Ever since he left the bustling streets of Luca behind, the hairs on the back of Zveran’s neck had been standing. He reshoulders his pack, adjusting to make it more comfortable, as well giving him the chance to peek behind him.
He couldn’t see anything, but that didn’t mean no one was there, and if he let them get the better of him, if they caught him by surprise, well. The thieves who trained him would be very disappointed.
“Yes, I am quite pathetic. It was your strong hand that has guided me through these past few weeks.”
Zveran waves an airy hand. “I was managing. But I didn’t have any one challenging me, forcing me to reconsider what was right in front of me.”
Masque hums, a little unnerved, but doesn't seem inclined to continue the conversation.
Zveran understands that, has lived it himself, but cannot help the fact it makes him sad.
Nonetheless, he simply leads the group out in the snow-covered lands, to begin the trek to the Thunder Plains.
Masque seems to find the trek back easier somehow. Perhaps it's just time actually eating regularly. Perhaps it's the company. Either way.
Over the next week, Zveran does not let up on his gentle coaxing. At every opportunity he asks after her being his guardian, that same hopeful smile on his face.
They continue to be somewhat evasive on the matter - almost as if saying something will curse this situation - but they also seem fairly settled in that apparent role.
The teasing, even light flirting, continues all the way up until they reach Bevelle outskirts.
"Fuck," he says, the first day they catch sight of the city.
"They're going to think I'm Al Bhed on sight. I have green eyes," Zveran says bitterly.
Masque snorts quietly. "How incredibly short-sighted. It isn't just the Al Bhed who have green eyes."
"From close up, yes. From a distance, they should hardly be able to tell. Do they require eye-contact to enter the city?"
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