[The sound of her name in G'raha's voice is like balm over a wound; it doesn't matter that there's more warning in it than indulgence, because what matters is that he's alive at all to say it. Her G'raha Tia, here and alive, hale and whole, and not spirited away to the depths of the Tempest while the skies turn blinding overhead.

But would that Ezar had chosen any other word. Any other word than the one she remembers hearing through the blinding haze of her soul fracturing apart, corrupting her aether until Y'shtola couldn't recognize it as her own. Anything other than —]

None of us is a disappointment.

[She just barely manages to set her water down before curling in on herself, digging her fingers into her hair as she hides her face in her knees, and the glow all around her turns brighter and more brilliant still. But instead of shimmering as it has before, now it starts to pulse like a heartbeat, like a flicker of lightning.]

Not you, not me — gods, it's like I can still hear him. Calling me a broken husk of a —

[She breaks the thought off, snarling a rasp of frustration and discontent low in her throat, and holds still for a long interval until finally the glow about her starts to wane again. Finally, at last, she releases her fingers from her hair bit by bit, then folds her arms over her knees and pillows her forehead on them instead.]

A story, then. Someone tell a story. Anyone, about anything, please.