Stars dotted half the sky. They dotted the other half, too - hundreds of warm lit windows speckling the rising silhouette of the Core Spire. A vast shadow full of both mystery and life.
Sometimes Orym let himself feel small.
It was a ritual of his. Different from other feelings. He’d sit back and try to let the enormity of the world overwhelm him. Not too difficult for a strange and bustling place like Jrusar, but he also prided himself on his keen sense of perception, and stepping back from it all, even for a moment? Really getting lost? Well, it required a sort of meditative ritual. And he’d found that to be true no matter where he was.
It wasn’t anything so negative as feeling insignificant. When Fearne had collapsed in the house during battle, and there was nothing he could do but watch and hope Dorian or the robot could get there in time. That was a kind of smallness that hurt, that took its own power and made Orym feel tight and anxious and awful.
But there she was, tall as the spires themselves and cheering madly as Dorian played again for the Spire by Fire crowd.
Orym sipped his drink and leaned back against the cool window, tapping restless fingers.
They all ought to have been sleeping. But a fight takes sharp hold of your nerves and leaves you with too much energy for rest. So as night grew, they all sought to wring out those last drops of buzz down in the inn’s bar.
A couple of the new folk, Laudna and Ashton, were seated across from him. Their conversation was all about becoming squatters in the Dugger house - Ashton scheming ways to keep the law off their backs, and the scary lady excitedly motioning about interior design.
It was interesting chatter, but Orym was trying to tune it out. Ritual and all. Plus thinking about a home made him think of home.
It was tricky, when it came to Zephrah and the Ashari. When it came to family. He couldn’t feel small. Responsibility loomed. Same too with Key’leth, and any thought of important missions and finding people. And it was important, truly - being a trusted servant of the Ashari was a big deal - but it tended to overwhelm in a completely different way. The only way to relax was to wash those thoughts away, not to sprint towards them.
An annoyed glance from Ashton let Orym realize his nervous finger tapping had maybe gotten a bit too loud. He crossed his arms instead, and stared out the window.
Spires. Honestly, they reminded him of Zephrah a little bit, although much more humid and much more populated. Industrialized. He wouldn’t have liked to see the smokestacks of the Smoulder Spire sprouting from the spring-lit crags of his youth.
But in the darkness of the night, tall shadows cast against the stars, he could keep his eyes half closed and almost get lost, almost pretend that he didn’t know exactly where he was.