Tamira doesn't have much going on in her life - nothing that is going anywhere that is. She works as a waitress, earning enough to pay rent for the flat her and her best friend share. She spends her free time searching for the past she doesn't remem...
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"If you ever must hide who you are, then you can never be free.
Therefore Dych isn't free.
Vefrea isn't free."
- Matu Pulince's Last Words before her Execution, Leader of the Dych Rebellion
Blasius rubbed his forehead as he stared intensely at the table, Ysmay's note out in front of him. It told him to start sending people back – perhaps five people per week – if there's no more sign of Pravus. She's right, of course. Pravus hasn't been there, and they are basically standing around in the forest doing nothing. Still, knowing his luck, Pravus will attack when there are only five of them left. He also didn't want anyone to believe he thinks less of them by sending them home first. Perhaps they should wait it out a bit more and then go home together.
"What do you think, Wilbur?" he asked the bird who was nipping at his own feathers. Blasius chuckled. "Yeah, you don't care, do you?"
There was one easy decision about all of this; he wanted Joan to stay with him. His presence was always comforting. Blasius wished he could talk to him about it, but his tent would be full and knowing Joan, he would try to push it again. Blasius didn't want anyone to draw any conclusions about them – not yet at least. Thinking about it, Joan hasn't spoken to Blasius for over a week. Hopefully, he isn't too mad at him.
Blasius sighed. Perhaps he's overthinking it. Maybe the morning will give him fresh eyes about the whole thing.
He took out his sketchbook from underneath his pillow and sat cross-legged on his bedroll. It was already over-flowing with drawings – both finished and unfinished – but he continued to hunt for an empty space.
"Blasius, can we talk?" Joan stood at the tent's entrance, his hand on his stomach and his face slightly drained of colour. Blasius bit his lip.
"Yeah- yeah, of course." He got up, peering at the pitch blackness outside. No one should need to see him at this time, but he closed the tent's curtain just in case. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
Joan shook his head. "Actually, never mind."
"What?" Blasius grabbed his arm before he could leave. "You can't do that – now I'm even more worried!"
"Really? Because obviously you don't want me here-"
"But I do. I always want you here, Joan, it's just... well, you know." He cupped the side of his face. "Come on, what's on your mind? You don't look too well – are you sick?"
"I..." Joan hesitated. "I don't know. I just have an uneasy feeling. I think something bad is going to happen. I feel like I'm going to throw up."
"Perhaps you're coming down with something." Blasius pressed the back of his hand against Joan's forehead. "You do feel a bit warm. You should lay down."
