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!