieved to see her daughter return, sketched a fragile smile.

- Lothie, darling, I'm glad you're back.

Lothie stood erect, her expression closed.

- Meany, Feany, I've been thinking. If you want this marriage so much... I accept.

A stunned silence followed.

- Really?" asked Lyner, incredulous.

- Yes. But on one condition.

She slowly placed her hand on the hilt of her sword.

- The suitor must defeat me in single combat.

O'Larch choked on his drink.

- You've got to be kidding me!

- Do I look like one?
She locked eyes with her father.

- A true homin should protect his homine, shouldn't he?
So let him prove it.
If he can't beat me, it's because he's no good to me.

I will not bear the children of a weakling unable to follow me onto a battlefield.

Lyner leapt to his feet, his face flushed with anger.

- Have you lost your mind? Are you trying to turn your wedding into a freak show? It's a disgrace!

- No, Meany. This is a test.
The one that will show that I'm not a burden to be handed over, but an equal partner.

O'Larch slammed his fist down hard on the table.

- Enough is enough! We've made our decision.
She'll do as she's told, period!

Before Lothie could reply, O'Tall stood up abruptly, his fists clenched, his dark gaze fixed on his father-in-law.

- And if she refuses?
Are you going to force her?
Like you used to do with me, when I worked for you?

A brutal silence fell over the room.

Lyner turned a pale face towards him.

- It's none of your business, O'Tall...

- Quite the contrary. It's exactly my business.
You chose this man for yourself, that's your business.
But I won't let you decide Lothie's life for her.

Lyner searched for words, his voice trembling.

- This is not the time...

- If not now, when?
When she's married against her will, pregnant by a stranger?
When she's lost everything that makes her Lothie?

O'Larch, hitherto silent, spoke in a steady voice:

- Maybe we should listen to him.
Forcing Lothie will only break up our family.

Lyner stared at him, shaken.

- Are you taking his side now?

- I'll take the one from La famille.
And that starts with respecting each and every one of its members.

Lyner looked away, despondent.

- Very well, then. Let her have her duel...

But let her remember: those who defy tradition never emerge unscathed.

Lothie held his gaze, impassive.

- I'm not afraid of scars.

She turned on her heel and left the room without another word.
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating, gorged with anger and old sorrows.

O'Tall stood watching his sister walk away, his heart in knots.
He knew this duel wasn't just about swords.
It was a battle for what was left of his soul.

Dawn spread a pale light over the Silan arena.
The sawdust, still damp with dew, absorbed the muffled footsteps of the first arrivals.
A light mist floated over the arena, bathing the scene in diffused light.
The stands, invaded by a colorful crowd, rustled with murmurs mixing curiosity and skepticism.

Lothie entered the arena wearing a simple but functional outfit.
His two-handed sword rested on his shoulder, his determined gaze scanning the assembly.
She stopped in the middle, impassive.

The Fyros suitor made his imposing entrance.
His heavy armor clanked with every step.
He carried a massive shield and a slaughterhouse hammer as big as himself.
His eyes burned with arrogance and contempt.

- A hominid with a sword? You're going to hurt yourself, you'd better get back to the kitchen.
I wouldn't want to ruin your pretty face.

Bold laughter rose from his supporters:
- Homines to the kitchen! - Go prepare the meals, yubette!

Lothie smiled mockingly:
- That big hammer? Is it to compensate for something?

The suitor howled in rage, his face reddening:
- Shut up, woman! I'll send you back to your place as a servant!
When I've finished with you, you won't even dare to look at me again, you dirty trykette!

Lothie tilted her head to one side, her smile widening:
- Oh, I've upset Mummy's little boy... Aren't you going to cry?

The spike increased the brute's fury tenfold. He roared:
- RHAAAAAaaa, you tramp! I'll make you swallow all your words, Catin!

His howl signalled the start of the duel.

The fyros charged, his hammer slamming down with terrifying force.
Lothie narrowly dodged, leaping out of the way.
Frustrated by this failure, he repeatedly escalated his violence.
Lothie barely parried, deflecting titanic blows at the cost of a visible expenditure of energy.

The fight didn't look good.
Lothie seemed to be weakening, her breath becoming shorter, her dodges more precipitous.
Several times, the crowd thought they saw her falter.

The fyros supporters burst into cruel laughter:
- Now the little yubette knows where she belongs!

O'Tall, pale, clenched his fists.
Lyner, Lothie's mother, her face livid, clung to O'Larch's hand, her eyes wide with anguish.

The fyros, triumphant, tried to finish him off in one last furious assault.
But at the precise moment when he threw all his weight behind her, Lothie pivoted with feline suppleness, rounded him, and in the process planted her sword deep into the flaw in the cuirass.

A moment of silence suspended the moment.

The slaughterhouse giant, his eyes wide with incomprehension, contemplated the blade protruding from his chest.

- Impossible...

He staggered, dropped his hammer - which rolled in the sawdust to Lyner's feet - before collapsing with a thud.

An icy silence fell over the arena.

Then, timidly, the first applause broke out.
Others followed, hesitantly, until the entire arena resounded with fervent cheers.

O'Tall approached, hesitant, still in shock:
- You, uh... You could defeat him whenever you wanted?

Lothie looked at him, a wry smile floating across her still panting lips:
- Now they'll think twice before coming to claim my hand...

She passed by Lyner, almost brushing against the abandoned hammer, and gave her mother a look heavy with meaning.
Lyner felt tears welling up in his eyes, a violent mixture of fear, pride and relief.

O'Tall felt a new, silent admiration for his sister.

As for the fyros supporters, they had fallen silent, fleeing one by one, ashamed, unable to bear the gaze of the witnesses.

Lothie, wiping the sweat from her brow with a quiet gesture, turned on her heels, leaving behind the corpse of her adversary... and a family confronted with its own contradictions.

A few days after the battle in the Silan arena, life had returned to normal.
The Fyros pretender, resurrected by the Powers, was once again roaming the streets, surrounded by his supporters.
Although resurrection was routine for homins, the public defeat he had suffered at the hands of Lothie remained etched in the memory.

One morning, as Lothie and her brother O'Tall were crossing the market square, they came across the fyros and his group.
The suitor, who was in the midst of ranting to his friends, paused when he caught sight of them.

- Look who it is, the little yubette and her dumb bastard brother.
I see you're still walking around with your protective detail, Lothie.

His companions burst out laughing, outbidding each other with crude insults:

- "Bastard!"

- "Homasse!"

- "Grognasse!"

- "Homine à zerx!"

But the enthusiasm wasn't there.
O'Tall's Black Dragon officer's uniform commanded respect,
and the memory of Lothie's blade cutting through the fyros' armour was still fresh.

O'Tall clenched his fists, ready to retaliate, but Lothie laid a soothing hand on his arm.

- Let them talk," she murmured.
Words are all they have left.

The fyros, stung to the core, took a step forward and shouted aggressively:

- You think you've humiliated me?
You think you've calculated me? But it was just an accident.
A stroke of luck... I underestimated you, that's all.

Lothie stared at him, impassive.

- And now?" she asked.


A tense silence settled in. The fyros opened his mouth, then closed it again.


- I don't... Not here. Not right now.

He took a step back, his companions exchanging uncertain but knowing glances.

Lothie nodded, smiling.

- That's what I thought.

She turned on her heels, O'Tall at her side, leaving the fyros and his followers behind, frozen in their own embarrassment.

Embassy of the Lochi,
Yrkanis - late afternoon.
The air is warm, full of the scent of plants.
A golden light glides over the moss-cut walls.

Fleur de Tuber, bent over a file, raises his head when there's a gentle knock on the door. Without taking his pipe from his lips, he says quietly:

"Come in, if you have clean feet."

The door opens. O'Tall enters, visibly intimidated.

Fleur (smiling, pipe in mouthpiece):
"Ah, my boy. Sit down, I've saved you a bottle of Lorelyn's Bhyre...

Before I forget, how's the little one?"

O'Tall (sits down, shakes head):
"Lothie? She's hanging in there. The old man is training her... in his own way."

Fleur :
"Meaning?"

O'Tall :
"Let's just say he's training her to survive in the most dangerous places I know. And he doesn't hesitate to kill her to make her understand what it's like to die without a crystal, as he says."

Fleur (frowns, blows nose):
"without crystal? hum I see...
Now that's pedagogy... that's effective. "

O'Tall (grunting):
"That's not the way we do it at home.
But she chose. So I respect that."

Fleur (tapping his pipe against a saucer):
"Good. About your case. "Concierge Services. "

He unfolds a small notebook, tightly scribbled.

Fleur :
"Founded in Yrkanis by the Frigo brothers - Flasco, the manager, and Valiso. Officially, they do... everything. Transport, breakdown services, logistics, small assignments for individuals or guilds."

O'Tall :
"So far I have nothing to complain about. It's the price. They accepted a payment ten times too high without negotiating. A real goo chai, that."

Fleur (raises an eyebrow, puzzled):
"I agree. The kind of gesture that either means 'we want to buy ourselves some silence' or 'we're too sure of ourselves'."

He flips quickly to another page.

Fleur :
"They are registered with the Kingdom, have branches in Fairhaven and Zora. Work with the Firm and the SMA. I didn't get very far, but... nothing to worry about. Serae Liosta and ser Cinabre have already met with Flasco."

O'Tall (leaning forward):
"Could you? Push it further?"

Fleur :
"I could, yes. But you have to tell me if you really want us to stir the bottom of the pond."

O'Tall (hesitates for a moment, then shakes his head):
"Nah. If I start rummaging through anything that doesn't smell right, I'll end up buried under the files. Besides... I don't want to know. too things. Not this time."

Fleur (slight smile, softer voice):
"Very well. You'll get nothing more, officially."

O'Tall (eyebrow raised):
"Officially?"

Fleur (rises slowly, approaches a shelf, pats an old globe from the bark):
"Let's just say my personal curiosity was piqued. And an ambassador who stops being curious... goes deaf."

O'Tall (rising in turn):
"Be careful though. People who are too clean often hide the worst mud under their boots."

Fleur :
"That's why I prefer dirty feet. At least we know where the trace came from."

They shake hands. O'Tall exits without another word. Fleur remains pensive for a moment, before slipping a crumpled bill into a sealed mailbox.

[Yrkanis - Lochi Embassy, Fleur de Tuber's personal office. Quiet night. Only an oil lamp trembles on the corner of the desk].

The office was not the elegant one, decorated with spiral plants, where Fleur received Matis dignitaries and official visitors. This was the den. The hushed, chaotic heart of her personal operations. Piles of parchments piled high, held in balance by obstinacy alone. An old, half-open cupboard with folded maps dangling from it. In the center, the great gnarled wooden desk, chiselled like the hands that inhabited it.

Fleur de Tuber leaned in, his binoculars sliding steadily along his muzzle. He would pull them up with a raspy forefinger, resume his reading, then absentmindedly light his Zoraï herb pipe, which he forgot to maintain and which died quietly, like an ill-formulated doubt.

First, he drew from a roughly sealed envelope a letter from Avendale. Recognition was immediately evident in the small grin on his face.

"Lettre d’O’Tall — griffonnée à la hâte"

Direct, unadorned writing, bordering on legible scribbling.

Fleur,

Here's what I've got.

The engineer's name is Cains. An old Tryk, a bit dry, but not the type to make trouble.
He carried gears in his toubs, nothing really exciting except maybe a still carboy.

Airmythe guy from Concierge Services we've seen, it's just wind: smiling, but hollow, and not very clean.
He tried to rip us off on the fees, but we set the record straight.

Flascoone of the company's two bosses, came in person to fetch old Cains.
I couldn't understand why a director would go out of his way for this, especially at this hour.

No proof of scheming, but my stomach's talking.
And then he tells me that it stinks.

O'Tall.

Fleur put the letter down again, the dying pipe on her lips, her eyes half-closed.
He rummaged under a pile and pulled out a much thicker, discreetly sealed folder.

Marked with a small sign at the bottom: a ploder leaf folded in half - the discreet emblem of his little frippos.

He opened it. The smell of slow-drying paper, fine inks and sifted waxes came back like a memory of happy espionage.


---

Fleur sighed.
He tugged on the unlit pipe.
Raised his binoculars, readjusted them on his wrinkled muzzle, and murmured:

"And here I thought I was dealing with a potion and herbarium delivery boy..."
He gently closed the file, his eyes half-closed.

"A botched engineer, an over-involved manager, missing workers, a wind turbine and a still... and I'm out of tobacco."

He rolled his chair to a drawer, pulled out a raspy Zoraï herb, packed it into his old pipe, relit it - to no avail.

Fleur (grumbling):
"Even you don't want to talk."

Then, in the silence, he scribbled on a piece of parchment:
He wedged the paper between two volumes, in a secret compartment of the desk.

Tuber flower knew.
He may not have held all the pieces yet, but the first shadows had been drawn on the canvas.
And they had a rancid smell that not even Zoraï herbs could mask.

He extinguished the oil lamp with the back of his hand.
The shadow swallowed the walls, leaving only the pipe to glow one last time.
Silence returned.