Osytha

Osytha

Knight Sworn of Dusk
Weaver
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Rustic hospitality comes to aid a weary soul or two
Slice of life featuring Momoshiro Komori and Syr Osytha​


It’s a fine, autumn morning, by Osytha’s standards.

The clear and cold sky feels like you could fall right into it if you stared long enough. She sees the Wayfarer there, visibly creeping along — goading travellers like her to race it to the finish line. Well, the moon can win this one. She’s in no great hurry today; Osytha is much more content to plod along on Forbítter, breathing deep of that crisp air cut through with hint of smoke, and watch the quilt of pastures, fields, and coppices roll by, stitched together with threads of drystone wall.

An inquisitive cow walks up to the edge of one now and sticks her big wet nose out over the road. Bit of a maverick, aren’t you, Osytha reckons, noting where the rest of the herd stands wary and watchful a short way back. She brings her courser up alongside and lets the beast have a good, soggy sniff of her hand… at which point something stirs at her back, letting out an excited little whine. She glances down there; Guffs, her tiny mongrel dog, has roused from his nap in the basket behind her saddle, and is very excited at this development. Hasn’t tried to escape his blanket, though, which wobbles back and forth with every wild wag of the tail beneath. The cow notes this new, interesting thing, and the two beasts’ noses start sussing each other out. Then Guffs starts taking a few licks.

Osytha laughs. “Gross.”

Their bovine buddy doesn’t seem to mind, though. Osytha lets those two get to know each other a bit longer… but the road is calling, and then they’re bidding each other adieu. Forbítter’s hooves start thumping into the earth once more, and they’re back underway.

It’s a bit of a detour, this path from Cloud’s Keep to Astenvale Monastery. But it’s the one that goes through Hræfn Leah, and Osytha always tries to swing by home when she’s in the area. Especially with winter closing in, now. Her next chance to see them all might only come once the worst of the weather clears up.

She hears the voices ahead of her before their owners come into view. The road bends round a dense hazel coppice, and then there they are: three folk gathered by a lopsided cart while a sturdy draft horse stands patiently at the fore. That’s Eldræd there, if she’s not mistaken, and his boy, Cuthbert. Judging by that packed cart, they were headed back the way she’s just come, taking some of the harvest into town. And judging by the lean on that thing, they might now have a broken axle or stuck wheel.

She doesn’t recognise the third figure by the cart, though. They’re not dressed like anyone from Hræfn Leah. No, that’s some form Aetochi garb, right? She’s seen enough of it around White Port to know that much, though, admittedly, that’s about as far as her knowledge on the matter goes. If only she’d spent more time studying that land, rather than the violently ambitious one which lay south of the Free Cities…

Why would someone from Aetochi come all the way out to the sticks here?

Osytha dismounts as she draws a little nearer; speaking down at people from horseback isn’t really her style. That’s more the condescending habit of Altalusia’s lords and ladies, and it makes Osytha feel all icky. She helps Guffy down, too, and her boy does a big, long stretch to wake himself up. Then she takes Forbítter’s reins and approaches this little gathering, with Guffs trotting and snuffling beside her — well away from underfoot of the big grey courser, just as she’s so very carefully trained him to do. A little closer, and Osytha picks out some more details. Those aren’t just flowing white locks on the man’s head — those are a pair fluffy ears, too. And, yep, that’s a tail further down. Canid, or… vulpid, traits?

Osytha sheds her cloak and lays it over the back of Forbítter. Spear, bow, and armour are all slung from the horse’s packs, so she’s clad in just her black gambeson, warm wool hosen — one woad, one burgundy — and a pair of stout, well-travelled shoes, with sword at her hip and daggers on their belts. Once she draws close enough, she calls out to hail them in a clear voice.

“Ƿesað ġē hāle! / Hello!” Woman gives a friendly little nod before switching from habitual Altalusian over to the common trade tongue. “That cart just stuck, or do I need to fetch Bealdhild to fix it for you?”
 
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“...That one looks like skewered pork… and that one—definitely a pile of udon noodles.”

His stomach answered with a low, unimpressed groan as Momo lay sprawled across the hillside, staring up at the slow drift of clouds overhead. A breeze rolled through the valley, stirring the trees in a soft rustle before sweeping across the field. It bent the young sprouts, teased the bushes into motion, and finally reached him—tugging at his hair, brushing against his skin.

His ears twitched, then perked upright again as the wind passed. He closed his eyes and smiled, a single fang catching the sunlight.

Peaceful.

For a moment, anyway.

Something shifted above.

At first glance, it might’ve been nothing more than a trick of light—an iridescent ribbon weaving through the clouds. But Momo knew better. A shadow crossed his face, and his eyes opened, sharpening.

“There you are.”

He pushed himself upright, running a hand through his hair as he scanned the open fields below. The calm still lingered, but it wouldn’t last.

“Time to get to work.”

He exhaled slowly, the weight of responsibility settling back onto his shoulders.


The fight was brief—but far from easy.

The Raakgui they had taken to calling the “Rainbow Dragon” was unlike most he’d encountered. Its hide was incredibly dense, resisting blow after blow, and its presence alone had poisoned the land around it. Crops had begun to fail. Animals grew restless. People carried an edge of unease they couldn’t explain.

Even the air had felt wrong.

Now, that feeling was lifting.

Momo stood alone in the aftermath, the once-serene field scarred with the marks of their battle. The earth was torn, the grass crushed and blackened in places—but the oppressive weight that had hung over the land was gone.

In his hand hovered a glowing sphere, swirling with shifting, oil-like colors—reds, blues, golds blending together in a hypnotic dance. The last remnant of the spirit.

He glanced around, taking in the damage with a quiet sigh.

It had to be done.

Another breeze swept through, stronger this time, tugging at his robes and hair, his tail swaying behind him. His crimson eyes lingered on the orb for a moment longer before he lifted it to his mouth and swallowed it whole.

A pause.

Then a grimace.

That never got easier.

The taste hit him instantly—sharp, bitter, something far worse than anything his imagination could conjure. His stomach churned in protest.

This was not the meal it had hoped for.

Not even close.


An hour later, Momo found himself walking along a winding dirt road. It curved naturally with the land rather than cutting straight through it—a small detail, but one he appreciated. It reminded him of home. Mountain paths. Forest trails. Places that followed the shape of the world instead of forcing it to change.

A faint smile touched his lips.

Then—sound.

His ears twitched, alert.

Up ahead, a cart sat awkwardly tilted in a ditch, one wheel sunken where the road had given way to hidden stones. A man and a boy stood nearby, clearly unsure what to do next. Their horse had been unhitched and waited off to the side, calm despite the situation. He made a mental note to pet it later.

Momo waved as he approached. They waved back.

He stopped beside them, hands on his hips as all three of them regarded the cart in silence for a moment.

Then, under his breath, he muttered something in Aetochan before glancing at the older man with a grin.

“I don’t think you can park there.”

The man raised a brow, unimpressed.

Momo held the smile, about to clarify the joke when movement caught his eye. Someone else was approaching from the opposite direction. As she drew closer and dismounted, he noticed the streak of white in her dark hair—and then the dog at her side.

His tail gave an eager wag of its own.

She greeted them. He didn’t catch all of it, but enough.

“Good day,” he replied with a polite nod. “I’m hoping just stuck, yes?”

He glanced between the man and the boy, then crouched down and gave a soft whistle toward the dog, holding out a hand in invitation.

“Hey there lil one… come 're.”
 
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Momo’s answer from the dog is an immediate uptick in the beating of that tail, but, as excited as he seems, Guffy stays by Osytha’s feet and looks up at her for permission first. The knight smiles back down at him.

“Ġefriólíc,” she says — and he’s off like a shot.

The small beast is built low and wide with broad chest atop stumpy little legs. That pointy black face, though, looks almost Alsatian-like. He has tall ears, the right standing up fully straight, the left, still floppy and wobbling at the tip. The points of his feet and tail are dark as his face, while the rest of his coat is brindle, save for a white patch down that barrel chest.

Guffers bounds up to Momo, his curly tail wagging like mad, and begins to snuffle and lick away at the fox-kin’s digits. Should a hand also move to give him pats or scritches, the little dog will immediately flop onto his back, wriggling down there against one’s knees or feet and with his tongue lolling out.

“He likes belly rubs,” Osytha mentions, guiding Forbítter to the side of the road. She’s still smiling, the adoration in her face writ large as she gazes down at her little muppet worming around in the dirt. “Rubs or scratches. And on the head, too. And between the shoulders. And… well, anywhere, really. So long as he’s getting attention, he’s happy.”

Her eyes rove up for a moment to take a closer look at this fellow. Hard to tell, crouched like that, but he’d seemed the tall sort from a distance. ‘Lithe’, as some would say, though folk round here are more apt to use ‘renky’. ‘Not enough meat on those bones’ is how yet others might put it. And he’s looking a little peaky there, Osytha reckons. Could be worn out, could be hungry, could be ill. Could be a few things all at the same time… which in turn could mean in need of a bit of a hand.

With Forbítter safely stationed out of the way, she walks on up to the other two people. Eldræd looks a bit… uncomfortable. They’d grown up together in Hræfn Leah, and as a boy, he hadn’t been shy about joining in on the minor cruelties which are perfectly fine to level at a bastard child like her. Now she’s a Knight, and it’s impossible to deny that the power dynamic has shifted some. It’s a bit strange, to Osytha — even if she did have any interest in pursuing petty revenge against the man, which she doesn’t, abusing her powers like that would go so far against everything her order stands for that the repercussions simply wouldn’t make it worthwhile, not in the least. She knows that, Eldræd knows that, everyone and their dog knows that. But even so, the man is always just a tad nervous around her these days.

Young Cuthbert on the other hand is generally just impressed by the presence of a Knight, even one as short as her. He’s at that age, Osytha supposes. She remembers it well.

“Syr Osytha,” Eldræd greets her, carefully. His dark eyes hold to her for a moment before sliding back over to the stricken wheel. “But stuck, thank t’Toils. ’Tis reight in there, mind thee. If’n we yark et, then Ah reckon we shall ’ave summat brokken ’pon us ’ands.”

Woman sighs. “No ‘syr’. ’S that odd to ’ear tha say’st et—” Osytha stops, and pinches the bridge of her nose. She’s been talking with the man for all of five seconds, and already her tongue’s slipping back into dialect. She lowers her hand and continues on, giving Cuthbert a friendly little nod as she goes. “Ey up, nabbins. Let’s ’ave ussen a gander, then…”

They gather around the afflicted wheel. Seems as though an autumnal cycle of rain and frost has undermined the road’s integrity some, and a chunk of limestone which had been masking that damage has now tipped under the cart’s weight, leaving one of its wheels deep inside a divot in the packed earth about it.

“Stone’s wedgin’ et in, reckon?” Eldræd posits.

“Belike,” concurs Osytha.

“’Ell’s bells,” mutters the other man. He stands and stretches out his sturdy back, brow furrowed in annoyance all the while. “Et mun be dug aht. Enow to shift tha’ stone, anyroad. Least Ah came fit — Ah’ve some tewils aback a’ t’cart ’ere. Road’s allus tricky this tahm a’ year…”
 
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Momo’s smile widened the moment he saw the little dog’s tail take off like a wind-whipped banner. His own tail picked up speed too, swaying eagerly behind him as he crouched lower and tapped his fingertips lightly against the ground in invitation.

But the dog didn’t move. Not yet.

Instead, it stayed exactly where it was, body practically vibrating with excitement, while still obediently waiting for its master’s permission. Momo arched a brow, clearly impressed by that level of restraint.

“Well trained,” he murmured.

His gaze flicked up to the woman just in time to catch her subtle approval, and that was all the little creature needed. In a blur of fur and enthusiasm, the dog launched toward him.

Momo barely had time to laugh before the pup was there. His hands immediately went to work—scritching behind floppy ears, rubbing under its chin, running along its back, and generally finding every possible spot that might maximize tail speed. The dog seemed thrilled beyond reason, practically melting beneath the attention.

Soon enough, it flopped dramatically onto its back, paws curled and belly exposed in complete surrender.

Momo accepted this sacred responsibility with due seriousness.

“So long as he’s getting attention, he’s happy.”

Momo looked up briefly at the woman, then back down at the wriggling pup beneath his hands. Leaning in just slightly, he lowered his voice into a playful whisper.

“Me too, my fine furry friend… me too.”

His crimson eyes softened into warm slits, his smile bright and unguarded as he continued the belly rubs. For a few precious moments, the world became very simple—wagging tails, soft fur, and uncomplicated joy.

The pup reminded him of the dogs back home.

His clan’s dogs had been much the same—loyal, affectionate, and impeccably trained. Of course, under his father’s watchful eye, they had little choice. The man had been as strict with animals as he was with his children, his students, and frankly, the world itself.

The thought caused Momo’s smile to falter, just slightly.

Memories had a way of doing that.

He blinked and grounded himself, returning his focus to the present as the conversation around him continued. Somewhere in it, he caught the woman’s name.

Osytha.

He rolled it around in his mind for a moment, chewing on the sound of it while giving the dog a few final, expert belly rubs. At last, he offered the pup one last affectionate pat and began to stand.

His legs wobbled.

Only slightly—but enough.

Momo caught himself quickly, straightened, and pretended that absolutely nothing had happened. Hunger, however, was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

With a subtle shake of his head and a few blinks to clear the haze, he stepped over to properly join the others. The local dialect was… dense. Rough around the edges in a way that left him raising a brow more than once as he worked through unfamiliar turns of phrase.

Still, he listened.

And observed.

The woman—Osytha—was clearly someone of note. A knight and someone these people trusted. His gaze drifted once more to the white streak in her dark hair, curiosity tugging at him.

Distinctive.

Then, before he could help it, his attention shifted to her eyes.

Blue-gray.

Cool, striking, and unexpectedly captivating in the shifting light.

Momo’s head tilted unconsciously as he watched.

…Oh.

He abruptly redirected his attention elsewhere with all the subtlety of someone absolutely trying not to look like they’d been staring. The cart. The horse. The road. That rock over there? Fascinating rock.

“Road’s allus tricky this tahm a’ year…”

That accent alone nearly pulled his attention right back.

Momo smiled despite himself and raised a hand politely.

“I could probably get the cart righted for you,” he said thoughtfully, his tone casual, “but first…”

He held up one finger, expression suddenly grave with theatrical importance.

“A very important question.”

He paused just long enough for it to feel deliberate, then thumbed toward the dog.

“What’s the pup’s name?”
 
Three sets of eyes turn to the dog. Guffers is oblivious, having found something terribly interesting about Momo’s feet. That little wet nose is right in there, circling and snuffling around the soles of those sandals. Probably learning all about what kind of path this man took to reach them here today. And what a story it must be at that, judging by how hard his snout is going. How nice. It always brings a smile to Osytha’s face to see her boy making new friends.

“That little taistrel is Guffy,” she replies, springing up from her crouch. Then she gestures at the other two. “This here’s Eldræd. Family grows the best ’taters this side of White Port. And that’s his lad, Cuthbert.”

The sturdy farmer spares Momo a nod. “’Ow do,” he says, before turning his back to have a fossick about behind the cart’s piles of bulging hessian sacks. The clink and clank of tools is underscored by some unintelligible muttering.

Osytha rests her hands on her hips and scans about, going from the farmers, to Guffy, and back to Momo. Makes no bones about giving him a proper once-over; no need felt there to pretend she were only looking at any ‘fancy rocks’ over yonder instead. She notes that blade she’d seen at his side — it’s an unfamiliar kind to her. No distinct pommel, no quillions. Curious. Smile’s pretty curious, too, what with it being a tad on the pointy end. And, one more striking feature there: red irises. Some might liken the colour to blood, but that’s not Osytha’s first thought.

More like… pheasant’s-eye, happen, or poppy, she considers. That brilliant red you see dancing in the fields on sunny days.

“And I’m Osytha,” she concludes. Gives him a lopsided smile of her own. “Though, you might have caught that part already. As for helping with the cart…”

She cocks her head slightly and, once again, appraises the fox-kin like he’s a horse she’s considering adding to the Monastery’s stables. Her attention had still been on the wheel when Momo went to stand up, so she’d quite missed that wobbly moment — otherwise she wouldn’t have a bar of it. But Osytha can nonetheless tell the fellow’s not in peak condition, and isn’t entirely sold on the deal.

“… are you sure? Probably be a bit crowded with the four of us. Though, I could use someone to keep Guffers occupied, make sure he don’t get underfoot while Cuthbert and I unload the cart some. ”

That’s a blatant lie. Osytha could easily keep him out the way with a command, and besides, he’s already been trained to mind where the Big Folk tread. If he wasn’t, she’d probably have had to scrape the poor boy out of Forbítter’s hooves a long time ago. Still… it’s an out, if Momo wants to take it.

“’Course, he’ll be wantin’ to know what to call you. What’s your name, pet?”

She doesn’t think about it until the words are out. She’d just found herself back home, hearing t’awd Hræfn Leah, and it had all started coming back without her even realising; the accent, the dialect bordering on a cant… and the friendly monikers. ‘Luv’ is a staple, and generally well-received. ‘Flower’ is another classic, as is ‘petal’. ‘Duck’, and ‘hen’ — a touch more quaint but all the more charming for it, in Osytha’s opinion, though Momo doesn’t seem to qualify for the latter.

On the whole, though, it’s probably a bit of a faux pas to call a beastkin you barely know ‘pet’.

Oh. Fuck.

Not many people have seen Osytha blush. Most wouldn’t think she’s even capable of it. But she can, and when she does, it comes on like a vengeance; a bright red glow across the face, and heat enough that one could stick a kettle on her head, sit back, and wait for it to whistle. It’s one of those things she’s inherited from her mother.

Momo gets to see it now, the colour of contrite, unadulterated shame rising in her cheeks. “I-I’m sorry! It’s not— I didn’t mean it like—!”

She hears Eldræd snort, and Osytha glares at the ground. She’s faced remorseless killers, bodies who’d cut another down just to take the boots off their feet. She’s faced Blighted monstrosities, things you couldn’t imagine even in your nightmares. She’s faced all that and more, and never shirked from it. But, right now, she cannot face looking Momo in the eye.

“… er. Sorry…”
 
“...Er. Sorry...”

For a moment, Momo simply stared at her.

He blinked once. Then twice.

And just like that, the brief pause gave way to the return of that familiar warmth—his easy smile flowing back into place as though it had never left. One of his white fox ears twitched, betraying his amusement, and his tail swayed lazily behind him as he stepped closer.

As he passed, he gave her shoulder a gentle, reassuring pat.

“Quite alright,” he said lightly, rounding toward the cart. “I’m sure you meant no offense.”

Then he glanced back over his shoulder, his voice lowering just enough to make the next part feel conspiratorial.

“Besides... not entirely untrue.”

A beat.

“I also like my belly rubbed.”

For the briefest moment, that warm smile sharpened into something more playful—a grin edged with fang—before he turned back to the matter at hand.

Truthfully, while Momo often got flustered when flirtation was aimed directly at him, that did not stop him from occasionally tossing a little right back when the opportunity presented itself. It was, perhaps, a classic case of not being nearly as capable of receiving what one so confidently gave.

But hypocrisy, after all, was hardly a rare trait.

A breeze stirred through the trees lining the roadside, rustling leaves overhead and brushing softly through his hair. Crimson eyes swept over the tilted cart, the two men tending to it, and then their horse. From there, his attention drifted toward Osytha’s steed before dropping to Guffers below.

The pup earned a brief, exaggerated little face from him—something between a grin and a silent promise of future scritches—before Momo’s focus returned fully to the problem.

His fang caught lightly at the corner of his lip as he thought.

Physically lifting the cart himself wasn’t impossible… but there was a more efficient way. A summoning would make short work of this.

Though…

His gaze flicked once more to the animals.

That was the risk.

Some spirits, even controlled ones, had a tendency to upset creatures with better instincts than people.

Still… he had one in mind that should do nicely.

“Yes,” he said at last, nodding to himself as his hands settled confidently on his hips. “I believe I can help.”

The grin returned, bright and self-assured.

“Yes indeed.”

He gestured toward the men preparing to unload the cargo and then nodded toward their horse.

“Would you both humor me and secure that one?”

Then, because he apparently lacked all survival instincts when it came to curiosity, he glanced back over his shoulder at Osytha—perhaps just a little too interested in her reaction after his earlier remark.

“Miss, if you could do the same? And don’t forget the little guy down there.”

He pointed toward Guffers before turning back toward the cart, posture straightening.

It had only been about an hour since his battle with the Rainbow Dragon.

He should be fine.

Probably.

Definitely.

His stomach growled so loudly it almost sounded offended by the idea. Momo ignored it with the kind of determination only pride and poor decision-making could produce. He had, after all, a pretty girl to impress.

That counted for something.

He gave the others a moment to secure the animals, then slowly extended one hand before him. His crimson eyes narrowed in concentration as black and violet energy began to spiral outward from his palm, gathering like smoke caught in reverse.

The air shifted. Wind stirred around him, tugging at his robes and sweeping through his long white hair. He focused harder. A bead of sweat slipped down his temple.

For those capable of seeing such things, the swirling energy began to take shape. A massive arm emerged first, stretching outward from the dark vortex as though reaching through a portal from somewhere far beyond. Muscled. Enormous.

Then—

Something went wrong.

Momo’s expression faltered.

The arm twisted unnaturally.

Not a natural bend. Not a controlled movement.

It writhed.

Contorted.

Like something powerful being violently wrung out.

His breath caught.

The wind sharpened suddenly, whipping his robes, tail, and hair into disarray. More sweat rolled down the side of his face as his legs threatened to buckle beneath him.

No…

No, no, no—

His muscles locked, straining as he tried to hold the summoning together.

Then, in an instant—

Everything vanished.

The energy.

The arm.

The wind.

Gone.

Momo dropped hard to one knee, gasping, his breath ragged as dizziness slammed into him all at once. His vision swam. He grimaced, forcing himself upward through sheer stubbornness.

He opened his mouth, likely to reassure them all that everything was perfectly under control—

And promptly failed.

His eyes rolled back.

Then the foxkin crumpled face-first into the dirt, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
 
“I also like my belly rubbed.”​

That… Osytha doesn’t know how to deal with that. She can barely deal with what she just blurted out. Woman just gawps at Momo for a second before turning her still-reddened face aside. She’s not quite ready to deliberately look him in the eye, not yet.

Mercifully, there’s a reight curious rock over yonder to fix her gaze upon instead.

She clears her throat a bit awkwardly. “Well, that’s— that’s mighty gracious of you. Even so… um. I’m sorry.”

At least it seems Osytha hasn’t put her foot in it so badly as to cause the fellow to rescind his offer of aid. Instead, they’re instructed to keep a rein on their beasts as he sees to the task himself. Eldræd looks to Osytha, who just shrugs. The burly farmer’s mouth skews in scepticism, but he nods at his lad and the two of them go stand by the big old percheron. Osytha, too, calls Guffy aside and stations him safely out the way, then takes up Forbítter’s reins in one hand while she cradles his big, beautiful head comfortingly with the other.

And they wait.

Osytha figures they’re in for a spot of weaving. Hard to imagine what else it could be. Not that Momo looks physically weak, just, she doubts the fox-kin has it in him to show up a monster like Eldræd’s horse Mynne over there; beast stands more than seventeen hands tall and weighs in at near four-score tod of working muscle. Likely there’s not a lever in the world long enough that would let Momo do what that behemoth couldn’t.

How it manifests, though…

Osytha’s first reaction is alarm. She recognises something almost like a curse in its taste, and the animals sense it too. It’s a crucial moment’s work to keep Forbítter calm and under her control, and it speaks to Eldræd and Cuthbert’s credit that they keep a handle on Mynne. The dusker in her almost has Syr Osytha bringing hand down to her sword — but she stays it a moment longer. Not before the man has even had a chance to prove his intent.

Besides, his smile had been too gentle, too warm. And he and Guffers had taken to one other so quickly.

Then she sees it: the way he weaves. And that is new. Momo’s warp and weft are not of a style she’s before seen with her own eyes. Were it not for the training of her Sanctum, likely she’d not be able to make it out at all. Even with all that conditioning, the mighty arm which stretches forth appears as more an image in the mind than something she truly sees with mortal eyes. But, see it she does.

So she can see when it all goes wrong.

She watches, horrified, as whatever leash the fox-kin has around that unkerd limb falters. One look at Momo’s face tells her that this is not how things were meant to go. Nor, that they’re about to get any better.

“Go!” Osytha yells to Eldræd atop the racing wind, and hunkers down into a schwertkämpferin’s low stance. Steel is drawn after all, steel and solvent spell; an ampule poised to breach against blade’s edge so’s it might cut more than merely flesh.

Maybe Osytha can’t weave. But she’d be a fool if she didn’t at least keep a pair of scissors handy.

Eldræd almost don’t need telling twice — father hauls son up onto Minne’s back and sends the horse off with a sturdy slap against its flank, and a cry of “Hyup!” for good measure. But he doesn’t follow. Daft ’a’peth holds his ground and looks to Osytha, as though he might actually be of any help against a dwymor such as this.

She glares at him. “Go!” she screams again. “Lest that boy grow up wi’out a father—!”

And then, it stops.

Just like that.

Wind drops, spectre vaporises, vortex sputters out. Knight and farmer watch in frozen tableaux as exorcist teeters, trips — topples to a knee. And, for a moment, he seems like he might hold it there. Right before the dance departs those red fields. That’s when he falls flat on his face — thwack. Then all truly is still.

For a second or two.

“Well,” Osytha says. She straightens up. “Right you are, then.”

She and Eldræd start moving — Osytha sheathing her blade as she strolls over to Momo, while the other lumbers languidly around the back of his cart. He gives the prone fellow an unimpressed look, before sweeping that gaze over to his mired conveyance. He plants a dusty boot against its back and gives it a push. Thing barely even wobbles. Eldræd tuts at that.

“Din’t work,” he remarks.

Osytha, meanwhile, has crouched down to roll Momo over. She takes in his pallor and the rivulets of sweat now caked with grime. When her hand feels the clamminess at his forehead, she frowns.

“Shroudlashed,” she mutters, and sighs. “And that’s the least of it, I’ll wager. Alright.” Her voice picks up, enough to catch Eldræd. “Help me move the silly bugger. Then, let’s get you and young Cuthbert on your way…”


* * *​


When the waking world calls Momo back, there are a few things which become apparent before others.

He’s on his side. Lying down. But, if he’s on the ground, it’s softer than one might expect. Warmer, too. Some of that’s probably due to the bedroll someone’s laid out under him, and the blanket draped atop. There’s also a hot, dense little brick against his chest, which helps. Said ‘brick’ lies curled atop the blanket, and if Momo looks down at it, he’ll see two big brown eyes staring back his way, and a curly tail behind it just starting to whip itself back and forth.

“Ey up.” Someone else has noticed he’s coming round. Osytha walks into view and plants herself down before him, hands full with a small cloth parcel and waterskin. She proffers them forward. “Sit yersen up and have a sip. Then a bite to eat, then another sip. It’s traveller’s fare, I’m afraid, so you’ll want that second draught to help it down.”

They’re on the grassy side of the road, and there’s no sign of Eldræd nor his cart. Sun’s still strong, though, so it’s unlikely to have been that long.

“Eldræd gave us a few taters for our trouble, an’ all,” Osytha says, grinning wryly. “Figured we can have them for our tea. Say what you like about the man, but he can’t abide to see a body starved.

“How do you feel?”
 
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“How do you feel?”

Momo answered not with words at first, but by gently pressing his forehead to Guffy’s. The little dog immediately went to work, licking enthusiastically at his cheek and chin as though sheer affection alone might piece him back together. Despite the pain radiating through his body, Momo couldn’t help the tired smile that touched his lips.

Trying to sit up proved more difficult.

Every muscle protested. His body felt bruised from the inside out, sore in ways that made even breathing seem like effort. A quiet groan slipped free as his white ears pinned back into the long curtain of his hair, nearly vanishing beneath it. Still, he pushed through the discomfort enough to accept the parcel and drink she offered, bowing his head as much as his condition allowed in quiet gratitude.

“Foolish…”

The word came out low and bitter, aimed squarely at himself.

He had wanted to help. To be useful. Instead, he’d become the burden.

~Why did you even try? You always disappoint them.~

The thought slithered through his mind in that familiar voice, cold and cruel. Momo’s gaze dropped instantly, his hand tightening into a fist as the darkness in his thoughts began to stir. He could feel it rising again—that oppressive shadow, creeping through the fractures in his confidence, curling tighter and tighter.

Its laughter echoed.

His lip trembled. His teeth clenched.

Then Guffy, blissfully unaware of inner demons, rolled onto his side and shoved himself against Momo with determined affection.

The foxkin blinked.

Just like that, the spiral loosened. The shadow withdrew, if only by a step.

Momo exhaled shakily, some of the tension leaving him as his fingers absentmindedly found Guffy’s fur. After a long pause, his ruby eyes finally lifted to meet hers again. His smile returned, though faint and clearly forced at first.

“I’m sorry to have troubled you… and it’s Momoshiro. Momoshiro Komori…” He hesitated, then softened. “But you can call me Momo.”

He raised the waterskin and took a long drink, only for a bit to escape down his chin and splatter directly onto Guffy’s forehead.

The pup gave an offended little huff, shook dramatically, then immediately settled back against him as though nothing had happened.

Despite himself, Momo let out a small, genuine laugh.

He set the waterskin and food parcel down beside him, though notably made no move for the food itself. Hunger and appetite, it seemed, were not always the same thing.

“Thank you… truly. For tending to me.”

This time, his smile held more warmth—less obligation, more sincerity. The kind that reached his eyes, even through the exhaustion.

“Quite the first meeting, eh?”

A soft, awkward chuckle followed as he rubbed the back of his head, equal parts embarrassed and amused by the sheer disaster of his own attempted heroics. For someone who had wanted to make a good impression, collapsing face-first into the dirt had certainly been… memorable.
 
Muted blue eyes regard Momo, patiently, giving him all the time he needs to gather himself. Osytha has never herself had to experience the special kind of hell which shroudlash seems to visit on a body, so she can’t truly imagine what he must be feeling right now. At least it seems her boy’s helping distract from that a bit. Also a good sign that the man’s able to sit up without her assistance — barely — even if he doesn’t look much better for it.

That sea-and-squall gaze stays attentive to the quiver in his lip. To the way he tenses up. Like if he don’t hold tight, tight as he possibly can, it’ll all fall apart. Osytha can’t imagine what’s going through his mind, either, can but guess he’s plagued by more than mere agony. It makes her wonder, then, how lonely it must be; to feel such things so faraway from home, where you mightn’t know even a single soul.

Her voice comes out gentle, when she sees that. “Hey, now…”

But, today is not the day that Komori Momoshiro breaks apart.

That easy, warming smile is slowly coming back. It brings a little one of Osytha’s own to bear. So, she continues to wait, letting him get to things at his own pace; say anything he feels he wants to say. Means she gets his name, finally, which is a relief. Beats having to call him ‘pet’ again.

“Quite the first meeting, eh?”​

Osytha considers this. Nods, slowly. “Aye, well, maybe so.” Then her smile turns sheepish. “Reckon I still stepped in it worse’n you did. For what it’s worth.”

‘Momoshiro Komori’… said in staccato syllables, crisp and clear in every way t’drawl ’rowund these ’eyurr pahts jus’ en’t. She glances aside while turning it over in her head a few times, checking what she’d heard from every angle. Can even see her lips twitch as she tries to get a feel for the whole of it. Fascinating, how the same sound is a little bit different everywhere you go. Each new tongue she learns seems to reveal a bit of the world she’d never been able to hear before then. ‘Momoshiro Komori’. Wonder what ‘Osytha’ sounds like to him?

“You are most welcome, Momo.” Perhaps she can start with that and work her way up to full thing. “And you aren’t causing me any trouble, either. You just take as long as you feel like, there. I’m in no rush to be any place, so it’s no bother to me. Nor Guffers, seems like.”

As if to drive the point home, Osytha scooches round and lies herself flat on the grass alongside Momo. She tucks her hands under the back of her head and stares up at the fathomless pale sky above, much as he himself had been doing not so long ago. The blue up there seems lighter, more leeched, than what she’d beheld from atop Forbítter earlier that day, in a way that strains the eyes ever so slightly. So she just closes them instead.

“Quite a beastie you’ve got leashed, there,” she remarks, soaking up that waning autumn sun. “I’ve met my share of spirits, but never seen someone bend one to their will before now. Only really heard about it.”
 
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The sky had mostly cleared by now, leaving only a scattering of white and gray clouds drifting lazily overhead. They moved without urgency, soft and unbothered, their shadows gliding over rolling hills, grassy fields, and the old drystone walls that stitched the land together. When one particularly broad cloud wandered above them, it cast the road in a welcome patch of shade.

Momo glanced up, following its slow journey across the blue.

He wondered what that kind of freedom must feel like—to drift without weight, without obligation. No burdens tugging at your heels. No anxiety gnawing at your thoughts. Just movement, effortless and unbound.

A quiet, content sigh slipped from him before his gaze returned to the world around him. The winding road, the rustling trees, the hills swaying gently beneath the breeze—it was peaceful in a way that reached deep inside him. Grounding. Out here, away from noise and crowds and expectation, it was easier to breathe.

Her attempt at his name earned a warm chuckle from him, and naturally, he couldn’t resist a little teasing.

“Tadashī hatsuon o mi ni tsukeru ni wa, sukoshi jikan ga kakarimasu.”

He cast her a sideways smirk, letting the unfamiliar Aetochan linger just long enough to be thoroughly unhelpful before his grin softened into something more playful.

“It’s not the worst pronunciation of my name I’ve ever heard.”

He looked thoroughly pleased with himself—right up until she simply called him Momo.

The reaction was immediate and deeply inconvenient.

He stilled.

Something strange and light traced up the back of his neck, like a feather-soft touch or the ghost of a breath. Before he fully realized what he was doing, he’d caught his lower lip between his teeth. His ears twitched. Heat crept into his cheeks.

So, naturally, he looked away as though the horizon had suddenly become fascinating.

Her reassurance, gentle and easy, did not help matters.

Instead, Momo latched desperately onto the next available distraction—Guffers.

He leaned over slightly and gave the pup a generous series of scritches around the ears, grateful for the excuse to focus on literally anything else.

As she settled beside him in the grass, relaxed enough to simply lie there with her eyes closed, his ruby gaze drifted back to her despite himself. He watched quietly for a moment, curiosity stirring.

She seemed comfortable.

Comfortable with him.

The thought settled somewhere warm in his chest. He couldn’t help but wonder if that ease was simply her nature, or if—perhaps selfishly—it was something about him specifically. He hoped it was the latter. He liked making others feel safe. Perhaps because he knew all too well what it was like to live with the opposite—with unrest, with shadows, with the exhausting weight of one’s own mind.

When she asked about his Raakgui, he nodded instinctively before realizing she likely wasn’t looking.

“That was Kangiten,” he explained. “Though I think a more direct translation would be ‘Ganesha.’”

His eyes drifted toward the road ahead as he spoke.

“It’s a massive spirit… but its real value is its control over gravity. I intended to use it to lift the cart back onto the road.”

A quieter sigh followed, tinged with memory.

“It was… troublesome to acquire, but it’s proven very useful.”

For a moment, his usual lightness dimmed—not fully, but enough.

“My clan—my family—we’re exorcists. I’ve been trained since childhood to combat cursed spirits. In Aetochi, we call them Raakgui. Most are harmless, or at least manageable. But sometimes they become twisted. Angry. Broken. And when that happens…” He shrugged lightly.
“We’re called.”

He took another drink before continuing, his voice quieter now.

“There’s a technique in my bloodline. We can absorb those spirits… bind them to ourselves, then summon and wield them.”

His fingers tightened slightly around the parcel in his lap.

“It just…” He hesitated. “It changes you.”

For once, his smile didn’t come easily.

“The negative energy they’re made of… it lingers. It seeps in.”

His gaze dropped somewhere distant, somewhere not entirely here.

“With my father, it made him cruel. With me—”

He stopped.

The words caught somewhere between thought and breath, and after a beat, he shook his head as though physically casting them off.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, a little sheepishly now. “Didn’t mean to overshare.”

His usual warmth returned, if a touch more fragile than before.

He unwrapped the food parcel at last, using the task to gather himself, then glanced over at her again—curious, sincere, and eager to shift the focus away from the darker corners of his own story.

“Enough about me,” he said, his smile gentler now. “What brings you out here?”
 
“It’s not the worst pronunciation of my name I’ve ever heard.”​

The response to that is a slight quirk of Osytha’s brow. “Feelin’ nicely enough to pay me bloody cheek, then,” she grumbles… but there’s an amused curl at the corner of her mouth. “I s’pose that’s a good sign.”

His reaction when she says ‘Momo’ — she’s not sure what that’s about, though. Could be the man’s not feeling quite so well-recovered as all that. Or, did Osytha somehow still manage to cock up the pronunciation, make it sound like something else, perhaps? Well, if that’s the case, she just needs to practice it some more. A lot more, until she gets it right.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to overshare.”​

Osytha shrugs. Inasmuch as she’s able to from her position, anyway. “I don’t mind, Momo,” she remarks, casual like. “Actually quite enjoy hearin’ about folks.” Then, her mouth shapes itself around another unfamiliar sound, as she ponders. “‘Raakgui’… you know, I thought I noticed summat of a curse there.”

It changes you. Maybe she can understand that. Not in the exact same way it affects Momoshiro, but… there’ve been too many times she’s drawn steel and wondered, afterward, if there had been another way. Just because she hadn’t seen one in the moment don’t mean it wasn’t there. It fills your head with ‘what ifs’; what if this, what if that. What if she got it wrong, and someone didn’t have to die. What if she’s the last person who should be trusted with a sword. What if she’s only making things worse.

Yeah. It changes you. Doesn’t mean those ‘what ifs’ aren’t worth asking, though. Because the day Osytha takes it for granted that she’s in the right… she knows that’ll be the day she’s lost her way.

She opens her eyes again. “I’m sorry. That sounds like a reight heavy burden.”

When Osytha glances over, she’s relieved to see Momo has at least begun to investigate the food. It’s nothing special; some nuts, dried slices of apple and pear, a wedge of hard cheese, some salted strips of pork, and that traveller’s staple — a chunk of hardtack. She wonders if Momoshiro has encountered such fare before, or if he’s confused as to why the woman saw fit to put a rock in amidst her rations.

“It’s meant to be like that, believe it or not,” she explains. Just in case. “It’s not that the bread’s stale. Not sure the ol’ armour plates can go stale. Sort of, already comes pre-staled, I s’pose is the idea. Just give it a little soak and it’ll go down well enough… but, er, edible en’t the same as palatable, so happen you should try the other scran first. Leave the biscuit for if you’re still feelin’ peckish afterward, sort of thing.”

It’s remarkable stuff, Osytha muses. All it usually takes is one bite, and suddenly, you’re not feeling the least bit hungry any more.

She looks up into Momo’s face as she considers his question — wonders how much she should say about her business out here. It’s in Osytha’s best interests to keep a low profile whenever she’s moving through these fiefs, for Knights of Anathaeum oft receive cold welcome from the lords of these lands. Sharing too much now might, somehow, lead to her being recognised in the future.

On the other hand, it seems rude to hold out given what Momo has shared of himself. And that distrust, well, it also goes against what she’s hoping to achieve here. Her duty is in no small part to protect the people in these lands, but Blight and bandits are just the most obvious perils that folk encounter. Being a Knight means you’re always going to face risks. It’s just a question of whether what you hope to win by taking them is worth that gamble.

“I’m part of a monastic order that likes to keep an eye on things around here,” she finally says. “Some of it’s similar to your work, perhaps. Other times the dangers are more mundane in nature, if no less dangerous. But as you’ve likely seen, we’re sort of, pretty far out in the sticks, here. So I make trips to the cities fairly often to learn what’s fresh, then bring all that to the monastery — help keep us abreast of developments out there in the big wide world, so to speak. I’m just on my way back from Cloud’s Keep this time around. Lots going on down south with the Free Cities, right now. Tryin’ to see how belike we are to wind up with the Arshakan Empire on our doorstep, an’, if so, when we ought to put the kettle on for them.”

A little, half-bald head of witch’s gowan in the strip of grass betwixt them catches Osytha’s eye, and she plucks it. Twirls it this way and that in her fingers, staring at the fluffy little things spread in patchwork across the seedhead.

“I’d be grateful if you kept that to yersen, though,” she continues. “The order and Altalusia’s landed gentry, they don’t exactly see eye to eye, so we have to be careful movin’ through their lands. You know how it is — everyone’s got a different idea of how to go about things. The barons around these lands would prefer we not get in the way of their little power struggles. You… might have seen the aftermath of their most recent border spat, dependin’ on the road you took to get here.”

Osytha gives the dandelion head one last spin and blows, sending its remaining payload off upon the wind.

“And what of yersen, Momo? Which way you headed?” she asks, looking over to him, another little smile back across her face. “It’s a long road to get here from Aetochi, just to knock some sense into a few rambunctious spirits. Don’t feel obliged to tell me if you’d rather not, mind you. But I am curious.”
 
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Momo listened closely, the way he often did when someone genuinely intrigued him—quietly, attentively, as though each word deserved its proper place before he decided what to do with it.

At her first remark, his grin came easily, though perhaps a touch more sheepish this time. “Oh… I’m feeling well enough for at least a little cheek,” he replied, the faint pink at the tips of his ears suggesting he was perhaps more aware of himself than he let on.

“Though I do think nearly collapsing in the road earns me some leniency.”

His tail swayed once through the grass behind him, slower now, less brazen than playful.

As she continued—speaking of burdens, uncertainty, the weight of difficult choices—his smile softened. She understood. Not perfectly, perhaps. Not in the same intimate, soul-staining way his burden worked… but enough. Enough that something in his shoulders eased.

His attention eventually drifted back to the food parcel in his lap, and his curiosity quickly landed on the hardtack. He picked it up, turned it over once, tapped it lightly against his palm, then looked at Osytha with one brow raised.

“…Do you all often travel with spare building materials?”

The question was delivered with surprising seriousness for all of half a second before his composure cracked. A quiet chuckle slipped free, his ears twitching.

“Sorry,” he murmured, smiling down at the ration. “I appreciate the warning. I’ll… perhaps start with something that looks less likely to chip a tooth.”

With notable caution, he set the hardtack aside—respectfully, but not without suspicion—and opted for the dried fruit instead.

As Osytha explained more about herself, however, his teasing gave way to something more sincere. A monastic order. Political tensions. Hidden purpose. Travel not merely for survival, but for duty.

Momo blinked once, then again.

“…That sounds…” He paused, trying to find the right word before settling on the honest one. “Actually very impressive.”

His ears lowered slightly, bashfulness creeping in almost immediately.

“I mean—ah—not that I thought you weren’t impressive before,” he added quickly, only to realize how that sounded and feel warmth rush to his cheeks. “I just meant—”

He stopped, inhaled, then looked skyward as though the drifting clouds might rescue him from himself.

“…You know, I think I’m making this worse.”

A soft groan escaped him, followed by a self-conscious laugh, but when he looked back at her, there was only warmth there.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” he said, quieter now, but no less sincere. “Truly.”

And he meant it. He understood what it was to carry responsibilities others might misunderstand. To move carefully through places where being too well known could become dangerous.

Her question, however, gave him pause.

Where was he headed?

Momo leaned back slightly, propping himself up on one arm while the other toyed absently with a blade of grass. His ruby eyes followed a cloud drifting overhead, his expression growing more thoughtful.

“That…” he admitted after a quiet moment, “is a little harder to answer.”

“I resisted leaving Aetochi because of my work at first—spirits, curses… all of it felt like responsibility I couldn’t set down.” He hesitated, his tail curling loosely at his side as his gaze drifted elsewhere. “But the longer I stayed, the more I realized I wasn’t just clinging to duty. I think… I needed to step away. To clear my head, to sort through certain shadows of my own, and to find out who I am when I’m not carrying everyone else’s burdens.”

His voice softened, introspection settling over him like the passing shade above.

“I love my home. My family. I do.” His smile this time was smaller, but genuine. "But sometimes… even when you love something, staying too close to it can make it hard to hear your own thoughts.”

For a moment, his gaze dropped to the grass between them before his smile returned, lighter now.

“So I suppose I’m wandering a bit. Doing what I’m trained to do, helping where I can… and maybe trying to understand myself better along the way.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware that perhaps sounded more profound than he’d intended.

“Right now, I think I’m headed wherever feels meaningful… ”

Then his gaze drifted sideways toward her, and though his next words were meant lightly, there was an unmistakable bashfulness beneath them.

“Though if that road happens to involve mysterious monasteries, political intrigue, cursed things, or more opportunities to collapse in front of pretty women…”

A pause.

“…I suppose I could be persuaded.”

His ears flicked immediately after, and he very pointedly shoved a strip of salted pork into his mouth as though that might somehow erase what he’d just said. It did not.

Muffled through the bite, and with noticeably pinker ears:

“I meant that respectfully.”
 
“…Do you all often travel with spare building materials?”​

Osytha just smirks. That’s a brick there, alright. Hardtack’s already bad enough on the way down, and it ain’t any easier on a body coming out neither. She keeps her insight to herself, though. Still early days to know if Momo here appreciates that brand of crude or not.

“Your secret’s safe with me. Truly.”​

“Thank’ee, Momoshiro syr,” Osytha says, and she believes him. “I’m nowt all that, mind you, really. If’n you want impressive, you ought to see some of the other Knights. That’s us — the Knights of Anathaeum. You ever find yourself by Astenvale Monastery a ways north-east of here, well… pop in for a visit. The order’s allus happy to extend their hospitality to travellers an’ suchlike. An’ et’s allus grand to see a friendly face again. Give you the tour, even.”

With the dandelion seeds drifting away, Osytha keeps her head tilted to face Momo. She listens attentively as he begins to speak of his reasons, of his family, of his search. But when he finally looks away from the clouds, and the grass, back towards her by the end of it… gone is that soft little smile. And her eyes, happen they’re a little wider than before. There’s something a little more intense about Osytha’s gaze, there. Until she breaks away, turning her head to glance down to the distant road past her feet.

“Though if that road happens to involve mysterious monasteries, political intrigue, cursed things, or more opportunities to collapse in front of pretty women… I suppose I could be persuaded.​

“… I meant that respectfully.”​

And with that, Osytha’s grin returns. “I’m sure you did, Momo.” She raises an eyebrow at him, again, her gaze flicking to the litmus change in his ears. “Though seems I missed this viewsome lass you mention seein’ while you were keelin’ over. But you tell me exactly what she looked like, an’ happen I can help you find the fair maid. So’s you can be sure to pay her some of that respect of yours, like.”

The foxkin can stew in that for a second or two. Only so long as his tongue is tied by that bit of pork. It’s a bit like messing with the squires back at the monastery, to Osytha’s mind, though her target here lacks the abject fear those untested youths generally feel toward fully-fledged Knights. Mostly he just seems to get flustered. Which, you know. Still fun.

Quarter soon is granted when Osytha heaves herself up into a sitting position, and she continues on, “But I reckon the last thing you need right now is intrigue, cursed things, nor owt else that’ll mek you faceplant again — audience of pretty lasses or no. You’re spent by more’n your weavin’. Daresay you’re in need of Sitha’s grace for a spell. That is, unless you were plannin’ on your next match ’gainst a dwymor bein’ your last?”

Osytha rubs her jaw, expression thoughtful. There’s an idea there, one which she feels she likes the look of. A plan which’ll let her keep an eye on this Momo so he don’t go perishing from some foolhardy cause, and still have her doing what she’d hoped to get done.

“I know a place nearby,” she muses, slowly. “I were already on my way to pass through there, in fact. Warm beds, good food, fine company. A few days of that could be just the thing to get you back on your feet. An’ don’t you go frettin’ about what et’ll cost, neither. The woman there — Merifrith — she only ever charges folk what they can afford to pay. Won’t have a bar of owt else.

“How’s about I see you there? For, truth be told, et wouldn’t sit right wi’ me were I to be shot of you now. Not afore I knew whether you’d be alright on your lonesome.”
 
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Momo nearly choked outright when she invited him to visit Astenvale Monastery. Not from alarm—well, not entirely—but because he had chosen that exact moment to take another bite. He coughed once, politely turned aside, and thumped a fist lightly against his chest before finally managing to swallow the offending bit of food.

The image of himself wandering into a monastery full of trained Knights while still somehow finding ways to embarrass himself in front of formidable men and women was… intimidating, to say the least.

Still, once he recovered, his ears gave a faint twitch and he offered her a softened, slightly sheepish smile.

“That’s… actually very kind of you,” he said, his voice quieter now, sincerity threading easily through it. “Thank you. I think I’d like that.”

He meant it, too. Beneath all her teasing, there was a steadiness to her he found himself trusting more easily than expected. She carried herself like someone who could weather storms without needing to announce it. Momo respected that. Maybe even admired it a little.

Then came her comment about his collapse in front of a “viewsome lass.”

Momo paused, his bite stalling just long enough for her words to settle properly this time—not just the teasing, but the self-dismissal tucked beneath it.

Slowly, he lowered the bit of food from his mouth and turned to look at her fully, one dark brow arching as though genuinely puzzled she would even suggest otherwise.

“Miss... err Syr Osytha,” he began, his tone warm with gentle reproach, “I certainly hope you are not implying I mistook what I saw.”

His tail gave a slow, easy sway behind him as a playful smile tugged at his mouth.

“Because while I admittedly did make something of a dramatic impression—face first in the dirt and all—I assure you my eyesight was perfectly intact before the ground introduced itself.”

There was humor there, light and easy, but his gaze held steady in that way he sometimes had when sincerity slipped through the cracks of his teasing.

Still, when her tone shifted—when the teasing gave way to genuine concern—Momo’s expression softened.

Her offer settled over him more heavily than she perhaps intended. Not because it was unwelcome, but because it wasn’t often that someone so casually chose kindness. Not obligation. Not duty. Just… kindness.

For a moment, he looked down at his hands, at the food he’d nearly ignored, at Guffers nearby, at the road stretching on ahead. He had left home to put distance between himself and the things clawing around in his own head. To find answers. To breathe. And if he were being honest… he was tired.

More tired than he liked admitting.

His tail loosened, the tension easing from it little by little.

“That…” he began, then stopped to clear his throat, suddenly bashful in the face of honest generosity. “That sounds… really nice, actually.”

Momo smiled then—small, warm, and far less guarded than before.

“I think I’ve spent so much time trying to keep moving that I forgot resting can also be part of the journey.”

His eyes lifted to hers again, and though there was still that familiar shyness there, there was gratitude too. Quiet, genuine gratitude.

"So… yes. I’d be honored if you’d see me there.”

A beat passed before one fang peeked out with the return of his humor.

“Though if I collapse again, I’d appreciate it if you describe me afterward as mysterious and tragic.”

He hesitated, ears flicking once.

“Or at the very least… dashing.”
 
“Hah!” A little chirp of laughter, bright and sincere. “I suppose you were dashing, reight enow. Dashed your noggin that ’ard against the ground, am surprised you’ve any nose left.”

Osytha makes a show of examining said appendage, that teasing glint still in her eye. “I’m fain for that — ’tis a reight pretty little nose. Pressed flowers may last a while longer, but they’re ne’er as fair for et.” Another taunting smile rises up under mischievous eyes. “Though, apparently my ee for such things may be lackin’. Accordin’ to some.”

Osytha heaves to her feet with a little ‘hup!’, and begins to brush her back and legs down as best she can. More little pappi drift up, bobbing away towards the fields on the cool, late morning draught.

“In any case, I ’preciate I din’t have to fight you on et,” she remarks, patting away. “Can be an imposition on some folks’ pride to accept such aid, or they fear becomin’ indebted. Rest assured, you owe me nowt for this. I’m but pleased to be of ’elp.”

Then, she looks thoughtful again. “Restin’ can also be part of the journey… aye. Aye, et rings true enow. Speakin’ of, I’ve a thought on gettin’ us there wi’out you mekkin’ nice an’ cosy wi’ yon ground again. That is, only once you feel up for movin’.”

Grass and weed rustles soft underfoot as the knight strolls over to her tall, dappled grey courser, who’s currently in the middle of some vergeside maintenance. Forbítter pays Osytha little heed as she smooths her hands over his flank.

She looks back to the foxkin. “Tell me… you ever ridden before, Momo?”
 
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