Goin' to See a Man 'Bout a House

by **Azmere** on March 5th, 2017, 2:54 pm

1st of Spring, 517 AV
Early Morning*I am willing to change the date to whatever works for you but we never talked about it so...

Azmere stirred outside of his tent. His family had grown and shrank yet he still felt like they should be closer than what they were. Some relationships were little more than courtesy and he had witnessed this in some pairing from every member who now resided in his camp. A conversation that took place several days ago had brought a great deal of information to light which had never been previously considered. As Syna’s first rays began to lift the veil of night from the steppe, the contrasting stare closed for a few moments as the ankal gave thanks to the gods for all that they do to protect and provide for the Drykas as a whole.

The archer moved so that he was no longer sitting on his haunches. He walked to the closest wagon and gripped his hands against the bottom of the bed. The wood was rough but warm and the scratchiness felt comfortable pressed in on the weathered skin of the horseman. With his gaze focused on something far away, Azmere spoke softly a name. “Zulrav.” He immediately bent his knees slightly then lifted the back end of the wagon up off the ground. The weight caused his arms to shake slightly as his biceps drew themselves together. The watchman held his elbows at his side and pulled upwards against gravity until his forearms were parallel with the ground. He held the wagon aloft while he ran over a list of things that he was grateful to the Father of Storms. This took several long ticks and the man’s legs quivered under the strain. Once he was done, Azmere set the wagon back on its wheels.

Azmere stepped back and shook out his arms for a handful of moments. He flexed and wiggled his fingers, a quick glance catching the white lines pressed into his palms and the skin on either side puffy and pink. He smiled his half smile then stepped back up to the wagon and mimicked his previous position. “Yahal.” This time, he chose the god of faithfulness and the name came out a little louder than before. His body began to warm up from the exertion of holding up a half-packed cart of goods. The things Azmere was giving thanks for included his gift from the god but also the seemingly perpetual drive to please the deity had led the ankal to engage in more meaningful interactions with his newfound family. Stronger bonds meant greater promises and one had to be faithful to keep his word. This prayer went on almost twice as long as the one for Zulrav and when the watchman finally let go, he did so with a grunt.

The scarred man limed away for a moment and shook out his hands, arms and legs. His breathing had increased in pace and the unscarred portions of his skin were growing a little red. Azmere didn’t break for too long; he stepped back up to the wagon and took hold of the wood planks. He flexed his thighs and heaved upward with his arms, an ache shooting to the joints from the repeated effort. “Semele.” The ankal was certainly going to pray to the mother of the world. Parents already told stories to their children of how unruly youths were swallowed up by the goddess if they didn’t listen to their moms. “Caiyha.” In a culture set within the wilds, not praying to the goddess who controls the grasses and every creature within them is foolish. Each name became closer to a shout instead of spoken reverence as he went along. His actions became more abrupt as the fatigue of repeatedly lifting the heavy wagon started to wear him down. “Syna.” Azmere had always admired the sun and her warmth. He also knew that Jasmine worshiped the goddess which somewhat endeared him to them both even more. “Leth.” Night could be a scary world on the Sea of Grass but it afforded some things that day could not. Leth made these activities possible by giving his soft light to the world. The ankal prayed that the god would reveal himself to his servant and Azmere’s friend, Taurina. He had seen the pain of loss in her eyes and knew it had something to do with the god.

The ankal dropped the wagon back down then did a bit of a dance to loosen his body up. He hopped and skipped about favoring his left leg while shaking and waving his arms to loosen the tension brought on by his workout. Azmere flexed his fingers and rubbed his hands. Grey was nearby but sat calmly as he watched the man ho and flail about. Skylla blew her lips and trotted up excitedly with high steps and a whipping tail. The energy she saw in her human fed the young mare’s desire to run and play. The white face came up and bumped the scarred man on his shoulder. Azmere turned from the force and smiled. He took a hop-step and threw his arms around the strider’s neck. For a moment, they were both still and simply enjoyed the embrace. Azmere slowly slipped back but planted a kiss against the animal’s jaw before he completely separated.

The man set about the task of donning her blanket and placing a yvas on Skylla. This had gotten much easier in recent seasons. Initially, the wild horse was not willing to be tacked without a proper fight. The star-filled eyes smiled as his hands stroked her soft, chocolate coat. Azmere took a few chimes to gather some things before he left on his mission. He tucked his dagger into his belt, filled a waterskin and grabbed his bow. The yvas had a quiver full of arrows on it so the man no longer needed to carry the one on his hip. He was amazed at the difference it made in his movements. He climbed up onto the yvas and got settled by shifting his weight around until he was balanced. Then he turned Skylla towards the heart of Endrykas.

Grey perked and gave a soft whimper –he wanted to come along. Azmere looked at the icy blue eyes that pleaded silently. The ankal smiled and snapped his fingers twice which brought the dog to its feet. The watchman squeezed his knees against the flanks of his strider and leaned forward over her withers. Skylla, sensing the change in her rider, took off at a quick trot. This was an improvement over dashing away at a hard gallop. Time had ingrained a need to slow down within the presence of tents. After a few strides, Azmere’s body synced with the elliptical orbit of Skylla’s gait and there was almost no friction between them. The man smiled as all true Drykas do when they fly over the grasses on the back of a strider. Grey ran a length or two to one side but did a decent job of keeping up.

Syna’s orb was now visible as Azmere came into the center of Tent City. The man sat his weight back in the yvas and waited for Skylla to slow down which she inevitably did. Once the duo had slowed to a walk, the ankal turned them down the wide corridor which was lined by bright red tents all adorned with symbols and tapestries which indicated the unparalleled craftsmen of the Ruby Clan. The watchman had not had much interaction with this bunch. He did not know the man he was given to find; this Adon Gloaming but there was a need in the Stormblood pavilion and Adon was the one to seek.

Keeping his weight back, Azmere guided Skylla down the spoke. His eyes watched for the marking which had been described to him which signified the Gloaming pavilion –the Tent Builders. While he did this, the right hand of the ankal idly rubbed small circles on the yvas handle. He slowly covered the leather horn with his djed in a thin layer. As he smoothed it over and over, he committed the magical essence; the piece of himself, to protect the leather from physical harm. This took several chimes and continued until Azmere felt like he had missed something. He stopped and looked around then saw his mark. He gripped the yvas handle only to find it had a cool sheen which was different from how it felt before.

He steered Skylla to the side and dismounted with a wince in his landing. The Drykas wasn’t ever sure he’d get used to that pain. Grey came up and pressed his big body against his human. Azmere reached down and scratched the dog behind the ears. He reached back and put his hand on Skylla’s neck and stroked her mane. The contrasting gaze scoured the camp for activity as the ankal’s hand idly found the djed-encased handle. The right side of his face curled in a smile, the left side frozen by scar tissue. He called out in clear Pavi to announce his presence. “I come seeking the tent builder, Adon.”

by **Adon** on March 6th, 2017, 9:18 pm

Adon woke, as usual, in the dark just before sunrise and stretched out first one leg and then the other. He pointed his feet to stretch shin and thigh, then reversed the action and drew his toes upwards towards his knees while keeping his legs straight in order to stretch out his calf muscles. Bands of pain crossed the calf of his bad leg where knots of muscle had stiffened overnight, and he held the position until the pain eased a little and the muscles succumbed to the stretch. Then he relaxed again and lifted his head to smell the dawn air. Dry. Too warm. Horses, horse apples, smoke, people. Nothing dangerous or out of the ordinary. He slid out of the blankets and sat for a moment kneading the knots out of his calf with small circular movements of his fingers, then reached for his clothes. Breeches and boots went on first, so that the built up sole of his left boot could help to balance out the shortness of the leg itself, then a shirt. Alys, his wife, slid out of the blankets on the other side and straight into her own clothes as the Pavilion woke around them.

Adon slipped out to renew the fire ready for breakfast, and watch Syna and Leth change places. Sunrise and sunset were times that he honoured, the times that shaped the Pavilion and its name. Gloaming, the twilight bells, not quite day and not quite night, but something of both and neither, of borders and changes, and never quite the same twice.

He inclined his grey head to Syna as the sun hauled itself over the horizon, and his neck crackled and popped as he moved. He chuckled and bent to add dry zibri chips to the fire, evoking another crackle from his spine. When he straightened, he turned to view the light as it grew enough to bring colour back to the pavilon walls. The pavilion remained red for ruby clan of course, but last time he had updated it, he'd had the dregs from five different dye batches to use up, and rather than waste resources by discarding them, he had used the dfferent shades to try and recreate the flowing reds of a sunset sky. He wasn't sure how well he'd succeeded, though others seemed to like it, he could still see the flaws.

***

Collan and Keighvin ate first, then gathered up their hunting gear and rode out together. Adon swallowed his share, then began to gather the materials for another pot of the waterproofing mixture, as he had noticed they were getting low. Movement caught his eye, and he turned just in time to scoop up baby Aggie before she crawled as far as the fire. He was still holding her when the rider arrived and demanded him by name. He moved the materials to a safe pont, and straightened to meet the man's odd eyes with his own flint-grey ones. He was distinctive enough, with those scars, but Adon had seen scars, earned scars, and his mouth didn't do more than twitch at the corner at the sight. His free hand shaped a greeting, accented by the missing fingers but perfectly understandable to any fluent speaker of Pavi. "I'm Adon Gloaming," he replied. "May I offer you tea and shade while you visit and discuss what else you seek?" He indicated the pavilion, with its cushions and rugs, as Leah hurried up to take back her dotra. If the man agreed, Adon would lead the way, his limp visible, but not slowing him much. All men needed tents, be they walahk or drykas, followers of one god or many, but that was no reason to short them on courtesy.

Boxcode by Shimoje

by **Azmere** on March 26th, 2017, 2:59 am

Azmere gave a bow of the head to show respect to his host. He signed a thank you in response to the offer for tea and shade. The scarred man saw the obvious limp and watched as it seemed to not hinder the older man. Despite not having much of an intimidating presence, there was something almost holy about a man who survived the Sea of Grass for so many winters. With eyes that soaked up every detail, the ankal studied the abode of the architect. There were few who had not heard of the Gloamings.

The pavilion had strong, smooth walls that were sporting some kind of sheen on the outside. Azmere made a note to ask about it. The canvas made the one on the archer’s personal pavilion seem dingy and unkempt. Maybe it would explain the frayed edges and split seams that seemed to plague the Drykas’ abode. There was a scuttle of little feet as Adon’s family paid respect to the art of business and gave up space in their home for a stranger. The blue and yellow stare took in the cushions and furs and it gave a simple, yet warm impression. While he sent a good portion of his time talking with people and dealing with their problems, the watchman did not have the slightest inkling of how to entertain guests. Almost like being in the presence of his grandfather, Azmere tucked up his pride and waited until he was offered a seat.

The ankal took a moment to linger until his host started to sit. Only after this indication would Azmere sit as well. His mind wandered back to the shield he had placed on the yvas handle. That small, insignificant show of djed spun him into an oblivion of memories that were tied up in a single day; a single name- Daleina. As the gaze filled with stars lifted to study the man across from him, the novice mage began to collect djed in his right palm. It was a slow process in the physical existence much unlike pulling essence in the web which took little effort and even less time. The substance of magic was strange in that Azmere felt very little control over it. He rubbed his palms together and also used the fingers of his left hand to smooth out the djed in an effort to coat his right hand evenly. While he did this, he addressed Adon occasionally breaking the shield-making process to interject signs. The scarred man kept his baritone even and low to try and temper any of the shock his appearance might have on those nearby.

“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.” His hands bent into the signals for gracious and then went back to the casual rubbing which was molding the shield. “I have adopted some new members into my family and it’s time we had a proper home.” The azure and amber orbs took a moment to catch any reactions before the formal request continued. “I would be honored if you would build a large pavilion to house my people.” The hands paused once more to indicate Adon’s work as being reputable and favored. The ankal continued. “There are ten of us right now but” Azmere leaned forward with a bit of a grin that only showed on the unscarred right side of his face “if things keep moving as they are…” He let his words trail off as he sat back and his hands finished the thought. Future. Little ones.

by **Adon** on April 4th, 2017, 3:16 pm

Adon watched his visitor's roaming gaze from the corner of his own eye. The scarred man seemed to be taking everything in, and Adon could only hope that it passed muster. He indicated a vacant cushion with his hand and folded himself onto another close to his writing materials. The man hesitated, then took the seat, and explained that his Pavilion had expanded through adoption. He seemed to be waiting for a responce, so Adon nodded. "Mine also." Gloaming had adopted young Jessie, to all intents and purposes, even if she did have a surviving relative here to speak for her. It wasn't as if the black ships had left her anywhere else to go, except for out into the Sea of Grass, and he didn't see that as a viable option.

The scarred man took in the response and launched into his need. Adon nodded again. "I would be honoured to build you a pavilion, and I am sure my Ankal will also be pleased." Adon picked up his slate. "If I make notes," he explained, as Alys slipped in to place two cups of mint tea and a plate of snacks - fingers of flatbread, tiny parcels of soft cheese wrapped in edible leaves - between them, "it saves on running back and forth between pavilions to check details. Remind me, what is your Pavilion called?" He kept his posture to polite enquiry, though he didn't think the man had introduced himself.

He lifted his cup and sipped as he waited for the answer and studied his visitor. The man's eyes were odd, different colours, and full of stars, and he rubbed one hand with the other almost constantly. Adon wasn't sure if that was from nerves, or pain from more scars under the skin - he certainly had plenty of visible scarring - or something more.

Once he had his answer, Adon noted it at the top of the slate and went on. "Yes, for people that are so small, little ones take up a surprisingly large amount of space. I can make the interior partitions moveable so it's easy to adapt when things change. Do all of your Pavilion members want their own private sleeping space, or do some of them prefer to share?" His mouth curled in a grin that held only a slight trace of innuendo, remembering what the other man had said about likely near futures. "Also, does your Pavilion need storage areas divided off for things other than general function - for craft purposes, for example? I know that some who focus mostly on one thing often have a great deal to store, but then again, those that patchwork together different skill sets may need smaller storage areas, but more of them. It all depends on what your pavilion needs to provide for your Pavilion." He would note the answers down on the slate as they came in, the chalk squeaking gently as he wrote. He also had questions about colour and decoration, but those weren't as urgent as functionality. "If you tell me what you need and want in a pavilion, I can try to design it into the finished article."

Boxcode by Shimoje

by **Azmere** on April 18th, 2017, 1:44 am

Azmere nodded to the woman who had brought forth tea for them to enjoy while discussing the matter at hand. His fingers bent to show thanks but kept his focus on Adon. There were certain people whom the ankal had met which had a bad habit of being overly interested in the property of other men. If you go to see a man about his herd then pay attention to the livestock and its owner –not the daughters or wife. Likewise, if a weaver comes to mend some baskets, he should not be focusing upon the zibri who linger nearby. This was an older way of thinking but it was one that Azmere had been ingrained to accept and now the scarred man knew of no other way to pursue life. It was simple, rigid but polite and these were all things that Azmere fancied himself to be.

The tentmaker had placed some simple questions ahead of his customer and the first answer was a no-brainer. “Stormblood.” Azmere spoke almost hastily in his response. Had his skin the ability to do so, he might have blushed at his apparent lack of manners. He signed an apology often associated with minor misunderstandings. “I guess I never did say.” A chuckle popped out of his mouth but it was brief and solitary. The Pavi signal felt strange and it reminded Azmere of his present task. His left hand went back to smoothing the djed around as he worked it in between his fingers and along the tips. His eyes never fell to the task that his hands were performing, however, and the proud man continued to fill in the gaps of information. A smile bit the right corner of his mouth when the topic of little ones was brought forward.

Azmere had to consider where people would like to sleep but the initial concept was one that the ankal liked. To show his approval, the tanned and weathered hands bent into agreement. “We’re all individuals except Haena and her two children but Tomas is old enough to have his own space.” Azmere did quick math and looked to his host. “I like that things can be changed and moved.” The archer looked out towards the warming day and crossed his hands as he continued to form the shield. He had nearly coated his entire palm and was working the djed into a uniform surface. “We are still young and we have new faces. While we need space for cooking, eating, storage and crafting, I believe you suggestion may make your job much easier.” The watchman gave a look of acceptance to Adon. “As an ankal, I am still learning. Perhaps you should trust your knowledge and I will do the same.” Azmere suddenly realized the statement he had just made and he sat back in the cushions. He sipped at the tea and remained quiet for some time. Even if his host posed another question, the introspective moment had a hold of the scarred Drykas and wasn’t about to let go for several more chimes. With steady sips, the tea would be nearly finished before the patriarch would speak again.

“Forgive me. I get lost in my head sometimes. As a father, I’m sure you understand the weight of making decisions for others.” Azmere bent his hands into several signs to convey respect towards Adon and then addressed the issue he mentioned with confusing, tiresome. Having given the idea some thought prior to showing up at the home of the tent builders, Azmere now added his own questions to the mix. “What sort of storage will we need for transport?” Have wagons. “Will we need special tools?” It had been well over a decade since Azmere had lived in a large pavilion and he never paid attention to their set-up for at that point in his life, he was reckless and apathetic towards the aspect of family.

by **Adon** on April 22nd, 2017, 9:09 pm

Adon accepted the apology with as much discreet courtesy as the other man's focused attention. He had actually heard of Stormblood Pavilion as a Pavilion of waifs and strays, which did indeed fit with the way that the ankal trading with him had described the adoptions. It was in Diamond clan, which meant whites and pale greys on the outermost layer. Perhaps if he blended them well he could create a pattern that resembled a pale storm cloud boiling out of the ground? He made a note of that on his slate, as well as the answers to his other questions.

A smile brought out the creases around his eyes and mouth as the other man said he would trust Adon's skill and knowledge to get the partitions right. It was always good to have skill recognised even if it did put a whole lot more pressure on his own shoulders to get it right. His hands shifted to thank and assure the man that he intended to be worthy of that trust. The ankal seemed to be lost in his thoughts, and Adon took the oportunity to study him again in the knowledge of what his Pavilion was. If he could teach and stitch together a viable Pavilion just from strays and walahks, then he must be a stronger ankal than first met the eye.

"I do indeed know, as a father and as a grandfather, the weight of making decisions for others," he agreed. It was, he reckoned, something like the weight of a pavilion roof pressing outward on the top of the pavilion wall, and if you didn't design it just right, the whole thing twisted, splayed outward, and then collapsed around you. The weight of making something that others would depend on for their lives for the next several years and decades was similar though, and he had lived with that weight all his life.

The other man had questions of his own now though, and Adon listened with attention and did his best to answer. He had to wonder though, had the man never lived in a true pavilion before? Had he been one of those waifs and trays himself? "A pavilion packs down into something easy to fit into a small wagon," he began. "The inside poles fit together in sections, the lattice support around the edge folds together, and the cloth, of course, folds up. You may need something to stand on to reach the smokehole supports, but a crate or sturdy chair works well, I have found, but no other special tools. If they were once that complex to put up and take down," the creases reappeared around his eyes with amusement behind them, "they've been simplified due to years of frustration of having to do it every time a Pavilion moves."

He sipped his own tea, which had cooled off to barely luke-warm in the pause. "I can talk you through putting it up, if you prefer? And there will be decoration, there always is. Do you have a motif, or a preferred theme for the inside or outside, or would you, again, prefer to leave that in my hands? Or would you prefer dividers that you can add your own decorations to? I know that Diamond clan has white tents, but like any other colour, white comes in shades."

Reference image :

Boxcode by Shimoje

by **Azmere** on June 4th, 2017, 12:29 pm

Azmere nodded as he was given instruction for the pavilions breakdown, setup and storage. Flashes of his childhood came back where a small boy helped his father fold up the wall supports and roll up the canvas. This was a happy memory and it was followed immediately b a slightly older boy struggling to set up his tent. There was a set of wounds on his neck and face which was half covered in bandages which revealed mutilated skin. His time in the Moonbow pavilion had not been pleasant. His mother had remarried so that Azmere wouldn’t starve but following the incident that left Azmere scarred for life, he and his mother were sent away. They camped near larger pavilions until Asmodeus returned. The ankal lingered on these thoughts for a while then realized he hadn’t answered Adon’s questions.

The Drykas came back to reality and lifted his far away gaze to his host. Azmere gave a thoughtful look as he debated a theme. The thought had never crossed his mind but then again he was no artist. The scarred man simply shook his head. “I am not talented in that way.” His hands bent into signs to help communicate his point. No knowledge. No preference. Azmere offered a shrug and shifted his weight amongst the cushions. His leg was starting to ache. He set down the tea he’d been given after taken a few final swigs to finish it off. The big man used his hands to help get his feet back underneath his body and slowly forced himself upright. Several times while his body straightened out, a wince crossed his face. Not one to complain, Azmere just rubbed at his upper thigh where the scar tissue had stiffened.

The watchman made a few attempts at stretching his leg by bending it slowly in deliberate motions. This seemed to alleviate some of the tension and so Azmere was able to return to the conversation. He signed one question then began to speak in a voice that was a bit louder than before. He was caught off guard by this and quickly lowered the volume of his deep baritone. “Is it possible to put a flap in the ceiling that’s not in the middle?” He pointed at the top of Adon’s home and made a motion to indicate a square. His contrasting gaze with the multi-colored starbursts went back to meet the softer stare of the older man. “One of my pavilion is an Ethaefal.” The man’s eyes took a different sort of glaze at the mention of Taurina. “Leth is very important to her.” The archer almost felt guilty for making so many demands. He had expected the ten builder to roll his eyes.

by **Adon** on June 13th, 2017, 3:33 pm

T

Adon spoke about the details of putting up and taking down pavilions until he realised that the other man had gone and got distracted again, and then cut himself off with a wince, reaching instead to his teacup. He swirled the liquid gently and watched it rush around the cup in response, little waves climbing the sides. He hoped that he hadn't spoken so long as to bore the ankal, and the customer. He had thought by now he had enough self control not to babble about every tiny detail like a small child who had just discovered something exciting and was intent on spilling it all to the nearest parent. Although, to be fair, the man had said before that he got distracted. Adon sighed, drained his cup to soothe a voice gone dry with talking, and began to mentally try out patterns of white and grey in his head to see if he could work out a version that was both effective for the design he wanted, and within his skills. He rather thought that he could... His fingers itched to try the designs out on a scrap of cloth, and he flexed them instead and then folded them again to knead his leg. Now was not the time, not with a guest to deal with.

When the ankal's gaze finally came back into focus, Adon met it with an outwardly calm face. When the other placed the decoration in his hands as well as the structure, he smiled, though it didn't even come close to the joy of an open canvas for his craft lifting its tent flap to welcome him in. Gratitude. Acceptance "I will see what I can do then."

He saw the first wince as Azmere pushed himself, and set aside his slate and chalk. He unfolded his own legs with slow care for their own stiffness, and drew up his longer leg until he was kneeling on one knee with his shorter leg taking the weight. He flexed his toes inside his boots to be sure that his feet had not gone to sleep under him, then dug his toe into the rugs, braced his hands on his raised knee, and pushed. The move gave him the leverage to get himself up after sitting for so long, and using the longer leg gave him the extra space to get his other foot under his balance point, and he straightened with a wince of his own and a matched pair of cracking sounds from his knees. He kept his direct gaze off the scarred man to give him the courtesy of at least an illusion of privacy, although he caught the other man's winces in the corner of his eye.

Adon stepped back a little to give the other man room to stretch. "One man with a damaged leg to another," he said, a touch of recognition, resignation and wry humour in his voice, blended with experience in his body posture, "I find that small circles loosen the muscle more easily than straight up and down, but then my injuries healed with fewer surface scars." He rolled the hand with its missing fingers palm up, in a way that pulled attention to them, left it there to be grabbed for support if necessary, but in a way that looked almost accidental.

When they were both upright and the other man asked his question, it was Adon's turn to stare sightlessly into the distance while he turned the problem over in his mind. His fingers shifted and flexed wordlessly in the air as he worked his way through the different stresses that such a flap would need to endure. There was the weight stress just from the cloth above and around it, there was wind stress when the stronger breezes tugged at it, there was the pounding of rain and the resulting extra weight stress of the water in soaked fabric. Then there was the more minor stresses of being hauled up and round into place and down again every handful of days. At last he shook his head. "If there is a way to put such flap in and have the pavilion remain strong, I don't know it. The central one survives because the weight pulling on it is evenly distributed around the whole edge, but one on the side would tear easily from the lopsided weight." He studied the structure of the pavilion where walls and roof met and an idea sparked. "I have a thought though. Come and I will show you." He led the way outside and round to the side of the pavilion, and touched the overhanging cloth. "The roof isn't held down by anything except its own weight. And there are people who kilt up the bottom of the wall, or fold back a corner of the roof to let air flow through in hot weather. If your - Ethaefel - chooses to fold back a little corner of roof, well, where air flows through, so does light, does it not?"

Boxcode by Shimoje

by **Rufio** on August 29th, 2017, 9:17 am

G R A D E

A Z M E R E

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A D O N

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notes - This was great; the momentum in the dialogue between the two characters made this an interesting conversation to read!

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