"Huh. I thought lotsa humans had magic powers that'd be good for food..."

He looks down at the remains of his biscuit, "Detail work like that is very difficult to get right." He states. "I have never had reason to practise it, and don't mind the flavour in any case." 

"Huh! Artifacts either work or they don't..."

He hums, "What artifacts do you use most often?" He asks, hoping to prompt another long stream of rambling. 

That works!

She seems to mostly use artifacts to keep food fresh, on a daily basis, though when she's in the city there's artifacts running the trains and some of the fancier doors.

Her ramble's interrupted only when she starts to yawn.

He listens carefully and, when she yawns, motions to the bedrolls, "Sleep?" He suggests. 

"Yeah, I think sleep's good."

He double-checks the state of the fire again and, satisfied with it, goes to climb into his bedroll. 

And she goes to sleep, pretty quickly.

He does not. He lies awake, for as long as he can manage, trying to think of nothing. 

He can't avoid sleep forever, however, and falls into an exhausted slumber in the small hours of the night. 

It is important to be kind to those in need," San Ha-Ten tells his son, "Kindness offered often means kindness returned, and the world could always use more kindness." 

The sound of the campfires crackling beneath his words grows, becoming the roar of a bonfire. Ban and Keia dance around it, arms linked, laughing. Yami of Clan Sar-Ha holds out a hand to draw him to dance as well, his eyes wicked in the flickering light. Kan takes it, and they whirl to the sound of the fire, his partner laughing merrily when they stumble and fall. 

Yami is gone when Kan stands, and the sound of the fire grows, the roar undercut by screams and shouting. San Ha-Ten is on his knees in front of him, held at the shoulders by two men, a sword at his throat.

"You should have warned me," he insists, "You know kindness is my weakness, but you knew, didn't you? You should have warned me. You've killed us, Kan." 

The roaring of the fire grows until it is all he can hear. The bandit slits his father's throat, and he falls, his eyes on Kan's, accusing. He is consumed by the flames, and they reach for Kan hungrily, their heat unbearable, but he doesn't pull away, he deserves this- 

He wakes with a start, slamming upright and scrambling away from the fire. He hits the rock face and huddles against it, curled with his face behind his knees, taking solace from its coolness. 

After a moment, he glances up, noting the disarray of his bedroll, and the disturbed ground near the campfire. He must have rolled closer in his sleep. He looks into the flames, and then curls his head back down behind his knees, shuddering. 

"Are you okay?" asks a very sleepy fairy.

He stills, his shaking stopping as soon as he hears her voice. He peers at her through the space between his knees.

"I'm fine," he insists after a moment, despite all evidence to the contrary. 

"You don't look fine."

He ducks further down, silent. 

"Just - dreams," he says, after a moment. "They're nothing. You can go back to sleep." 

"Dreams?"

...She doesn't know what dreams are? Do heartless not dream? The idea brings him out of his huddle, a bit, considering how to explain them. 

"...Experiences, which your mind has while you sleep. Memories, sometimes. Thoughts, ideas, strange situations, both good and bad." 

"Huh. We don't do that, I think. Sounds weird."

"...They can be nice, sometimes," he says, thinking of the middle sequence, and wondering where Yami's clan has wandered since he saw him last. 

"...Sorry, for waking you," he adds. 

"I don't want you unhappy, so it's okay to wake me if I could help," she says after some thought.

"Talking has helped, some," he admits after a moment, uncurling from his place against the rock, "But I didn't mean to bother you. You deserve to rest." 

"I don't think I'll go back to sleep," he says, "I'd rather not have more nightmares. I should check over my sword, anyways." 

"Okay! I think I've gotten enough sleep, too."

"If you're sure," he says. He grabs the sword from its place next to his bedroll, sitting crosslegged on top of it and placing the sword in his lap. He carefully pulls it out of its sheath, humming in dissatisfaction with the way it catches and sticks the slightest bit. His father used to tend it more regularly, but he'd been neglecting it - it makes sense that it needs oiling, and maybe sharpening as well. He grabs his swordcare supplies from his pack and settles down to set to work.

She watches curiously.

He tests the edge of the blade with a bit of cloth. Judging it duller than he'd like, he pulls out his stone, wetting it with a bit of oil, and then carefully runs the edge of the blade over it, making a soft scraping noise. And then he does it again. 

This continues for some time. 

She eventually decides that's boring and wanders off to play with some odd fairy toy.