ROLEPLAY

Lyren wakes up, opens an eye. It's a blur. It must be night again. She rolls her head to the side and spits something out, blowing between her lips to unclog her pasty mouth. A roar echoes somewhere, perhaps in her head.

- Annn, Aaahhéé Eeeerr, Liiii...eeee... aaaèèèèèchhhhhh !!!

What, what, how? Lyren tries to readjust his pillow. No, it's much harder than a pillow. Since when did anyone replace their pillow with a plank of wood? He'll hear me Uzykos, another one of his tricks... Always annoying his big sister, that one. She bangs her head gently against the plank, and tries to open her eyes again.
Ah, something's moving near her. A figure? Ah. And that's what it is, a headache like a bodoc, ringing in the ears, and a smell... No, it's definitely not her bed. A table? Since when does she sleep on a table? Plank of wood, hangover. It rhymes.

Ah, the something moving next to her is a homin. Strangely, she doesn't feel threatened. Or maybe she's just in no condition to feel any danger. The homin makes another sound, and shakes her a little. She tries to articulate, but her lips stick together.

- What are you saying?
- I said no spitting on the floor, Lyren, ramèch...

The hominin flinches, straightens up, and frantically runs her hands over her head to check whether or not she has grown bodoc horns. Phew, nothing. She checks again a second later, just in case, but still nothing.

The hominin in question is Pecus, the bartender from Thesos. He plants himself in front of her and starts talking to her. Talking to her? Only a few words make it through the horn plug in her ears. Horns, de bodoc? Are they there? Lyren checks again, nervously turning her fingers in her ears. No, it's nothing. She just needs to throw up.

The few words she understands from Pecus are clear enough. Give in, give up, ah, no, don't give up, restore the retch straighten the blazon, and, again give in, no, actually, come to think of it, she doesn't understand it at all.

- Can you repeat, but slowly, she asked?
- Hmmmrffff, I don't have all day.
- Come on... Please...

Pecus took the homine firmly by the shoulders and straightened her in her chair.

- Okay, now you listen to me.

His tone was firmer and more fatherly. Lyren concentrated.

- You know, I didn't know the tyranchs... uh... who raised you. But I'll tell you, I knew your mother. And I knew your father, too. And Azazor, one of my best customers. And every legionnaire you've ever known, I've known better than you can imagine. And if there's one thing they could ALL have put into your little yubo head, it's that shooki isn't for mourning. You don't drink out of joy or sadness, or anything else. You just drink. The rest, the problems, the feelings, we deal with them, with an axe if need be. So let me get this straight: you've been coming here for three days, you've never had a drink in your life, and now you're chugging mugs faster than you can piss them, squealing that Azazor's gone, that there's no hope, that you don't know what to do. And you start all over again.

The homin's tone rose as he spoke.

-So yes, most of the legionnaires are old, some have left. Yes, two officers have been found dead, yes, Azazor has disappeared. But what can you do about it? Nothing, not a thing. So you know what you're going to do? I'll tell you what you're going to do, my little legionnaire, I'll tell you. You're going to go home, wash up, YES wash up. Don't let yourself go, understand? And you know what you're going to do next? You're going to clean the hall, yes. Tidy up. Are you a legionnaire or not? Then do it, and stop moaning. Then you're going to go to Pyr, and declare that you're taking over the legions in Azazor's absence. Do you understand? STOP SQUEALING AND DO IT. Who else can do it now? NOBODY? Then it's up to you.

Pecus was literally bellowing at the homine, and pounding his fist on the table to back up certain words.

- Then you're going to get up, EVERY MORNING, and do what a legionnaire has to do. ALONE OR NOT. This is what your parents would have done. This is what AZAZOR WOULD HAVE DONE. Alone or not. Even if you're the last one standing, the legions will stand. That's what counts, you understand? Can you imagine a young fyros seeing you here, now, do you think he'd want to join the legions seeing you like this? So, NOM D'UN BODOC, pull yourself together, straighten up, and wear that coat of arms like your father would have.

- You know... I never knew my father. And only my mother. But you're right. I'll do as you say. I'll give it a try.
- TRY? TRY?

Lyren tried to cover his ears, but the bartender non-violently grabbed his hands to stop him, but continued in a slightly more subdued tone.

- Do you want everyone to remember you as the renegade we trusted and failed?

*****

Still a little muddy, Lyren did just as Pecus had said, without thinking too hard. After all, following his advice couldn't make the situation any worse. Yes, wash up, clean the hall. She was already a little less slimy after that, to take charge of pyr and declare to pyr's guild officer that she would take the lead in her leader's place, in his absence.

- So you're the interim... And what do we do if he doesn't come back," he asked?
- If he doesn't come back... I'm going to slap the shit out of him and make him wish he were Fyros. And don't ask me where.
- The sharük isn't interested in the location of slaps. You deal with that internally.
- Well, do you still need my signature somewhere, or can I go? I still have work to do.
- It's fine. It's fine. Let me know if anything changes.
- I hope so... well, no: there's going to be some of that!

Three hangovers later.

Yes, let's face it. It couldn't be that simple. It's never that simple. A rebuke, a reconsideration, a realization, a decision... Call it what you will, the human conscience is, and will remain, unsurprising. The world, too, is unsurprising. A gloom without comparison.

Some mornings, we wake up with the energy and determination to change the world. We want to, we can, we're going to bend the world to our decisions, to our will, because obviously, what we've decided is what the world expects, the good, the right. Our little gesture today will be decisive, our life will be better, that of our loved ones, and the memory of what we've lost will be sweeter, more acceptable. We'll sleep better the next night.

And the next morning, as always, we realize. We've tried. We'll have stirred what we can stir, we'll have spoken, acted, shouted. With our little voices, our little hands, we've done what we can. And then we realize the futility, the impotence, the uselessness of our actions. We can only change what is willing to change, and our actions, however beautiful they may be, however much common sense, necessity and urgency they may contain, are as quickly forgotten and ignored as a passing cloud without rain.

In short, Lyren had changed bar, Pecus would have refused to serve her. But it turns out that the fyros bartender, the very type of fyros bartender, is to ask questions before giving a moral lesson to whoever is imbibed enough to hear it. And Lyren had once again been dumb and imbibed enough to answer the questions. She'd just wanted to drink quietly, without venting, at least this time, to at least follow Pecus's advice. But she had finally spoken, after a deep sigh.

Yes, she'd done what Pecus had said, she'd declared the disappearance of her boss and father-in-law, that service grunt, who, like all service grunts, ends up missing when they're gone. So she'd gone off in the direction of the legions, and scribbled a few bits of leather, which she'd hung up here and there in the capital.

"cal i selak - strength and glory! The Fyros legions are recruiting.
Contact Lyren, Tower of Thesos."

So far, the only homin seemingly interested had been a shuffler, at pyr, as she hung up the ad. He nodded, said something that could be translated as "I can't read anyway", then left.

And Lyren, who thought that candidates would be jostling for the Thesos door, had nevertheless decided that going down to Pyr for a shooki or two couldn't hurt. She'd come back the next day, only to find the few candidates who were motivated enough to stay there all night waiting for her.

Three days later, or rather, three evenings later, Lydix grabbed Lyren by the shoulders:
- I'll tell you, I knew your mother pretty well. And I knew your dad pretty well, too. Are you listening? Then I'll tell you what they would have done.

There's no way to drink a shooki in the desert.

At least in Fairhaven, Ba'Naer left her in peace. He'd known her mother well, too. Well, "well known", as a bar owner might know one of his most loyal customers, no more, no less. Ba'Naer fortunately had more yubos to whip up than lecturing a legionnaire, but alas, his shooki was relatively bland. Adding milk helped, but not when it came to serious drinking.

Lyren was thinking, as hard as his fyros brain could. The legion candidates had probably come in such numbers, and the jostling must have been so intense outside the hall door, that they'd probably all become discouraged. Too much competition, impossible, they thought. She'll only take the best, I don't stand a chance. And in the end, not one of them stayed. The result was that she'd seen no one. Not a hint of a fyros' sweat, nothing at all.

The guardian of the halls, the same guardian who had lectured Lyren a few years earlier. [[see: The hall of terror]] had dared... He had dared to explain to her why, in his opinion, no one had come. On the one hand, he'd had the nerve to say he hadn't seen anyone, which for Lyren was unthinkable, a lie just to annoy her. The candidates had come and gone, period. But for the guardian, it was something else.
Another thing, yes.

For one thing, Azazor had been going a bit crazy lately. Everyone agreed, and he had done nothing to prove the contrary. Being under the command of a madman was something many people did without, even if some could enjoy it. But it wasn't the only thing for him. The Fyros Legions, especially since Azazor's return, then with Lyren's presence, and even more so since she'd taken command, lacked... Kamism. Good Fyros Kamism, eh, moderate, fervent Kamism, eh, not the sleepy, blind Kamism of the Zorais, eh. In short, the guardian of the halls knew what the average fyros wanted, he, eh, not to anger the little Kami who guards the dunes under his benevolent eye.

Lyren flew into a rage.
-What do you mean, Kamism? What do you mean, Kamis? If the Kamis were really here for us, they would have brought Azazor back. And my mother, too. And plenty of others before them.
The homin looked at her, tucking his head slightly between his shoulders, not out of fear, but because she was loud all the same. He was used to it. She continued:
- Kamis... Just there to pump your dappers, control your slimy minds, and make you think Atys revolves around them! They've got no more power than a yubo fart! If they could do anything, why doesn't Lykos have any offspring yet, why is the empire on the brink of collapse? Why are so many homins joining the ma...
- What I mean," he cut in, "is that the Fyros legions are historically Kamist.
- Yeah. Officially. Well, isn't that enough?
- Everyone knows you're not, deep down.
- But name me one legionnaire who was a Kamist, convinced! That's nothing new. We're not going to have to go spinning rosaries in the temple in front of the Kami waddling his buttocks, are we? It's no use, they don't care, they want our dappers. Besides, Kamis never wash.
- You're talking like a Karavanière again!
- What's it to you? I can talk any way I want. What difference does it make?
- Nobody wants to see Karavanese Fyros Legions!
- Nope. But I at least dream of never seeing Kamistes again.
- Lyren, you're not going to...
- The Legions, she bellowed, that's me! And I'll be damned!

Lyren was in a rage. The reason? Do you need a reason to be angry? No, just the urge to destroy everything in her path. She'd even come close to knocking out her little brother as he tumbled down the steps of the guild hall. He'd dodged the blow and returned a sweeping blow to the back of her legs. Lyren was left flummoxed.

In fact, there was. There was a reason, a profound reason, even. After the sacrifices she'd made, the energy she'd given for the empire, cutting herself off from everything that had been her past, and now the responsibility she'd been given to lead the legions, without any help.

Azazor, that hero, that living legend who jumped at every problem and into every hole that presented itself. Lyren thought briefly of his mother, also a legend in the art of getting bogged down in trouble. The two had found each other, it had to be said. But now, what? Was Azazor, in his condition, even alive? Jumping into a rift in the bark, filled with deep-sea ktins and who knows what else even more dangerous. You can't survive that long in there, with no water, no food, and above all stinking and oozing sweat like any fyros in need of shooki. The kamis hadn't brought him back. The kamis, whom he still trusted despite everything that could have changed his mind. If he'd survived and made it back from the old lands, it really wasn't thanks to them.

No. Azazor was over. He was dead. How could we be sure? Impossible, but how could we be sure he still had a chance of living? Azazor, ghost of the past. His time was over. The Fyros Legions were Lyren now.

And it was time she forged them in her own image. It was in her blood. Her mother had been in command, as had her father. She'd never met him, but according to Azazor, he'd been the greatest leader the legions had ever known. Who could protest, argue that she didn't belong, and challenge his vision?
No, no one could. It was now up to her to make decisions. The right decisions. And it started now.

With a slow but sure gesture, so as not to show the slightest hesitation, Wixarika placed his badge on the table and left the room without taking his eyes off Lyren. Lyren stood with her arms crossed, motionless and stiff in her black kostomyx. The two homines had spoken at length, then exchanged all manner of insults, threats and abuse at high volume. Wixarika was deeply saddened and upset, but nothing and nobody could change the new legion commander's mind. It was the same for everyone: either you give up or you leave.

Wixarika simply couldn't understand how things could have come to this. After what the renegade chief and tribe had done to her, after all she'd done to help Lyren integrate into the empire, she took this news like a dagger in the back, a betrayal she didn't have the resources to fight. For several years, she had rarely set foot in the Thesos legion hall, her position as akenakos taking up an inordinate amount of her time in Pyr. She had even been pleased to see Lyren take command following Azazor's disappearance, a renewal that would do no harm. She trusted him, and hadn't seen it coming.


Motionless, Lyren said nothing. It was hard for him to see his friend go, but it was undoubtedly one of the prices he had to pay. A single rule she had set, the same for everyone, a clear and simple choice. No discussion, no negotiation. There was no turning back. And yet, it wasn't a question of going and getting Sagaritis! Quite simply: abandon the Kamis cult, or be expelled from the Legions. She had given him the choice, as she had for all the other Legionnaires. As far as the latter were concerned, it was more a question of a dozen or so reservists, older ex-officers who had kept their badges more out of complacency than anything else, and hardly any of them were really active. A handful shrugged their shoulders, but they didn't care. Many were already devoting what was left of their small legionnaire pay to honoring the cult of the great Glouglou rather than the Kamis. As long as the shooki tastes the same, as long as we can remain neutral, as long as the bar doesn't burn down, they said. As long as you don't make a pact with the matis, they repeated. Lyren was surprised by some of the reactions. Deep down, they probably think I'm right, but can't admit it to themselves, she thought. Several even admitted that they had always been neutral, and that as long as they could remain so, they would respect the guild's new decision.

- For a change," replied an old Tryker who'd been a legionnaire at least since Dexton's time. I guess you know what you're doing, and it wouldn't hurt to make a change. I'm neutral, I've always been neutral.
- I don't have a problem with neutrals," she declared. akep for your support.
- But hey, one day you'll realize that it's better to stay away from one or the other...
- I understand, but I need an allied power.
- Maybe you're right. You know you're going to shake Dexton's brat with that...

Some, more Kamist than others, and one neutral, protested loudly. It even took two of them to pull out their retch and attack Lyren without further discussion. But these old-timers were sorely lacking in any training other than breaking through barrels of shooki, and were simply no match for Lyren. She parried a blow from her axe, which came crashing down on a small table, quickly drew a Tekorn dagger from her belt, then turned around and struck him in the side, followed by a knee blow to the stomach. She had no trouble disarming the hominin in the process, who fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

- Do you like kamis? Go and join them," declared Lyren in an icy voice, thrusting his dagger into a gap in the armor and ripping the badge from the homin's torso.
- Matis scum," muttered the legionnaire, before disappearing, recalled.
- Next," shouted Lyren, coolly, after straightening up and putting her hair back in place.


***


It had been a long day. Lyren looked at the crosses she had made in the guild register, her gaze lingering on certain names. A handful were still missing, some for several years. In particular, the name of a legionnaire, a convinced Kamist, whose fury Lyren feared as much as the blow of a sledgehammer. She was the very person who could have claimed his place. If only she'd been there.

- Pfft. Absentees are always wrong," declared Lyren, loudly, now alone in the guild hall.

The empty space of the guild council chamber echoed back at him strangely. As if the few words Wixarika had spoken to him in a cold, slow voice on the doorstep were still echoing off the walls of the Fyros Legions hall.

- We used to be friends. We're not anymore. Goodbye, Lyren.