"How much do you know?" Fray asks, eyes narrowing.

The glow of lanterns overhead partially drowns out the golden hue that creeps into
their irises. The number of adventurers scattered around the tables of the
Wandering Stairs dwindled with the return of the night, but it still remained
fairly lively with the regular bounty hunters. A shame, Fray thinks. There is the
possibility of causing an unnecessary scene even at their half-obscured table.
Not that they fully intend to cause one - in fact, it would be better if they
didn't smear the warrior of darkness' reputation while they were half-absent. The
warrior's consciousness is tucked away in one corner of their mind, warm and
sluggish from the partially drained bottle of wine set before them. The abyss
cradles them in their deserved rest and Fray settles imperfectly under their skin.
In truth, they did not mean to surface, but Granson seems unbothered by the sudden
change in conversation partners. He seems to have expected it, even.
"Fray, right?" He cocks his head towards them. "They've told me a bit about you."
Fray's mouth presses into a firm line. The warrior rarely divulged anything about
themself, let alone the companions taking up space in their soul. Most would look
at them like a three-headed goobbue if they said anything of the sort, yet the
hunter sitting across from them is too unfazed for their liking. "Is that all?"
"I saw you fight alongside us when we laid Dikaiosyne to rest." Granson replies
simply with a shrug. "I was curious, so I asked. They told me you're a friend."
Fray internally scoffs. A friend, a mentor, a shadow - they are privy to all these
mantles and more, but they suppose there was never a way to truly describe their
precarious existence. Still, they cannot deny the term causes a vague warmth to
bloom in their chest. It heartens them to know their other half did not see them as
a burden when they had been nigh useless, all but scorched away by blinding light.
"Pleasantries aside, have you sinned lately? If nothing here strikes your fancy,"
Granson motions to the modest dishes ordered half a bell earlier, "then I can flag
Cyella down again-"
"If you're trying to win me over with food, know that I'm not as simple as they
are." Fray bristles minutely - suspicion colors their gaze when they cannot discern
his intentions. The last thing they want is the warrior getting dragged into
another harebrained hunt.
"Well, perhaps I am." He absently rubs the back of his neck. "But it's a Vrandtic
custom, too. I know you and the Warrior of Darkness aren't from here, so I thought
I'd treat you."
Fray raises a brow. They hadn't cared to learn the intricacies of the First when
their soul was being torn apart.
"Sins are what make us mortal." Granson continues when he notices their puzzled
expression. "They're what sets us apart from the forgiven. If we didn't sin every
now and then, we'd be no better than those monsters who do naught but feed and
slaughter."
Part of them understands, while the other doesn't. They lean back and cross their
arms. "Where I'm from, a man would do anything to be forgiven."
Their thoughts drift to the cold embrace of the Ishgard. Seeking out holy,
glorious, light would purge a soul of mortal taints and grant even the most
unfortunate wretch a place in Halone's Halls - highborn and lowborn alike were
raised on such a mantra. Though Fray never found solace in the grace of the Fury,
they harbored a lingering guilt that welled up through the cracks when their
faithlessness faltered. In those rare moments they could not help but think of
their own sins; was it possible to be absolved of them, when every breath they drew
went against the will of the See? Death hardly seemed to do the trick - not when
they still clung to cracked crystal and wisps of aether after the Fury passed
judgement on them.
Over the course of this strange journey, they made their peace with the burden.
Myste was proof of that. But to revel in it? They cannot imagine bearing it as
anything other than a solemn duty.
"Norvrandt used to be that way, too, before the Flood." Granson nods thoughtfully.
"Folks tried to sustain those teachings but with the war against the eaters? They
didn't just want to survive, they wanted to live."
The words mildly pique Fray's interest. Ompagne said something similar during the
muddled days of their apprenticeship. The concept was foreign to them when they
spent their every waking moment scrounging about the Brume to make it another day.
To survive was enough - there was no need to make it a joyous occasion when
dragonspit was constantly raining over their heads.
"Some felt it wasn't right to be celebrating when eaters claimed their allies. So
it was called a necessary sin, and people learned to embrace it. Of course, Eulmore
retreated into those pleasures for the wrong reasons when they gave up on the war.
Those of us in Wright lived modest lives, but without the occasional indulgence,
I'd reckon we'd lose sight of why we were struggling in the first place." Granson's
gaze lowers for a brief moment, and they can tell he's trying to believe his own
words again.
They vaguely know his story. A man who had his home torn apart by eaters, who bore
the burden of living when those he loved died. He thought he had no choice but to
harden and hollow his heart for the sake of revenge. Perhaps he saw a sliver of the
darkness he almost succumbed to in their companion's shadow; Fray, admittedly, saw
a passing likeness to their past self in his reckless desire to make sense of his
lot.
Flickers of the past surface in their periphery as they silently contemplate his
explanation. Nothing grandiose or heroically tragic, but mundane scenes they didn't
expect to be carved into the face of their soul crystal.
Ompagne unveiling an entire roasted dodo at the table for Starlight, his fond
laughter ringing in their ears as they shamelessly fought with Sid for the last
drumstick. The sight of Sidurgu's shite-eating grin after he saved up the extra
coin to furnish them with a new set of armor. The gentle tug of Rielle's hand on
their sleeve, insisting they buy a sweet for themselves when they wanted to spoil
her with fresh pastries from the Crozier.
It never seemed like they had a right to the comfort of those indulgences, yet they
cannot help but yearn for them. The aforementioned sin of the living, perhaps. They
thought Granson terribly naive in what few glimpses they got, but perhaps this
fledgling had something of value to say after all. They unfold their arms, their
posture relaxing the barest amount.
"Not sure how things work where you're from, but here, there is no such thing as
forgiveness without blood." Granson finishes, taking a sip out of his tankard.
"Still with me, sinner?"
They snort, cocking their head towards the side. "So - better to be a filthy sinner
than one of those sinless bastards, is that it?"
"Aye, you've the right of it. So I'll ask you again: have you sinned?" He asks,
flashing a crooked smile before he pulls out a pouch of coin. "I've still got the
bounty from taking Dikaiosyne's head. You ought to have a share of it too, since
you helped."
They give an exaggerated sigh before finally relenting. "No point in offering food
to a ghost," Fray starts, and watches in amusement as Granson balks at the word,
"but if you insist. I've sins aplenty, so what's one more?"