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Amidst the thick fog, this traveler stands out: wan moon and candle gleaming off of gold, luminous despite the blue dark. It isn't uncommon to find lost travelers wandering down the shore and through the graveyard, even when the fog comes rolling in— sometimes bravery drives them, more often a lack of common sense. Flins has seen his fair share of panicked civilians, helpless in the face of the Wild Hunt, unprepared for the true dread of those monsters: it's why he wanders the foggy moor in the dead of night, after all. Duty and routine.
What is less common is this: when the dust settles and the last sparks of Electro fade, leaving the faint taste of ozone in the cool night air, Flins catches the first real flicker of trepidation in the young man's expression. It hadn't been fear, when the first monsters emerged— rather, the fluid tensing of lean muscle, calm assessment as the battle's layout took shape. Assurance instead of panic. Determination instead of fright. It makes the way that the traveler steps back as Flins approaches him seem all the more wary, those fine and fair features narrowing with calculation. But no more than that, even as Flins comes to stand before him. He has to raise his head to meet Flins' eyes, but he says nothing.
"This is no place to linger on a foggy night," Flins says, breaking the silence with practiced ease. The young man's hands are empty, the blade that had flashed into existence between them now gone. Being empty-handed gives him a vulnerable air— the way that his head tips slightly to the side at Flins' words only makes that feeling stronger. Perhaps that's why Flins bows, offering his own empty hand.
"Allow me to escort you out." It isn't a question, but he would rather not have to make a demand. For a moment, it seems as though he might have to— then the young man relaxes, nodding.
"Thank you," he says. His voice is quiet, though it carries with it that same assurance and determination that he had faced battle with. Flins can easily wrap his fingers around the young man's small hand, helping him descend the grassy hill. With the Wild Hunt gone, the night has resumed its cold and unfeeling splendor: silvery moonlight filtering through the fog, the sound of waves against shore. Once their feet return to the beaten earth of the path, Flins relinquishes his hold, beginning the walk back towards the settlement.
"I don't believe I have had the pleasure of meeting you before," Flins says. The young man, keeping in step with him obediently, fixes his gaze on Flins again. The pallid light does nothing to diminish the way he seems to glow, a scratch of gold against the darkened sky. "I am Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins, a warrior of the Lightkeepers of Nod-Krai."
"It's nice to meet you," the young man replies. "Most people just call me the Traveler."
By far not the strangest epithet Flins has heard from a wanderer— beyond ordinary, in fact. The simplicity of it, though, prompts him to ask, "Most people?"
The Traveler looks pensive as he says, "Well… I've been given many names. And titles, and nicknames. But yes, most people know me as the Traveler."
"Then you must have traveled far and wide, to earn such a name." Flins returns. "From where did you travel, that took you to Nod-Krai?"
"Recently… I was in Natlan," the Traveler offers, adding after a moment as if to elaborate, "All over Natlan."
It leaves Flins with more questions than answers, but most pressing of all is this: "The climate in Natlan is a far cry from our bleak nights." he says. "You must be cold. May I offer you my coat?"
"Oh, no," the Traveler immediately demurs. "No, it's not that cold here. Dragonspine is much colder."
Natlan, Dragonspine, Nod-Krai— a traveler indeed. The meager scarf he’s wearing doesn't seem to offer much by way of warmth, to say nothing of the Traveler's bared midriff, but Flins acquiesces with a nod of his head. There are all sorts of people out there— perhaps this wanderer simply tolerated the cold better than most.
"Then, may I inquire as to what they called you in Natlan?" Flins asks. At this, the Traveler flushes slightly— in moonlight dissipated by fog and the glow of Flins' lantern, it's not much more than a faint pinkness at the tips of his ears.
"...Tumaini," he says. "It's a name that means 'hope'."
"A beautiful name," replies Flins, and finds that he means it. The Traveler smiles for the first time, an embarrassed tilt of his lips. "One would think the story behind it to be impressive."
"It's a long story," the Traveler allows. "But not that impressive— after all, it's not only my story to tell."
"I suspect that you're being humble," Flins slows enough to nod pointedly at the Traveler's empty hands. "You seemed to be a swordsman."
The Traveler glances down, then, understanding, "Oh— well, yes, I suppose. You were more impressive just now, though, Sir Flins."
"There is no need to use such formalities with me," he shakes his head. "It is merely my duty as a Lightkeeper to deal with the Wild Hunt. For how long this duty has been mine, it is hardly impressive."
Wild Hunt, the Traveler mouths to himself, and Flins finds himself inexplicably biting back a smile. Now that they have walked together for a short time, that cold and wary initial disposition of the Traveler's has scattered like ashes in the wind. A number of unconscious habits appear in its place— the way he tilts his head in Flins' direction when Flins speaks, the flash of pearly teeth digging into his bottom lip when he pauses to think for a moment. Even the certainty with which he'd spoken at first has eased, softening his vowels and consonants at the edges, soothing and almost song-like.
And, Flins thinks as the Traveler looks up at him again, those wide golden eyes. So focused in an imminent battle, now open and guileless. Either quick to trust or bolstered by plain confidence, despite having seen Flins' battle earlier. Whatever the cause, it has a certain draw— sparks an urge to uncover more. Flins is, for once, disappointed when he sees the flicker of streetlamps in the distance, signaling their return to civilization.
"I talked about myself quite a bit," the Traveler says, perhaps a bit sheepishly. "I was more curious about you, Sir Flins."
"Just Flins will suffice," Flins reminds him. He slows, the worn path giving way to cobblestone road, stopping just short of stepping out from the border of trees. Sheltered by the shade, he continues, "I hope you'll forgive my own curiosity, in that case, for I merely wanted to learn about you. It was a pleasure to meet you, Traveler."
"And you," returns the Traveler. There's a new expression on his face, this time— nearly sullen. It almost looks like a pout. "Thank you for your help tonight."
"As was my duty," Flins says simply. The Traveler steps past him, into the yellow glow of the streetlight. Here, more than under the moon, more than by the lantern, he looks truly luminous— a star with a golden trail as he turns to face Flins.
"Is it always foggy at night, by the shore?" he asks. Flins blinks, before the corners of his lips tip upwards. What a roundabout question.
"Should you find yourself lost once more," he says, "I would consider it an honour to escort you back again. Next time, I shall repay your stories with my own, if you would like."
The Traveler's smile this time is wide, those moonlit, starlight eyes turning to crescents. "I would. Good night, Sir Flins."
It's only when the Traveler has disappeared from view, the graceful tails of his cape and braid the last that Flins sees of him as he turns a corner, that Flins thinks again, You can call me Flins.