Honor Thy Father
Honor Thy Father
Summary: Passryn, Dmitri and Phaistion take the initiative to do some scouting. Tension ensues.
Date: PHD 14
Related Logs: Related Logs Takes place directly after Afternoon At Harkins'

Phaistion trots up the stairs to the lodge, sketchpad in tow and returns a few moments later with his pack slung over his shoulders, clearly, he's not going to travel without it. He looks to Passryn, "So what's the plan?"

"Some provisions, then we'll go," Passryn replies.

Phaistion settles his pack more comfortably on his back and offers Tempest a grin. "I've got some protien bars in my pack, and a first aid kit," He tells Passryn. "I'm a lot stronger than I look though. I can carry a lot."

Achapri nods. "We'll fill a skin each of water and take some of the stew. Travel light. Look for more supplies along the way. Keep to the woods, with the hill to one hand."

Phaistion nods his agreement, Passryn is far more focused, understanding what's needed, so deferring to her wisdom isn't an issue at all. "I'll go get the skins," He offers, 'you get the stew?" It doesn't take him long to head inside then re-emerge with filled skins, handing one off to Passryn. "There you go."

Achapri ties the skin to her warbelt, having gotten enough stew for a couple of meals for the pair of them into a sealed tub while he was getting the water. It's in a borrowed knapsack with a few other needful things, and she nods once. "Let's go," and she moves off at a brisk pace to the northeast, uphill, staying to the path, to start with.

It may come as a suprise, but Phai has no problem keeping up with the brisk pace that Passryn sets. He may be an artist, but he's in prime physical condition. Most likely a product of his life long enjoyment of martial arts. After a while he asks quietly, "You aren't going to mind if I paint you, are you, Passryn? That's why I made the sketch…"

Achapri is at nearly the pinnicle of physical prowess for the human species, but that's not uncommon in Ares cultists. The hundred some pounds of armour she's wearing do even the playing field subsantively, however, and as she heads up to the place where three roads meet, she looks to her side, eyes flashing in the dark caverns of her glistening helmet. "You're an artist as well?" she asks him. "Very well, no, I don't mind. Only it had better be good," she adds with a playfully threatening smile. "The eternal glory of a warrior lies at the mercy of the artist."

As they walk, Phaistion slips his pack from his back and pulls out the sketchbook, flipping it to the appropriate page, which he shows to the priestess. While the image is in black and white, it captures her likeness with lifelike detail, each curve and line rendered lovingly. Clearly, he's an artist of some talent. As they walk along, something snags his attention and he calls out to her, "Hang on a sec, do you have knife I can use?" He crouches himself down beside a small thatch of green. "Wild spearmint, I want to grab some of this to dry."

Achapri looks over the drawing with a scutinizing gaze before she nods her approbation of the progress so far. "You have skill," she notes. Then, crouching down along the path, she runs her hands along the rocks at the side of the path, finding one and setting it on another before smacking it hard with a third, causing it to break in half. A half of the rock, its broken side displaying a ring of fresh, very sharp edges, is handed over to Phaistion.

Coming from Passryn, Phai takes the utterance as compliment. He's already figured out her manner of speech is brisk and to the point. As she picks up the rocks he watches with interest, clearly trying to learn from what she's doing. Inquisitive. Not a bad trait to have. "Thank you," He tells her as he takes the newly created rock knife, turning it over in his hands to examine it a moment. It's an art of its own kind, to his mind. He finds that it cuts well too, when he gathers the stems of the spearmint up in one hand, and cuts easily through the mass with the rudimentary tool. A moment later, he's back in his pack, pulling out a small bag of art supplies, withdrawing a rubber band from it. He winds it around the stems, then hangs the bundle off the back of his pack, before settling back in place on his shoulders, nodding that he's ready to move on.

Achapri rises, as well, and then heads on. "Do you study the healing properties of plants as well as the culinary ones?" she asks him. Even her attempts at conversation veer toward the practical. What is this one bringing to the table?

"I wish I had now," Phaistion admits ruefully, "that was always my Mom's big thing, you know? I mean, I know some really basic stuff like chamomile'll help you sleep as well as settle the stomach, and valerian is good for nervousness, but nothing in detail." His gaze focuses on the priestess, "I'd like to learn more though, if you're willing to teach me." He has no need to ask if Passryn knows such things, he's already figured out that she does.

It's quietly that Dmitri makes his way along after the small group off the side of the road, his pace unhurried and feet stepping carefully so as to not make too much noise; he knows how to move in the wilds, as does the hound that trots along on the roadside after him, sniffing after their trail. They can't be that far.

Achapri doesn't know how Phaistion figured that one out, especially since it's pretty remote from true, "I know enough to pull a comrade breathing from the field of battle, but after that they'd rather have a doctor than me," she notes with a shake of her head. "And as to treating radiation sickness— well— let's hope it not come to that anytime soon. I don't think any of us are ready for that."

"I should probably write down what I know, might be easier to come up with more uses for stuff if I sit and think about it," Phaistion admits, keeping pace with Passryn. After awhile a noise catches his attention, though it isn't Dmitri's progress which he hears. He wanders off towards the side of the road carefully to see if his ears are decieving him. "Frak! That's awesome," He calls out to Passryn, and points in the direction of a hollowed out log. "Look, honey bees!" His pad comes out and he begins to sketch a rudimentary map upon it, noting the location. "Too early in the season to try to harvest, but later? Not only do we get the honey, but my Mom used to make this salve out of calendula and beeswax, and I'd help her. It's good for skin irritation, bug bites, mild burns and stuff like that."

Oh, look, a tripwire. Dmitri considers the well-camouflaged line for a moment, and then very carefully steps over it to keep from triggering whatever it's attached to, making sure that the floppy-eared hound that's trotting along with him doesn't set it off either. Overhearding a call about 'frak' and 'honey-bees' he exhales a sigh of breath, heading off in their direction now that he's pinpointed more or less where they are.

Salazar makes her way across from near the water, way down the path from the explorers. They might not even note each other, such is the silence and distance of her passing. She heads for the lodge.

Achapri pauses along the track at Phaistion breaks off, then she follows him into the undergrowth. "A good sign," she notes, "Bees carry out their dead from the hives. If there were contaminated lands within these bees' territory we'd see the detritus around the hive." She makes her way autiously around the log to make sure there aren't and bee graveyards back there. "We should check this every so often for signs of damage to the colony."

Phaistion would never have put that together in his mind, he's more a chef than a survivalist. If it has to do with food? He knows where it comes from, his father always made sure of that fact. Her words leave him feeling positive though, "I didn't know that. That's really good thinking though, Passryn."

"'Afternoon." It's a dry tone spoken from the brush as Dmitri steps out and into view, Cerberus trotting along beside his heel, "Takin' the cop's advice on scoutin' out the area, I see…" While he doesn't notice the other woman? The dog does, the hound's ears lifting a bit as he rumbles a low chuff under his breath, drawing his master's attention that way. Squint. More quietly, "Friend've yours, ladies?"

"Yes; recall, we were making plans to leave when last we spoke," Passryn reminds Dmitri, then peers past him through the trees as Salazar passes. "Yes, she's one of Mister Harkins' guests," she answers him.

Phaistion's attention is drawn in the direction of the of the other woman, "I still haven't met everyone from the lodge yet," he admits. Reaching down, he scruffs a hand over the back of Cerberus' head for a moment, "Hey there, buddy," then nods a greeting to Dmitri.

"Fwroof." A low almost-bark from Cerberus as he watches the woman carry on down the road, tail thumping once or twice at Phaistion's patting. Fairly laid back hound, he seems, for the most part. Dmitri grunts slightly, "Just makin' sure, is all."

"It was sound thinking to ask," Passryn replies. "Frank mentioned we'd had trouble with invading forces." She smiles vaguely, "Not much trouble, of course." She looks back to Phaistion, "Did you want to continue downslope from here and see if we can find any other hives? If we can get a baseline of safe altitude, that would be helpful."

Phaistion gives a shrug, "I'm up for whatever, you lead and I'll follow? I think you might be onto something though." Phai hasn't met the scientist yet, but this is probably something they should discuss with him. Turning to Dmitri he asks, "You get your beast all hidden?"

Dmitri nods once, firmly. "Yep." A glance back over his shoulder, then back as he notes, "Try not to trip any of the wires, eh? I don't know what y'all have them hooked up to, but…"

"Wires?" Passryn delays the continuation of the expedition to ask. "Have they set up traps? I wasn't informed of this," she looks… less than pleased to not have been, to boot.

Phaistion frowns as his eyes scout upwards into the treeline, trying to see if there's any sort of hanging death traps waiting to smack down on them. The only answer he has is a shrug, "I'm the new kid, so it beats me. You think maybe Anthem or that guy..uhm what's name? Frank? Would have warned me."

Dmitri shrugs one shoulder. "Well," he observes, "I just stepped over one of 'em a quarter-mile back, so somebody did. I just got here today, so frak if I know who's responsible."

"You would have thought so," Passryn mutters to herself. "Well. Keep an eye out. We'll take it up with someone when we return." She keeps on the undergrowth-laden way down the mountain, for now, then looks back toward Dmitri. "Are you coming with us?"

Nodding in agreement, Phaistion's now paying a lot more attention to where he steps, which leads to him making another find. He stops. "Anyone have a plastic bag of some sort?" Right now he wishes he had one in pack. Though, a thought occurs to him that a towel will do in a pinch.

"A plastic bag?" Dmitri steps along over towards Phaistion, feet crunching over the grass, and cranes his neck to peer down at whatever he's found - Cerberus, of course, comes to sniff as well. "What is it?"

Achapri hasn't seen a plastic bag since she entered the cult precinct all those years ago. "No," she replies simply, letting Dmitri voice her own questions for her.

The rudementary tool Passryn created for Phai appears out of a pocket, and he pulls off his pack and sets it down, pulling out the small travel towel and laying it out on the ground. He points to the tiny plants before carefully starting to dig around them with the tool, careful to keep both the roots, and the soil around them intact. Before he pulls them out of the ground, he pours a bit of his water on them, and on the towel, before laying them out and wrapping them up. "Alpine strawberries, we used to grow them in pots on our patio at home. They're small, but extremely flavorful." Carefully, he secures the bundle of live plants and eases it inside his pack. "I'll transplant them somewhere near the lodge for harvesting later in the summer."

"Ah." Dmitri nods, once, looking up and around the area as his hound snuffles at Phai's hand and the strawberries curiously. He doesn't try and eat them or anything he's just curious, as dogs often are. "Plenty out here," he notes, "If people aren't stupid about rationing an' taking care of it."

Achapri nods in brief agreement with Dmitri, looking to Phaistion, "You'd just as easily cultivate them in situ," she notes. "Easier to get things to grow where they've chosen to grow. We're not far from the camp, this is certainly within the patrol radius."

"True," Phaistion admits, "but it's also nice to have some at hand. I mean, part of cooking can be improvisational, you know? Like… if I was making something, and suddenly wanted some for some added flavor? I'd have to leave the dish I was cooking to trek all the way out here." He knows the explaination might not make sense to either of his companions, but it does to him. "I mean, I don't really know anything about survival, but any good cook knows where his ingredients come from you know? What the plants look like. Contrary to the thinking of some? Ingredients aren't born in the supermarket." He chuckles a bit at the idea. "One of the things I do know though? You gotta change up people's diets. Add flavor. 'Cause you keep eating the same thing day after day, some people will just lose interest in eating at all. We've got the odds stacked up against enough without adding appetite fatigue to the list."

"…added flavor, and… appetite fatigue?" Dmitri turns his head a bit, regarding Phaistion with a furrowed brow as he speaks. One hand lifts to rub against his forehead, nose wrinkling a bit, "You're not in some restaurant kitchen anymore, boyo. You can't waste stuff for -flavor-. You all'll be lucky if you can manage a subsistence diet as it is, with this many people in one place."

"Excessive seasoning is an extravagance," Passryn seems to be taking Dmitri's side on this. "It makes men soft and weak. Eating should be seen as a means to prepare ones body for continued labor. Eating simply for the sake of eating leads to overindulgence and loosening of discipline."

"That's /your/ take on things," Phaistion says to Passryn, "and I respect that that's how your people do things. But you know what? We're not all part of your cult of Ares! Am I the only one who seems to get this?" A frown splashes across his features. "We're it. We're what's /left/ of the human race, that we know about! Now, we can either be frakkin' animals, or we can live - and maybe even die in the attempt - like people!" A sigh huffs out of him, "People need /hope/. Crazy as that sounds. The occasional luxury can keep a person going. Give them something to fight for, something to /live/ for. 'Cause you know what? If we don't have that? Then what's the frakkin' point of any of this? We might as well all take the frakkin' guns and blow our frakkin' heads off now! We have to do more than just exist and subsist. We have to sustain. We have to try to /rebuild/. Am I the only person who seems to /get/ that?" This is the first time that anyone's seen Phaistion work up a head steam. Clearly this is an issue he feels passionately about. Throwing up his hands in disgust, he starts to walk down the road on his own. "You don't have to frakkin' like it, or even agree with it, but it's not like me transplanting some frakkin' berry plants is any skin off either of your noses."

"I've done pretty good with just that for all the time I've been out here," Dmitri replies with a shrug of one shoulder, "I'm not sayin' the woman's right, I'm certainly not arguin' for any sort've religious reasons. Just the way to survive out here." A faint snort of breath, as he heads for the road himself, though back towards the lodge, Cerberus on his heels, "We are animals."

Achapri watches Phaistion explode with one brow faintly cocked upward. Once his rant seems to have completed itself, "Well, if we have to have a hedonist amongst us, I suppose I'd rather have one who knows how to speak his mind like a man does." Backhanded compliment, much? In any case, she keeps heading down the path, having given her opinion and seeming content to leave it at that.

"We're only animals if we chose to be animals, Dmitri," Phai calls after the man's retreating back. "I don't know, but the vibe I'm getting is that some of us want to remain civilized. It's not a bad word." The next words are said to Passryn, "Nor does that mean I'm a hedonist. A balanced diet does not a hedonist make. Is it so wrong to have the desire to want to make other people's lives a little bit better? To see people smile once and awhile? The future is gonna be what /we/ make of it, and if we give up now? Game over. The Cylons win. They've wiped us, our culture, our society and civilaztion out. Is this a physical fight we're in with them? Hells, yes. But it's also mental. And emotional. You can both think I'm clinging to stuff all you like, but at the end of the day? It's just as important to preserve our way of life as it is to preserve our bodies," He gestures to Passryn, "and our spirits. You certainly don't think it's hedonistic to preserve your religion!"

"Your way of life," notes Dmitri with a shake of his head, making his way back in the direction of the lodge, hands tucking into the pockets of his jack, "Not mine. You do have a choice, boyo. You can rebuild the garbage that came before, or try somethin' new for a change."

Achapri looks back to Phaistion, "When we enter the precinct we give up pleasure and softness for the refinement of our spirits in the Death Scream of the Blood God. We eat sparingly, from the land, what nourishes us well for the torments we set ourselves. We know no bed but the earth."

"Right," Phaistion sighs out, feeling as though he's speaking to two brick walls. "And have I /once/ disrespected you for that belief, Passryn? Have I?" His answer is a terse shake of his head, "If that's the case, why can't respect that other people have different beliefs? Different ways?" That statement can easily apply to both of them. "I'm not asking you beleive in what I do. I'm not asking either of you to even help me do it. Why is it suddenly such a big frakkin' deal that I want to transplant some damned plants? Maybe simply existing isn't enough for some people. Maybe some of us want to /live/."

Dmitri is out of polite conversational range now, at least without shouting; his head shaking slowly from side to side as he strides along the road away from the pair. A glance down to the dog beside him, and he murmurs wryly, "Crazy city folk, eh, Cerberus?"

"My only complaint against your transporting the plant was that it would be just as easy to cultivate it where it lay," Passryn points out, keeping her voice level. "You're welcome to cultivate it wherever you will, of course."

There's a rustle of branches as a male figure emerges from the woods carrying in his arms a small bundle that is wrapped. A cut above the male's left eye and dirt over his features gives the appearance of having been 'out' for a bit. But those who know Achilles would recognize him. As he walks he glances about at the voices and the people attached to them, tilting his head.

Phaistion shakes his head again, "Then why did we even bother discussing the possibilities of farming earlier? You want to get down to nuts and bolts? The fruits coming off that plant have nutrative value," Perhaps he can speak this in Passryn's lexicon of understanding. "They will sustain the body, so that the spirit can be sustained and the War God followed. You want to call it luxury, but it's all a part of survival. It's no different than the dandelions."

A low growl rumbles from the hound's throat as the unknown figure emerges from the woods, and Dmitri comes to a halt where he stands. Abruptly all too aware of his exposed position, his brow draws together darkly as he looks the other man over. A jerk of his chin up, and he offers curtly, "Afternoon."

"So then explain one thing to me, then?" Phaistion still hasn't moved, because right about now, he's not certain what direction he wants to go in. Continue on, go back to the lodge, or head back up the mountain to live his life his own way. "How come everything I proposed today was fine and dandy, had merit until I said the word 'flavor'?" He can't keep his teeth from grinding a little bit, "It's not like it's a curse or something!"

Achapri looks back at the greeting from the road. She continues to move down the undergrowth-laden hillside, however. "It's not as though I've never eaten a strawberry, you know. They're not against sacred law."

Achapri continues down the mountain, keeping her eye out for signs of bee activity. "Less the desire for flavor, more the desire to always have a wide variety of flavors at hand. We're not -that- far from the camp. If the Muse bids you have your berries, won't the leg-work make them all the more sweet?" She tries speaking in something like his language. "If you live in surfeit, you will find only drought for inflated desire." She looks back to him, "Not to say I think we've got any fear of surfeit. Do as you like; I do not begrudge you berries," she assures him.

Phaistion's eyes drift upwards for a moment, as if looking to the heavens for guidance. "That's the point though, if there's no one there to watch the pot, then everybody's food burns while I come up here looking for them." It's probably one of the simpler answers he's given since the disagreement started.

It -has- been a while since Passryn's injested anything comprising of more than one or three ingredients. "Then have someone watch the pot. Or move your plants. You're doing so anyhow. You don't need my permission. I'm not going to smite you," she insists. She is sounding mildly annoyed by now, though.

"I don't know," Phaistion mumbles in Passryn's direction, clearly going for levity now to try to ease away some of the tension, "That's a mighty big smiting stick you've got there. Maybe I should be afraid of it." He starts to frown, "It's getting dark and…" Now the look on his face is sheepish, "Uhm… my night vision isn't too safe. I'm kinda… well, you see, I'm kinda a bit color blind."

"We'll set up camp before it gets too dark," Passryn replies. "No sense in going back and starting over." She looks back to him, "Unless you're no longer planning on continuing the scouting."

"Okay," Phai replies. "Everything turns so black to me at night, it's hard to make out different shapes." He sticks a lot closer to Passryn now. A cigarette is produced from his pockets and lit, hedonist that he is, and he allows the nicotine to calm him a bit. "I don't know what I'm going to do. I might go back up on the mountain on my own. I'm not sure I fit in with this crowd."

"Nobody fits in with this crowd," Passryn replies, simply enough, holding back her hand to take Phai's and guide him through the dusky woods, if he doesn't rebuff her efforts. "But they're beginning to get their act together. You'll have a better chance of survival with them than alone."

Phaistion doesn't rebuff the hand at all, in fact he clasps it tightly, grateful for the guidance. It's not the first time he's cursed the eyesight he was born with. "I guess it's just weird to me, you know? Coming from an art background, people are pretty non-judgemental, and Dmitri? Well he sure seems to judge anyone with different ideals as some kinda… I dunno, lunatic I guess." He can't help but shake his head.

"I understand that following Ares' ways is not the path everyone chooses to follow," Passryn tells Phaistion quietly in the increasing dusk, her own eyesight keen enough. "If I'm occasionally brusque, keep in mind that I have devoted my life to indoctrinating initiates into Enyalios' cult. It's not a kind process. It was not kind to me, and I am not kind in administering it to my own pupils. If I sometimes slip into that mode with people who have not chosen our path— well, I ask your pardon. I will endeavor not to preach. Or administer beatings."

"No, you're fine, Passryn, seriously, I don't have a beef with you. I respect where you're coming from, you know?" Despite his earlier outburst, Phaistion is a pretty easy going guy. A little smirk crosses his lips, "Beatings can be fun under the right circumstances." He truly hopes that she gets the fact that he's trying to lighten the mood. "This thing with cooking?" Now that things have calmed, he wants to try to explain himself a bit better. "I wasn't raised all that religious, but I do seem to remember the scriptures saying to honor your mother and father, I'm remembering that right, aren't I?"

"Yes. Your duty is obeisance to your father and respect to your mother, and care for their old age," Passryn agrees. "You do grow to enjoy them." The beatings, that it. "Of course, some come in enjoying them." Perfectly serious. Of course, what sort of person voluntarily signs up to be tortured?

Torture can be in the eye of the beholder, depending on a person's kinks, but Phaistion doesn't say as much right now. He's more focused - surprisingly - on the more spiritual aspect of the discussion. "My Dad? His name was Antonius Bray." Knowing as he does now, that Passryn's been cut off from the world for a very long time, he doesn't expect it to hold any meaning for her. "He was one of the most celebrated chefs in all of the Colonies. One of the first things he gave me in this life was his passion for food. His knowledge and love of it. His recipes. Wanting to keep all that alive, despite what's happened? That's kind of my way of honoring him. His memory. The wonderful life he gave me."

Achapri does indeed issue a blank silence at the name, and she places Phai's hand against a tree, letting go of it with a reassuring pat as she draws one of her pitch-coated sticks from her quiver, striking the side embedded with chips of flint against a rock and lighting up the torch, casting some light in the otherwise dark clearing, then going toward Phai again. "Hold this while I put together a place for fire," she tells him. "My father wanted me to go to college," she offers in return, as she goes about doing so, "I suppose of the two of us, you're the more pious."

"I'm sorry to be such a burden at night," Phaistion states softly. One thing's for certain, he's not the type to let fear - when he has it - stand in his way of doing things. He turns his body a bit to lean against the tree and wraps his hand around the offered torch. "No, you are, Passryn. I've known enough people going through Divinity training to know it's not something one /chooses/. It chooses them. It's a calling. A Divine one, and I respect that a lot. It may be in the scriptures to owe obesience to your father, but way above that is offering your obesience to the Gods. War," He's picked up on the name she seems to like to use for Ares, "called you, and you answered. That's honoring the Gods in their rightful place."

"Everyone is flawed. To leave a companion's weak flank exposed in battle is a disgrace," Passryn notes as she sweeps away a patch of dirt and sets out stones. "We cover his weak flank with our own shield," she adds axiomatically, then pauses, "Thank you," she tells him, no emotion in her voice, but a significance to the words. She mourns for her own father. "And War has come to us in plenty. This is what we were called for."

Phaistion nods at Passryn's explaination even though it's dark outside. It makes sense. "I guess if I were to associate myself with any of the Gods it would be Apollo, healing, art, music. All those things interest me. I may not be a healer, but food can be its own form of healing, in a way." He doesn't expect Passryn to quite understand the food association to healing, considering the path in life she's followed, but that's fine too. Based on their conversation so far, he ventures to ask, "So you were called pretty young, huh?"

"Art is a noble pursuit," Passryn replies, "It does, as you say, separate us from the animals. And the glorious deeds of men and great wars of the past come down to us in song and sculpture and painting," she arranged sticks over a cluster of kindling in the center of the fire pit. "I was taught to play the war flute in celebration of the God," she adds, for her own part. "I suppose I was fourteen when I began to follow the Warlord. It began slowly. But then I met the God breast to breast and I was conquered, His slave forever. My father made me finish high school before I went to petition the sanctuary for entry." She stands and comes to take the torch, "I'll light the fire now," she explains, narrating without ceremony, just to keep him appraised, so she's not just yanking away his only source of light.

The warning is appreciated, but Phai takes it all in stride. "I love music too," He tells Passryn quietly. "Would you play for me someday? I think I'd like to hear some of the songs you know on the war flute. After all, it's a pretty good bet, that at least for now, our traditions might shift to oral learning, the way it was in the beginning. Rebuilding - if we achieve it - isn't going to be an easy, or short road. It's gonna take many generations." Perhaps some might think his goals frivolous, but to Phai they're important. Merely existing for the sake of existence isn't enough.

"I'll play for you," Passryn promises. "And I'll sing the Wrath of Achilles, how it made a feast for dogs and birds of countless sons of the Achaeans below the lofty citadel of windy Troy, when they happened to fall into strife, the Swift-Footed son of Peleus, and Agamemnon, Lord of Men."

Now it's Phaistion's turn to say, "Thank you," with meaning. He can see enough from the light of the torch to feel confident about edging forward, and he settles himself down near the edge of the firepit, dropping his pack beside him, careful to turn it onto its side so as not to crush the drying bundle of herbs hanging from its bottom. "The Sanctuary sounds like an interesting place. An interesting life."

"A hard life. But good," Passryn sticks the torch down into the dirt and tosses a few fistfuls of dirt on top of it as the fire in the pit begins to pick up. She takes off her own quiver and bow, her knapsack and waterskin, setting them between her and the pit, then she unhooks her shield from her shoulder and sets it behind her on the ground, leaning back to use it as a pillow. "If we open up the precinct to outsiders, I will bring you there to share our common mess in guest-friendship." She lifts her waterskin and opens it to drink.

Once again Phaistion finds himself saying, "Thank you. I'm honored. Though I understand if you all chose to say to yourselves." Phaistion seems to be all about the freedom to choose. "I think if I were a different person, I might fit in there, but I have to honor the beliefs that I was raised with, you know? My art, my cooking, the memory of my parents. The most important thing really, is just… helping however we can." When Passryn reaches for her water skin, he carefully removes the bundle of plants from pack to check on them, finding them still plenty moist at the root, and he carefully replaces them. "Even if some people think our different ways of doing things are kind of crazy."

Achapri closes up the skin again and rises. "Why don't you try to get some sleep. I'll keep watch," she tells him. "We'll strike out again in the morning with the first daylight flowers. The bees will be out for them, and we can trace them south to the next southmost hive."

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