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Alcohol, Ataya found, had a way of affecting different things at different rates, and in strange ways. Fairly quickly after leaving the scene of the festival, he regretted leaving the scene of the festival, but he pushed that regret down, tampering it. His sister had made it clear from the moment he’d extended his invitation to travel down that she agreed due to wanting to find her firani friend. Now she had. They had time and opportunity together, and he wasn’t part of that, nor did he want anything to do with Nesrinn’s dictations on how he ought to conduct himself.

This, he thought, was better.

His breath rippled out from between his lips, which tingled with a growing numbness, and he eyed the coiling white that climbed from them with distracted curiosity. When he reached up, the movement felt slow — lethargic and thickened — each twitch of muscle requiring far more concentration to operate than normal. He shivered, and then frowned.

He was cold.

When was the last time he’d been cold…?

Ataya shifted his weight, shaking his head and then wincing when that seemed to spawn an un-asked for dizziness in him. Attempting to rise was, apparently, a great deal more complicated than he remembered, and the wall felt obscure as he clutched to it, scrambling to stand and then drawing a shuddered, bleary breath when he managed to right himself. Mostly. Whatever it was he’d been drinking was forgotten at his feet, potentially spilled. It didn’t matter. He was cold and calling on his magic to balance things out felt like sifting uphill through sand on unsteady feet with a nauseous gut.

His magic was there. He could feel it. But controlling it…

Ataya shivered, rubbing his fingers up and down his arms and shoving down — as best he could — the growing wealth of anxiety churning in him. There was no need to panic. No real danger. He could cast if he really needed to. Surely. It was fine. He wasn’t that out of control of his senses. He was just—

Fumbling roughly over a loose cobblestone, he winced and yipped, only just barely catching himself with the wall and swallowing and swaying several more times before he reached the end of the alley. His sister, he thought, shaking his head again in a futile attempt to clear it. Like attempting to sweep the sand from the desert. He needed to find his sister.

Which direction…?

Noise.

There was light and noise in one way, and he had come from noise, hadn’t he? That was as promising as anything else, surely. It might have been minutes or it might have been an hour before he heard voices coming up the street. The registered as distant background information at first, but as they drew closer, Ataya frowned, his ear instinctively attempting to pick up on what was being said.

Talk, talk, talk, talk.

The voices were male, mostly, and rowdy, but every time Ataya tried to force his concentration to pinpoint more detail than that, his head spun and he grimaced, taking a break from walking and holding himself still to the wall to gain his bearings. He was so tired. And cold. Why was he cold…? He’d asked himself that before, surely, or he felt he had, but he couldn’t remember if he’d figured it out.

“—there?”

Ataya paused, recognizing vaguely that the group of speakers from earlier was not only near, but closing in on him specifically, and seemed to be addressing him.

“Oi, yes, you there. We’re talkin’ to you.” One of them approached, and Ataya frowned, attempting to situate himself with limited success and eyeing who he was dealing with. Male. Older. Heavy-set. Perhaps late thirties or early forties with a wiry beard and practical seaman’s clothes. “You a whore?”

“Doesn’t look dressed like one.”

“You never know…sometimes they get desperate.”

A hand reached for his face, and Ataya meant to jerk back, but instead, he fumbled, and moments later his hood was being pushed back, over his horns and down around his shoulders. A thumb pressed against his cheek, coarse with callouses, and Ataya could feel the heat of the man’s breath, thick with unpleasant scents.

“Well, well, well, would y’ lookit here…this one’s a hybrid, mates. A whole mix of mess…looks like a spotted sheron. Little far from home aren’t you, then? Don’t usually see much of your kind quite stupid enough to be all on your lonesome on a lovely night like this…or has someone already seen to having their fun with you and couldn’t be bothered to put you back where you came from?”

Ataya’s gut lurched, nausea swelling sharply enough to make him cringe and clutch at the wall. His forward sway, though, was caught and stilled by the hand of the man in front of him. He meant to talk. He was going to talk. He was going to shove the man away. He was going to…

Ataya’s vision swam, his lashes heavy and lips parted, tongue thick and non-functional. What was wrong with him…? He couldn’t have drunk more than half the bottle, and it hadn’t been that long ago that he’d been fine, hadn’t he?

The hands on him pushed, and a second later it was those hands holding him up against the wall. Ataya was no longer entirely sure that if they let go in that moment, he wouldn’t collapse on the spot, useless as a wet paper doll.

“—a lad or a lass, hn?”

“…s either a skinny, flat-chested lass, or the same of a lad…”

Fingers found their way into his hair, gripping, and Ataya’s fingers rose, clutching at the wrist of his aggressor with intent to push, but little more than that. It seemed that simply keeping his grip there was almost more effort than his body was capable of mustering. Akara. He needed to find his sister. Or someone. Anyone else.

“…r name?”

“Akara—”

“Your name’s Akara?”

‘No, you idiot.’ Ataya grimaced, but again, when he opened his lips, nothing of substance came out. Seconds later, there was a hand on his throat. The grip at his nape re-tightened, and the sound that was meant to be a sharp objection came out as little more than a whined, “Nnnh…”

“So you are a lass then, ah?”

‘No…’ The shake of his head was probably indecipherable from any other undefined sway.

“Ugly lass. How unlucky for you. Oi, Treyon: catch.”

The world lurched, the speaker using their grip on him to toss Ataya forward like a broken puppet, and his limbs functioned about as effectively. It was only by the ‘grace’ of the named man doing just that — catching him and supporting his limp weight — that he did not fall to the stone street. His vision darkened at the edges, and Ataya began losing all track of what was said, only barely conscious of his own fingers clutching to the only thing before them, in this case: the cloth of the tunic at the chest of whatever stranger was holding him.

“Akara…Mother…Dysarrin…”

‘Father…’

Ataya lost consciousness.

Treyon caught the ‘weight’ of the kid tossed at him like nothing. She felt like nothing when she landed against him, all dark hair and narrow limbs and clothes that seemed to take up more space than she did. As her body buckled, fingers loosely clutching at his chest like someone trying in vain to keep themself from drowning, he frowned.

“Dannis, I don’t even think she’s conscious. And if she is, she isn’t holdin’ on to it for long.”

“Aye, well, easier for me then, isn’t it?”

Treyon snorted, shifting her limp form to better support it before shaking his head. “Can’t be but fourteen or fifteen. You really serious?”

“It’s just a hybrid, mate, relax. And hells, the way I see it, we’re doin’ her a favor. If she was gonna pass out in the street near winter as so, likely would o’ died from chill anyhow. Least she can do is repay me by savin’ my purse the cost of a street wench for the night.”

Treyon pursed his lips, fingers catching loosely in the stretch of stark white in the hybrid’s hair. Aiskala. Unlikely to freeze, even on the worst of nights, and on closer inspection, he was fairly certain his company had made a mistake about the gender besides. The kid didn’t particularly look like a girl to begin with, other than the mass of hair, and didn’t have even a hint of breasts. He also had an Adam’s apple. Treyon snorted.

“Dannis—”

The crash of nearby impact jerked his attention around, and Treyon froze, instinctively tightening his grip on the unconscious teenager he held in one hand and reaching for the blade at his belt with the other. A khehora. Bonded, given its size, and not quite fully grown even then from the look of things. Green, red, orange and clearly fiercely protective, probably of the boy. While others in his company snarled, immediately drawing blades or tossing out a whip of fire towards the beast to edge it back, Treyon hesitated, keeping his own ysali magic at bay and taking a step back.

Whatever ‘easy find’ they had when stumbling on the boy, the situation had already immensely complicated itself.

“Eh, more of them?”

“What do a bunch of little hybrid rats—”

“Come on, it’s not worth it, then. It’s just a kid anyway. Wouldn’t you rather have a real woman?”

Eventually, the group which had originally happened upon Ataya receded, determining that it simply was not worth it. They had better things to do than bother with a bunch of angry children. Treyon, not wanting to break the kid’s skull on the way down, knelt, laying him on the street and — almost as an afterthought — giving the barest pulse of ysali magic through the kid’s system, staving off some of the worst effects of the alcohol which seemed to be overworking his small body.

Moments later, he was gone, following after his compatriots. On the cobblestones, Ataya shivered.

Ataya stirred, his magic answering before his mind as two familiar threads of energy rippled through him. They worked slowly, not completely familiar with his particular ailment, but effectively, the ysali magic naturally moving to nullify the toxins holding his mind and body on lockdown and the peisio magic that followed cleansing and washing out what remained. Ataya felt his mind move groggily, responding after his magic but before his body.

He felt breath between his lips, felt the hard base of stone beneath him and the chill of night air. He heard his sister’s voice, felt her magic, felt Lyari’s magic, and heard the wind. His body, though, felt first like lead still. An unresponsive rock that refused to so much as open its eyes. Mentally, he scowled, vaguely familiar with this situation but still none-too-pleased with it. In the in between time, though, he took the opportunity to back track and place himself in the present.

How had he gotten to here, wherever ‘here’ — a cold night road, from the feel of things — was?

He remembered the festival. Dancing. Watching Nesrinn. He remembered one drink of something appealing, and then becoming cross and—

“Nnnh…” This time when he grimaced, the mental expression actually translated over onto his face, and his fingers responded when he moved to close them and pull them in towards himself. A small pulse of frost rippled out, responding to his first brief surge of energy after having been so out of touch with it, and his breath was white with ice when he released a shuddered exhale. He forced his lashes upwards and pinned his sister with a pinched, convoluted expression. “Alright,” he said despite the lingering clogged feel to his throat, “this does likely compete, I admit, for one of the stupidest decisions I have ever made…but, while I infer from the circumstances that it’s highly probably I owe you an apology, I have to confess that the specifics are eluding me.” Lashes still heavy, he allowed them to shut again, but rolled slightly, more onto his back, and raised his hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “What…precisely…happened?”

Ataya blinked and then grunted, shutting his eyes at the hug and layering a hand over her loosely. When Nesrinn nudged a bottle his way, he squinted at first and then grimaced, remembering. “Ah. Mmm…” He shook his head, pushing to a slow sit and wincing when his sister hit at him. “I didn’t drink nearly that much. It was far too strong…nothing like whatever it was you purchased for us. I got only a fraction of the way through and it started hitting my system far more quickly and powerfully than I was ready for…I must have knocked it over in my attempt to get back to the festivities. In any case…”

He frowned, thinking on it. Though most of his memory beyond the alley itself was disturbingly blank, he had a distinct sense of fear somewhere in his conscious; a sense of helplessness in not being able to tap into his magic. To test it, he lifted a hand, flicking his fingers out and murmuring the simplest spell he knew. Immediately, miniature balls of light gathered at his command. He pushed up and out then with his innate magic, sending up a small snow spiral of flakes to dance amidst the light.

Satisfied that that at least no longer seemed to be a problem, he hummed. Despite it, though:

“Yes,” he answered in response to his sister’s commentary. “I think it was highly unwise and I certainly wasn’t anticipating things going quite as they did. It will either be quite some time before I ever drink again or…I will not. Ever. Depending…I believe it interfered with my ability to cast, though the entire string of circumstances grows very vague very quickly.” He frowned as he sat up slightly, lifting a hand to card back through his hair and then letting his fingers fall, but they lingered absently at his throat, hesitating there. “What would men want with me other than to kill—?”

A shadow rippled over them, filling the street, and Ataya’s gaze jerked up to land on—

—a dragon, sweeping downwards towards them. But not just any dragon. After a rushing gust that was the landing, seconds later, a man stood in the beast’s place, his long blue hair loose and arms already folded as he eyed the group of young teenagers.

“I suggest,” Lithian said, “that you begin mentally drafting your apologies now. And quickly.” As his eyes took in the full scene, though, a pinch of concern flit into place, and he relaxed his posture, taking a step forward. “Did something happen? Are you two alright?”

Ataya blinked, and then stiffened, eyes narrowing suspiciously as Nesrinn lingered before his sister, his eyes glancing in a dangerous direction and then—

He bristled. Frost prickled the ground, dusting the cobblestones white, but moments after opening his mouth, he opted against words and shut it again. When the kiss broke, and then started again, this time initiated by his sister, he rolled his eyes and wrinkled his nose, looking away and pushing to a careful stand. As though instinctively aware of his difficulties, Lithian was at his side in a moment, offering a hand and steadying him without a word, though his attention was pinned with a watchful eye to the budding ‘romance.’

When Nesrinn was again out of sight, Ataya huffed, tugging the large cloak about his shoulders tighter — and then hesitating as he frowned. “This is…” After sparing a glance in the direction the dovaa boy had already disappeared in, he dismissed the thought. They would likely encounter him again later, and it could be delivered to him then.

In the meantime…

“Come, you two,” Lithian said. “Your parents will want to know you are well.”

Ataya’s gaze flit to his sister, a slew of questions and confidences on his mind. Eventually, though, he settled with moving to stand beside her, removing Nesrinn’s cloak from his own shoulders and wrapping it over hers. After nudging against her just enough to catch her gaze, he mouthed the words, ‘Thank you…’

Then, their uncle was shifting back to dragon form, lowering his position so that they might climb on, and after doing so, they were on the short flight ‘home’ to their uncles’ house to face their parents, and whatever else might come their way. Ataya shut his eyes, and savored the brief moments between rising and landing where all he had to concern himself with was the warmth of his sister at his side and the reliable, steady force of their uncle beneath them, carrying them through the air. This moment, at least, was certain and safe. What came next would be left to the whims of fate, but he did have much he wanted to speak of when they caught another peaceful moment.