Exasperated, Belenor leaned against a doorway adjoining the bark wall of the cavernous avenue and made Sap circulate his nose. He had never expected to win this race, so after all, he could use a little rest. On the opposite wall of the tunnel, large skylights offered a view of the working-class district of Fyre, whose makeshift dwellings, linked by a network of suspension bridges, were built on the bark walls of a gigantic abyssal shaft. Deprived of daylight, the neighborhood was lit with large torches, obviously combined with the handcrafted fire-fighting systems for which the Fyros were famous. Belenor had been inspired by the working-class district of Fyre to invent the village the hero of his fiction would live in, which he imagined would be built inside a gigantic jungle tree stump, lit largely by lamps containing fireflies. Soothed by this vision, the Fyros sat down and allowed himself to reverie. Unfortunately, the pause was short-lived, for no sooner had his mind escaped than a new runner stopped at his level. In spite of the half-light, Belenor recognized without difficulty his body: muscular buttocks, traced abdominal muscles, veiny forearms, massive shoulders and little developed breast. Xynala. Dressed of a wide panties and a simple bra, the warrior put her hands on her chiseled obliques and sighed. From the top of her fifteen years, she fixed him with a severe air.

Exasperated, Belenor leaned against a doorway adjoining the bark wall of the cavernous avenue and made Sap circulate his nose. He had never expected to win this race, so after all, he could use a little rest. On the opposite wall of the tunnel, large skylights offered a view of the working-class district of Fyre, whose makeshift dwellings, linked by a network of suspension bridges, were built on the bark walls of a gigantic abyssal shaft. Deprived of daylight, the neighborhood was lit with large torches, obviously combined with the handcrafted fire-fighting systems for which the Fyros were famous. Belenor had been inspired by the working-class district of Fyre to invent the village the hero of his fiction would live in, which he imagined would be built inside a gigantic jungle tree stump, lit largely by lamps containing fireflies. Soothed by this vision, the Fyros sat down and allowed himself to reverie. Unfortunately, the pause was short-lived, for no sooner had his mind escaped than a new runner stopped at his level. In spite of the half-light, Belenor recognized without difficulty his body: muscular buttocks, traced abdominal muscles, veiny forearms, massive shoulders and little developed breast. Xynala. Dressed of a wide panties and a simple bra, the warrior put her hands on her chiseled obliques and sighed. From the top of her fifteen years, she fixed him with a severe air.

For all answer, the Fyrossa held out a hand to him. In her eyes, the severity had given way to compassion.

For all answer, the Fyrossa held out a hand to him. In her eyes, the severity had given way to compassion.

Belenor grabbed her classmate's hand and stood up.

Belenor grabbed her classmate's hand and stood up.

The Fyrossa smiled a compassionate smile.

The Fyrossa smiled a compassionate smile.

At these words, Xynala did some stretching.

At these words, Xynala did some stretching.

Belenor, whose anger was was on its way out, smiled at his female friend. If anyone could win a duel against Melkiar, it was definitely her. For, like all members of the Zeseus family, Xynala was an exceptional warrior. Her grandparents were already famous at the time, and their reputation was cemented when, in 2435, the Kingdom of Matia took advantage of the burning Amber Mines of Coriolis to take back the holy city of Karavia. His two forefathers had sacrificed themselves to allow the Fyros living in Karavia to flee the besieged city, thus avoiding the massacre. Xynala did not know her grandparents, but her mother, who was thirteen years old when they died, often recalled their memories for her. Memories that, combined with the romanticized national history, painted a very heroic picture of her grandparents.

Belenor, whose anger was was on its way out, smiled at his female friend. If anyone could win a duel against Melkiar, it was definitely her. For, like all members of the Zeseus family, Xynala was an exceptional warrior. Her grandparents were already famous at the time, and their reputation was cemented when, in 2435, the Kingdom of Matia took advantage of the burning Amber Mines of Coriolis to take back the holy city of Karavia. His two forefathers had sacrificed themselves to allow the Fyros living in Karavia to flee the besieged city, thus avoiding the massacre. Xynala did not know her grandparents, but her mother, who was thirteen years old when they died, often recalled their memories for her. Memories that, combined with the romanticized national history, painted a very heroic picture of her grandparents.

The Fyrossa gave Belenor a friendly slap on the back and dashed after the runners.

The Fyrossa gave Belenor a friendly slap on the back and dashed after the runners.

After watching for a few seconds the beautiful acceleration of his comrade, he turned around. She was right. Her song could be heard echoing in the tunnel. Belenor smiled. He knew well this lugubrious rhyme, whose words gained in amplitude as the interpreter approached. He knew that voice well, which had recently begun to change in such a singular way:

After watching for a few seconds the beautiful acceleration of his comrade, he turned around. She was right. Her song could be heard echoing in the tunnel. Belenor smiled. He knew well this lugubrious rhyme, whose words gained in amplitude as the interpreter approached. He knew that voice well, which had recently begun to change in such a singular way:

<poem>

<poem>

Belenor had caught himself closing his eyes during the song and accompanying the verses with his whispers. Yet the following was missing. Disappointed, the Fyros opened his eyes. Unsurprisingly, Brandille was now facing him, face wearing a mischievous smile. True to those of his people, the child had grown little. This was not the case with her multicolored braids, which were now floating at her buttocks.

Belenor had caught himself closing his eyes during the song and accompanying the verses with his whispers. Yet the following was missing. Disappointed, the Fyros opened his eyes. Unsurprisingly, Brandille was now facing him, face wearing a mischievous smile. True to those of his people, the child had grown little. This was not the case with her multicolored braids, which were now floating at her buttocks.

Belenor frowned. If he wanted to bounce back by asking her why she had stopped singing, he knew in advance that his answer would not suit him.

Belenor frowned. If he wanted to bounce back by asking her why she had stopped singing, he knew in advance that his answer would not suit him.

Brandille burst into a singular laugh.

Brandille burst into a singular laugh.

Belenor nodded and the two friends set off again side by side. His friend was well ahead, but nothing in her behavior or in her body signals showed any fatigue. Brandille was not panting. Brandille was not sweating. In fact, Brandille was not running: Brandille was sliding. Minutes passed, and with them, the light at the end of the tunnel appeared. For Brandille, the finish line was approaching, and for Belenor, the beginning of a new and endless lap was preparing. And as the calm darkness of the dried out vein gave way to the exhilaration of the audience and the sweltering heat outside, true to her reputation, Brandille leapt. Without even asking for his consent, the acrobat jumped with both feet on Belenor's shoulders and propelled himself in the air. One quadruple salto later, Brandille was landing in the hot sawdust under the acclamations of the crowd in jubilation, agglutinated at the doorsteps, at the windows, or on the many raised passages which made it possible to navigate between the various floors of the city. If Belenor was disconcerted by the maneuver made by his friend in the middle of a discussion, he was especially surprised to have felt almost no pressure on his shoulders. Definitely, the Sap that ran through Brandille was nothing like the one that ran through the other homins, Belenor was sure of it. The Fyros had asked himself many questions about this in the past. If his friend remained enigmatic about his early childhood, and had fun telling different stories to the different people who questioned her, one element seemed to come back regularly. Indeed, Brandille often referred to the Lands of Storms, this mysterious land located east of the Great Sea, and whose titanic and infinite storms that constantly rolled there prevented any exploration. Although exchanges between the Trykoth Federation and the Fyros Empire had been commonplace since the construction of the Aqueduct, and although he had occasionally come across Trykers in Fyre, Belenor had never heard of homins living in the Stormlands. Finally, Brandille had never clearly explained the reason for his presence in Fyre. As long as he had known his friend, he had always seen her dwelling in the orphanage in the capital. So the mystery remained, even so many years after their meeting.

Belenor nodded and the two friends set off again side by side. His friend was well ahead, but nothing in her behavior or in her body signals showed any fatigue. Brandille was not panting. Brandille was not sweating. In fact, Brandille was not running: Brandille was sliding. Minutes passed, and with them, the light at the end of the tunnel appeared. For Brandille, the finish line was approaching, and for Belenor, the beginning of a new and endless lap was preparing. And as the calm darkness of the dried out vein gave way to the exhilaration of the audience and the sweltering heat outside, true to her reputation, Brandille leapt. Without even asking for his consent, the acrobat jumped with both feet on Belenor's shoulders and propelled himself in the air. One quadruple salto later, Brandille was landing in the hot sawdust under the acclamations of the crowd in jubilation, agglutinated at the doorsteps, at the windows, or on the many raised passages which made it possible to navigate between the various floors of the city. If Belenor was disconcerted by the maneuver made by his friend in the middle of a discussion, he was especially surprised to have felt almost no pressure on his shoulders. Definitely, the Sap that ran through Brandille was nothing like the one that ran through the other homins, Belenor was sure of it. The Fyros had asked himself many questions about this in the past. If his friend remained enigmatic about his early childhood, and had fun telling different stories to the different people who questioned her, one element seemed to come back regularly. Indeed, Brandille often referred to the Lands of Storms, this mysterious land located east of the Great Sea, and whose titanic and infinite storms that constantly rolled there prevented any exploration. Although exchanges between the Trykoth Federation and the Fyros Empire had been commonplace since the construction of the Aqueduct, and although he had occasionally come across Trykers in Fyre, Belenor had never heard of homins living in the Stormlands. Finally, Brandille had never clearly explained the reason for his presence in Fyre. As long as he had known his friend, he had always seen her dwelling in the orphanage in the capital. So the mystery remained, even so many years after their meeting.

Drunk with praise, Brandille continued to flit theatrically as the finish line drew near. While Belenor tried to stay focused on his own race, his friend's pirouettes allowed him to forget the feelings of pain and fatigue that were running through him. Finally, he passed Brandille, who preferred to perform acrobatic tricks, and began his new lap. The crowd exploded when his friend also crossed the finish line. By reflex, Belenor turned around. He almost lost his balance when he saw Melkiar, located only a few meters behind him. He was accompanied by Tisse Apoan, a particularly slim Fyrossa with red hair. The two runners reached his level and Melkiar slowed down. Belenor stiffened.

Drunk with praise, Brandille continued to flit theatrically as the finish line drew near. While Belenor tried to stay focused on his own race, his friend's pirouettes allowed him to forget the feelings of pain and fatigue that were running through him. Finally, he passed Brandille, who preferred to perform acrobatic tricks, and began his new lap. The crowd exploded when his friend also crossed the finish line. By reflex, Belenor turned around. He almost lost his balance when he saw Melkiar, located only a few meters behind him. He was accompanied by Tisse Apoan, a particularly slim Fyrossa with red hair. The two runners reached his level and Melkiar slowed down. Belenor stiffened.

{{Couillard}}

{{Couillard}}

Vêtue de son armure de cuir rigide bardée de décorations, la célèbre héroïne à la chevelure blanche et au visage recouvert de cicatrices s’avança jusqu’au centre de l’arène. Décrochant une corne creuse de sa ceinture, elle porta l’objet à sa bouche et entama son discours. Sa voix rauque et amplifiée résonna dans l’amphithéâtre.

Vêtue de son armure de cuir rigide bardée de décorations, la célèbre héroïne à la chevelure blanche et au visage recouvert de cicatrices s’avança jusqu’au centre de l’arène. Décrochant une corne creuse de sa ceinture, elle porta l’objet à sa bouche et entama son discours. Sa voix rauque et amplifiée résonna dans l’amphithéâtre.