The internal organs screech, belch and squeeze of each other's vibrations.

Barely a sound can be heard inside the basement filled of machines without soul, and a man whose soul is nowhere to be found. The work needs to be done, anyway. They only notice when it isn't, but he doesn't need to be noticed. Only his work is enough. Replacing the pieces of a broken engine with the touch of flesh fingers, cold metal stealing the heat away... anyway, I'm here to take care.

I'm no doctor, so the plumber thought to himself, given there is nobody else to share of same guts alike him. Each day, he thinks again in a way to defy time, I look more like a rat, but his thoughts are suddenly brought to an end by the yelling of a pipe spitting steam, creaking like an old maiden's chair. The strings wiithin its chest claims for food, same for payment in hands. The furnace, now feeded by the wood, convert it into energy, heat, and soot, thanks to the work of those who dared to stay in here, like this man.

However, he doesn't feel any thankful, or clean. Mold grows within a puddle of water coming out the ceiling, from the first floor where footsteps and gossips can be heard. As unpleasant as it its, hard to ignore, unlike the self of said man, if there's one within a burmecian. They tried, how they tried... We do not treat each other alike rats, only when necessary. I am the necessary evil, so thinks the plumber. That's not his real name, but still something that yells he's in fact real, that he's here, fixing the machine and losing pieces of himself, including its name and the meaning it used to hold on.

Only diseases hold on his skin, a hand dirtied by muddy water, cleaned by a bowl of soap bubbles, that when fallen on river, stands on surface alike snow. A deadly, poisoning snow, that suffocates the fish and poison the ones who eat it. The milkman doesn't have a name, yet everyone needs milk. Before men was able to digest animal milk, they puked. Something disgusting became acceptable with time, beyond kisses and chocolate boxes or any other kind of trap to settle down the new generation. He doesn't have none to take its place. Nobody. Only the plumber is here, to fix it all. He doesn't deserve other name, or deserve to be recognized outside the plumber name.

Then, someone upstairs fills in the pipes with dirty water, without knowing that he'll drink same again, despite the rain of always. He hears it coming out the walls, coming inside from a small hole, and asks to himself that nothing lasts forever, yet why the rain does? He can't hear it and feel joy for all its life. A miserable, pitiful way of living, to make others live better, or make them think they do. That makeup made the landlord's wife ugly as a dog, smell like one as well, so the only plumber avaliable thinks while fixing a pipe tight as a neck, silver alike that woman's neck too, covered in lead slowly absorbed by the skin, and of those who touched her. Everyone, except himself. It ain't lead or pox covering that face, but that she's asking to die, for sure she is.

All of them, touching and kissing her lips, spreading the disease, all connected like pipes. It's easy to dissasemble a pipe, with the right tools. Let the filthy flow out, in a less subtle way. Nothing changes, only the smell, the taste, appearance... everyone wears green since children. It ain't same green of trees. A pure green, that later dries out and falls on same asphalt a little tree was able to break in. Same for the rats at streets, who once lived underground. They still do, beneath clouds gray as the tarmac path below burning feet. Naked feet, their tips rottening, creeping eruptions at bottom... yet, all they do is keep dancing at gravesides.

Think positive at least, so said Patrick to himself. He still remembers it's name, but that doesn't mean a thing. There are no positive things as well. In a way, everyone on this buildings needs the likes of him. Doesn't need to care, but needs it. The heart isn't the most important of the organs, a king whose crown of fat subjudges the others, no no... everything is important. If the pipes are put on wrong place, they rot. If wood gets wet, mushrooms grow and rotten it. If iron rusts, and someone touches and leaves a wound open, its back bends backwards as they suffer of agony and a fatal tetanus. If you cough, that doesn't make you good in poetry, but good at spreading tuberculosis.

If you don't wear safety, children will be born with gonorrhea, but if their eyes do not get irritate soon as they born, maybe they'll do as they get stuck within chimneys filled in of soot. Mother... She was filled with soot. All of them. Tight spaces, dark alike a room whose windows are made open by blades cutting out their chests. That's how a piece of momma died, because I was born. But there is no time for a plumber to mourn at this hour, or to this day. A wrench to twist the loosen bolts, and the job isn't finished yet. It never ends, with the many living upon this filthy warehouse, growing of more filthy alike outside.

Out of here, lies an ordinary neighborhood with houses made of stone and bizarre architeture, while at the view of Patrick, it's garbage. It may be beautiful for someone else, but not for me, so he thinks. Bells supposely to bring peace, yet all is brought to him is work without recognition. Instead of airships in rainy skies, all they got from Lindblum were these riches, the yelling of machines more alive and real than I do. Fixing these machines makes me feel somewhere, yet still far of being real. So, Patrick leaves the warehouses and goes upstairs. As expected, the stairs do not lead to heaven, but that they are tall, even the air gets thin.

Though, not staring at that woman ain't enough for him to ignore the problem. He hear it, and most of all, feel dirty. It comes from the mouth, spitting invisible dices of warm and sickful spit. It's enough to make him run away, but he doesn't. Don't run at stairs, or else you'll break an arm, so his mother used to say. I'm about to break that woman apart, but I remember a man who beats a woman is a coward. Is that a woman? Or a caricature of one? Patrick thought.

He doesn't have anyone but its mother to give him a clear picture. Used to, given she is now another picture of a skinny and bonafide corpse, rottening below earth. At least, she died with dignity, taking care of her son. And here I am, taking care of a whole building, and none of them are related in blood, even when found at the tip of my fingers.

Autechre - Autriche

July 18, 1794

...

Yesterday is dragged away by a tomorrow of shivers sent below skin, for those wearing no blankets.

Winter came and doesn't seem to be over. The song of swallows is gone, the choir of cicadas has not begun, as snow falls on earth and stone, melting with the heat of living. The harsh winds calm down into thick slices of breeze, covering faces alongside sweat.

Inside homes with shapes of bells, or hollow spaces alike, yellow candles are lit despite the white void at skies, filled in by the wind chimes and floating masses of gray. Yet, despite all details, Sir Fratley Irontail misses the most beautiful of the mornings. The sight of one, at least.

From his bed, he hears the whistling of gutters covered in autumn leaves, and a cold air stream coming from a tiny gap of his bedroom's window. Being a Dragoon Knight granted Fratley an index of possibilites, a few he can remember or even need to, for real. Like his earring, which detected, other than his own, a heartbeat jumping out the chest.

/\/\/\_/\/\/\_/\/\/\/\_

— Hi, Raymie – said Fratley, followed of a huge yawn, to his smallest friend.

— Good morning, Frattie – given its voice, and movement, Raymie is pictured into a calligraphic portrait that flutters on Fratley's mind.

— Good morning for you too – Raymie may be only a child, but his heart... is beating a lot, so thinks Fratley. For a child to have a heart that beats faster than his is still something that caughts him on surprise – how are you doing?

— I'm fine – not alike its own heart, but Raymie seems fine as he says he is. As for I, thought Fratley, I have a lot to do. He still haven't got out the bed, but that name echoes each day. Dragoon Knight, followed of a Sir... mere titles at these hours, for someone wearing nothing at all.

— Hey, Frattie...

— What's up? – surprised, Fratley turned at Raymie's direction. It ain't polite to talk with someone by avoiding sight, even when you don't have one – it ain't usual for you to wake up this earlier, Raymie – I mean, he just woke up earlier than I. The last time he did it, so Fratley recalls, was on his birthday, or when his bed got wet. Perhaps... – is there something bothering you?

— Uh... no. Well, yes – said Raymie, a bit unsure. Unstable, shaking of cold as well.

— So, how's your mother doing?

— Mom? She's fine.

— And yout brothers?

— Fine too.

— Are they sleeping?

— Yes, they are. Except me.

— Only you?

— Uh... – after a quick exchange of words, Fratley deduced that something was wrong with Raymie. Yet, he didn't knew what, or the why. Just woke up, with the hearing of a heart.

— Are you hungry? – said Fratley. He ain't a doctor, despite already knowing that the boy's thumb was empty alike his own, but he sees no problem at asking. It's better than taking sudden conclusions.

— A bit – so Raymie said. Something still bothered him. Mother and brothers are fine, but what about...

— And little Phoebe? How is she doing?

— Uh... I want to slap her.

— Why? – there was no hesitation in Raymie's words. It wasn't a bluff, which bothered Fratley – don't you think it's a bit mean to your sister?

— Was it mean when she drooled on my shoulders?

— Oh, Raymie... come on. Your mother and I never complained when you drooled on our shoulders.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

— But when we cried, sure you did. Can you believe that I woke up before Phoebe? – said Raymie, before another heart was caught by Fratley, followed of a 'coo'. Sometimes, that's all that Phoebe seemed to say with the mouth, besides bubbles of spit or phlegm when her nose is clogged.

— Hi Phoebe – said Fratley, to the infant who crawled into his room.

— You see, I took her out the crib, Frattie – said Raymie, coming near his sister – if not, she would cry and wake mom.

— Your sister cries for many reasons. Attention is one of them.

— But to bite with teeth, though... OUCH! – then Raymie yelled, all of sudden – see? She's doing it again...

— She is feeling the whole world with the mouth. I see no problem.

— You can't see anything, Frattie.

— But I hear well – as much as I know where my clothes are. Except for a traveller's hat, nowhere to be found, Fratley's attires are usually kept inside the drawer at the left side of the bed – you, and Phoebe. How is she doing?

— Phoebe is fine. Same for her teee... – suddenly, Raymie stopped talking, almost yelled, and began to whine doing little jumps, in a way he was about to say a curse word – why, Fratley? – the boy asked, and the way his voice sounded like seemed as if he was drowning, almost crying.

— That's what Phoebe wants to know too. She doesn't bite you because she wants to be mean – and with the pants wore, whose holes are easier to find than the ones belong to his black shirt, together with a green like dry moss jacket, whose smell reminds Fratley of melon, though he was never found of it. Same for Raymie, but he's young, can learn to eat tomatoes, any vegetables without pouring salt over them. More salt than vegetables, which's bad. Anyway, with the basic wore, he is ready to... then Fratley remembers he can't stand up. Almost trips in a stupid way, in front of children.

— Are you okay, Frattie? – asked Raymie, demonstrating a bit of concert, as Phoebe just kept watching.

/\/\/\_/\/\/\_/\/\_/\/\/\_/\/\/

— I... I'm fine – said Fratley, coming back to the bed's tip, looking at Raymie. Facing, because even when he opens its eyes, revealing a kind of depth in green, he still can't see that boy, but to hear his heart, however – wo, where I was? Oh, yes... Raymie, do you know what is to be mean for a baby? They don't know.

— Then I should be mean with her – said Raymie, as he softly pulled its little sister's head away. Another failed attempt, for someone stuck like glue.

— Please, Raymie. Don't you know why the dinosaurs were extinct?

— Dinosaurs? Hey, I know how! A meteor came to this planet, and BOOM! All dead – Raymie likes dinosaurs. They don't seem that frightening, yet he wondered to himself why Fratley came up with this talk about dinosaurs. My sister ain't that old. Well, there are the little dinos, who bite. All extinct, except for sis.

— Yeah, right... But like wars, there must had been a plenty of reasons for why it happened. Reptiles barely move when its cold, but that's not my point – not the very important one – well, Raymie, I believe that one of the reasons why dinosaurs went extinct is because they didn't respect each other.

— Uh? What do you mean?

— What I mean is that we aren't cold-blooded – ooh... now it makes sense, so thought Raymie. Out of many things said by Fratley, a few made sense for him – also, you need more than a single reason to be able to do something.

— So, that means I can't slap Phoebe only because she drooled at me?

— No, Raymie And I mean that you should never slap your sister, for no reason. If you do, then I would be more than dissapointed. Same for your mom, because she didn't created you like this. Your task as a brother is to protect your sister until she can on her own, understand?

— And what if they hurt me? What should I do?

— You are too young to be hurt this way, Raymie. Alright... can I talk to your sister?

— If you please – a strange request, coming out a strange guy that's Frattie. But whatever, that was an opportunity for Raymie to get out of Phoebe's embrace.

— Don't touch anything else other than books on this room, Raymie. Okay?

— Okay – despite the old books covered in dust and a few poisons lying on upper plates, some of Fratley's research still lies on the tables. A skull that used to be lethal alike the living being who wore it, pens who can write in invisible ink, but what really worries Fratley is objects alike the hammer and a nail belonging to a railroad, both which he uses to make sculptures.

A bit of sawdust still lies on his table, together with a pallete of pigments which he made a painting out of it. Fratley believes in what Raymie said, while most the times he doesn't allow kids to come in. But to allow them to come to this world, on other hand...

— Hey... How are you doing, Phoebe?

— coo – that's all that little Phoebe seems to say. These aren't words, not yet, but Fratley knows how to speak them. He lays on same floor, standing on same position to the one he's talking with, equal by equal.

— Have you drank enough milk?

— aaa... aaa... bblrblrlr – a few breathes are succeded by mere babbling. Raymie carefully flips an old book's page behind. Phoebe doesn't know what are capital words, neither tiny. All she does is noise, which Fratley hears well. He also hears the continous sound of pages flipping on its back.

— Are you hungry? – then Fratley hears nothing, for a while. Nothing new, but same rain outside, same wind chimes ringing, and a mouth covered by a tiny hand. A hand dirtied, but not enough to make Phoebe sick. Bacterias are currently growing on her guts, which Fratley can't hear, but the squeezing of organs smaller than his thumb alone is enough.

All is well, he considers, before sitting on indian position, instead of lying with its stomach down like a snail. The clothes are a bit dirty, but that doesn't bother Fratley that much, neither Phoebe, whose miller is still closing in. He can't see, but Phoebe stares at with with a kind of fascination, and a privilege as well.

— She is looking at you – said Raymie, who stood upon a rolling chair, reading a book with interesting pictures.

— And you are looking to one of my books. Which one?

— This one with skeletons.

— Skeletons? Right.

— Phoebe must be trying to find you, given the way she looks at you. Mom always plays hide and seek with her, and you do it everytime without hands, Frattie – for Fratley, it doesn't make a difference whether his pupils are closed or not. He feels nothing at all, but others do.

— Well, my eyes aren't covered in darkness because I wanted to hide from this world. And you, Phoebe? For how long will you be quiet? Sure, I can hear you. I'm here for this, and more. When I'm not here, I'm still doing something for you. See that spear over there? There... Look where I'm pointing at. Can you see it? That's Agartha. It's the name of my spear. Spear, javelin, Agartha... so many names, same for the one who holds it. You know, my name is Fratley, but I am a Dragoon Knight, a Sir, a lodger, and most of all, your friend. I am all these things, but most the time I can only be one of them. Understand? Guess not.

— c...coo.

— I wonder what that 'coo' meant. It can mean everything, since it's all you say. Well, I see you are trying to say, as much as you try to convey something. That's why you have a name, I have a name, your brother as well, despite all of us being the same. Complicated, don't you think? For me, it is a lot. I can't see you, but you can see me. And I wonder if I pointed to my spear, or if I pointed to nothing at all. I mean, I should know where Agartha is. It means a lot for me, because not only is my spear, but it was also father's.

—... – Phoebe puts her tiny hand at mouth, she can't eat it of course.

— Yes, Prescott Highwind... how much I miss him. Agartha's wooden shaft was made out of Yggdrasil's roots. That's the name of a pretty huge tree in the middle of Vube's desert, where cleyrans live at. Geez... You see, everything needs a name. It's hard to remember all these things, but if they sounded all the same, they would be even more hard to distinguish between.

— ...c-c..a... aaa... acho!

— Reis bless you. Know who Reis is? She's our protector. Well, there is Bahamut, the one above, but Reis is the closest we had of someone like us. She was a burmecian, a warrior, but I don't think I should go into details right now. All you need to know is that she was strong, so do you. I know you are strong, Phoebe. To be living until now is something impressive. Same for your brothers and sisters.

—... – Phoebe looks around, this time she tries to chew her own tail.

— There is Raymie, that one you bite, Jack, and... uh, Newell? Yes, Newell, and Dianne too. They are on sleep. Same for April. That's your mom's name. And, well, there is Albert. He isn't lying with your mother, and only his body is lying at a graveyard, together with a few flowers. He can't feel their scent, but that doesn't mean you can feel him, right?

— Blrbabablblarb...bab..blblbl...

— I see you're having fun with bubbles. For this sort of thing being fun for you, and later on turn out to be kinda disgusting. Guess you still haven't developed a sense of hygiene, Phoebe, despite your name's meaning being closer of 'radiance'. You see, everything have a meaning. You are trying to find them out, I'm sure you'll do. That's why we grow, in order to search meaning. Though, as we grow, some things seem meaningless. Like what you're doing with your mouth, or the demise of Albert. He knew the risks, so do I know my own. Know yourself before you know the world, and know what? You know the world better than I do. I can't see it as much as you do.

— aaaa... aaah...

— I suppose you are impressed. Don't know, others would be bored in your place after all this talk. Someday you'll learn to say 'yes' or 'no'. These words alone can open many doors, and close them as well. But, to where your father went, I'm sure that the doors were open for him. Well, I didn't knew Albert that much. A good soldier, so April said. A knight with a javelin, so his portrait decipts. We don't carry swords around, but javelins sure are heavy. You are a bit heavy too, Phoebe, but you aren't here to bring any harm. No, you are here to learn, understand, care as much as we do for you.

— ooo.. coo... blrlrlrooo..

— Uh huh. Somehow, Albert is still alive, even thought he's dead. Hanging in a wall, he outsmarted death. Same did my father, whose portrait is on me to this day. Phew... You see, I'm not the kind who relies on exposition, Phoebe. My body was trained for action, but I couldn't resist to talk with you, one of the few who listen to all I have to say without getting tired. You are full of energy, and wakes whenever you want. I mean, whenever your stomach want. Or when your bladder want. When you grow up, you'll get tired of hearing, amused of getting into action. Less is more, but you don't know what's less and what's more. You don't know the limits, only when I impose them to you. Sure, I could tell you at the moment to not bite Raymie anymore, but some things do not happen by second. You, for example, took half an hour and a plenty of effort coming out your mom to be born.

— aaa... abb-b-b..abrrlrrlr...

— You never get tired, do you? Never satisfied. As much as I, you can only walk on your feet if you really want to, Phoebe. Sure, before time comes, you can keep crawling around, but not forever. Unfortunately. Your gristle will diminish, except the one at your ears and nose, and the bones will make difficult, even painful to crawl or even squat. But that's how you know you are alive, because you feel pain. You cry and there's someone to hear you. When you were born, the first thing you did was cry, besides feeling a burnt in your lungs. New and fresh air, everything new, except April, who holded you with an embrace of arms. I know it all because I was there, so here I am.

/\_/\/\_/\/\_/\/\_/\/\

— But not for too long – coming out the door, said a young maiden whose heart was beating well for all these five years, so thought Fratley.

— I really would like to stay, but I have things to do – he said, as Phoebe was taken care by April's arms.

— Good morning, mom – said Raymie, closing in the book, as he left the room.

— Wait – not before April caught attention of him – is it filth in your hands?

— Uh... Yeah.

— And you cleaned your hands with your clothes?

— Oh... sorry.

— Go change your clothes. Wash your hands too, boy.

— Yes, mom – Raymie then could leave the room.

— You all seem to have a kind of sixty sense – said Fratley, as he raised out the floor. It ain't easy without his arms grabbing, or holding into something. Or to find gaiters on the dark lying below bed. Fratley takes both of them, but almost tumbles and falls again, had not been for the tight hold of April's right hand – thanks.

— I should be thanked, Sir Fratley. Had not been for you...

— You know that I can't do it all by myself. None of us can – sitting on his bed, Fratley shakes the lints of hair out its gaiters, soon as he wears both on his feet – besides blind, I'm also crippled. Had not been for the Dragoon, though... the cane, please.

— Don't you mean the javelin?

— No, April. I don't have compromisses of such importance. Besides, I'm not the kind who walks at streets with a spear in hands all time.

— But you can hear me better than I do. Well, it's one of the traits I admire in you, Sir Fratley.

— Everyone wants to be heard – so April listens to Fratley, followed of her footsteps being heard on his right, but what Fratley really likes to listen is – besides, I like your voice.

— Oh, thanks.

— I also like to picture how you look like, April. Blonde, 160cm, long strands, twenty-five, but you know I have no time for it. You also know that I wake up earlier to avoid the crowd, where I might get lost in a tidal of sounds.

— Not if someone is there to follow you. Here.

— The cane? Right. Where's my hat?

— You mean the one with the feather?

— Yes. It's a favorite. I think it's lying on the stand, but guess I took it off somewhere.

— I see your hat. It's near the counter. I'll take it for you.

— Okay. And how's Phoebe?

— Asleep.

— What will you prepare for breakfast?

— Scrambled eggs.

— Please. I don't like eggs.

— Uh huh – these are only words for April, but Fratley can feel the scent of breakfast already. Yet, in reality, he only feels spit accumulating on his mouth, and his stomach yelling quietly. For eggs, of all things...

— Can you give me an apple?

— An apple? I thought you lawyers were against bribes.

— Heh... sure we are. Me, at least – said Fratley, as a smirk went on his face, and April's own as well. He heard the muscles of her face move, before they both follow the stairway to its descent.

— It's surprising how you can still walk, Sir Fratley. Do you really need a cane, after all? – asked April, as she went to the kitchen, away from Fratley who stood near the door.

— Sure I need, April. It ain't easy, for real. You may not notice, but when I walk, It's like I'm taking control of both feet outside the skin.

— It must be really painful for you.

— It ain't. Just... well...

— Odd?

— Kinda. I don't know how to say. I already told you many times, and to this day...

— It's fine. I mean, I'm not a Dragoon to know.

— Sometimes, to be a Dragoon can be a wonderful thing, April. But in others, it feels more like a curse. But as long as I have a balance, I don't have to worry about these. As long as I have people like you in my side...

/\/\/\_/\/\/\_/\/\/\_/\/\/\

— I feel the same as you do – besides a hand, and a fruit in hands, Fratley also feels the same as April. He doesn't need to say, as much as she have eyes to see. And a heart that beats, and reveals a lot about a person, given the context.

— Uh... April?

— What is it?

— This ain't an apple – for a moment, Fratley felt pathetic. Hungry, as well – what is this?

— A banana.

— Oh. Right. You know, bananas do not have seeds, alike pineapples. The black dots found inside are supposed to be ovules, which will never be fertilized. So, in a way, all bananas are females, just like worker bees. Now, did what I've said made any kind of sense?

— Maybe it did – said April. She isn't a cult person, but at least someone who listens my words, so thought Fratley. He looks to the direction of the door, knowing its there, always there. It's strange when it comes to talk to people without looking to their faces, or by being forbidden of feeling their touch. Even now, it's something strange to be felt.

— It's surprising how you can do anything with an only hand while holding an infant with another, April.

— Well... Mothers never leave their sons alone.

— Only when it's time – said Fratley, before he heard knocks at the door, so did April, but the Dragoon took her place instead. Tiny knocks, coming from below, a heart heard before – oh, hi again, Raymie.

— Hey, Frattie... – said Raymie, as he went inside home beneath Fratley's legs. The later heard a voice behind, belonging to same child – I was playing outside, when a purple lady came in. She wants to talk with you.

— Hrist... Yes. Well, guess it's about time. Behave, okay?

— Uh, okay – yet, something in Raymie wasn't okay – but Frattie, aren't you going to say bye?

— I didn't took my javelin, so why should I?

— Will you be back?

— In flesh and bone. Take care, Raymie.

These were Fratley's last words, before he close the door and went outside. He knows that these won't be his last words, though they were Albert's epitaph. That's what he said before he was devoured, slaughtered, the worse happened. It always happen, but they say he died without fear.

Just like my father, so Fratley thinks, for a while. A while before Hrist, standing in the middle of the road, interrupts with her words. Some Fratley happen to notice, others he do not. At mornings like this, his head needs a bit of concentration, a polite way of saying shut up. Yet, not all words said by Hrist are junk, or useless, or irrelevant as her hair entangled on a comb. It once happened with Fratley himself, but he doesn't feel the need of giving any more details. They both walk somewhere, in streets empty before the main city arrives, together with its scent.

— ...Are you hearing any of my words, Sir Fratley? – generally, Hrist only mentions the title of Sir to give a sort of poignancy, or just be ironic to Fratley.

— I hear well – said Fratley, a man of facts, and many faces.

— So, how's your wife doing?

— She ain't my wife, Hrist.

— You two were made for each other – sarcasm ain't that subtle, or whatever was it who came out of Hrist's mouth. Sounded disrespectful, but that's one of her traits, ignore or not.

— So, I heard there is a newcomer... – Fratley decided to ignore what he heard before, to focus on the next point. One of the few important things said by Hrist

— Yes. But this one is my friend. Kinda of.

— What's the name?

— Oh, well... Freya. I haven't saw her for a long time.

— Freya... – something in that name caught Fratley. Not by surprise, despite new Dragoons being kind of a surprise. Female ones as well.

— Do you know her, by chance?

— No. I don't know her. Which family?

— Crescent – the name heard by Fratley holded many legends and a plenty of history, but in a world that anyone and anything can be granted of a name, things become less special.

— Crescent?

— Uh huh. Now you know?

— I do. I knew a Crescent in past life. But this me, though...

— Heard about Lenneth?

— Lenneth? Yes. A bit. Was she a Dragoon?

— Yes. Unfortunately, she passed.

— Oh. My condolences.

— Well, it didn't happened all of sudden. Lenneth, that poor thing, had the lungs filled of water. Didn't deserved to die young, but some say death is a kind of freedom. Anyway, her daughter is this Freya I mentioned before.

— So... how is this Freya alike?

— You want me to tell? – guess I do, so though Fratley, who had nothing in order to give himself a picture of this Freya. His hands, well... – huh. You blind always want to touch someone's face, but are forbidden of doing such... okay. So, Freya... she is tall like a tree, has white hair, a bit silver, long nails... – the details given by Hrist were confusing at first for Fratley, who literally pictured a tree in white. But given the notion of proportions, and the feeling of exaggeration coming out of Hrist's words gone in meantime, he could picture a kind of familiar figure. Not that much, since they met each other only a few times.

— So, she looks like Lenneth. Why didn't you said it already?

— Because I know Freya better than you do. Well, I said all I know. The rest is with you, Sir Fratley.

— If you say.

— Huh... and I'm pretty sure that you'll receive her in open arms.

— You say it as if I haven't received you in same way, Hrist.

— Sure you did, mister. Together with a bracelet – it's useless for Hrist to shove it upon Fratley's face, but he knows she's wearing that bracelet made out of chrysoberyl, besides feeling a breeze come on its face, and the dead space in between happened to be and arm.

— Do you still wear it?

— It's beautiful. Besides, it ain't everyday that you see a gem like this – as much as it ain't everyday that someone becomes a Dragoon Knight, so Fratley thought. He took it all well, but as for Hrist, being subtle aint her strong point – perhaps you have a gift in hands for Freya too.

— Lucky charm. And why not? I had far more clients than apprentices.

— Do you like your clients?

— They come and go, Hrist. It's hard to like someone who you'll never see again. Speaking of it... I have a trial to attend. Hrist.

— What's up?

— Well... I forgot to take something at home.

— You mean the 'lucky charm'? – Hrist said all of sudden, as if she already knew.

— Yes. Can you take it and bring it to this Freya?

— If you please – so Hrist leaves, and can be heard from a short distance, at Fratley's back – uh, where is it?

— It's on my bedroom. The first drawer of the center.

— Okay.

— Only the bracelet, Hrist. Remember.

— Believe in me. I'm no thief.

— For someone who steals a lot of attention...

— I do not steal, Fratley. I attract – then Hrist is gone, together with the footsteps following the path behind. I'll be fine on my own, so Fratley used to say for a young Hrist, but now he doesn't have a need to.