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Flins was on his way back to his lighthouse, having just finished some errands in Nasha Town, when the sky rumbled, and rain poured in droves. He stepped back and took refuge under the eaves of a nearby shop. He contemplated braving the rain home before discarding the idea. The wind and rain hardly bothered him, for what was a little bit of water to his flame, but he was indeed feeling rather social today and found himself rather reluctant to go back yet, so he decided to pay a visit to the Flagship and soak in the jovial atmosphere for an hour or two before heading back home.
A gust of warm air greeted Flins as he entered the tavern, making a sharp contrast to the frigid wind blowing at his back. He swiftly closed the door so the warmth did not escape, and used his flame to dry his drenched coat as he made his way to the bar, not at all worried that his little trick would be discovered. He had mastered the art of making his presence as faint as dust, and the tavern was jam-packed; hardly anyone was paying attention to their surroundings.
As the only tavern operating in Nasha Town, the Flagship never lacked patrons eager to spend their hard-earned mora on drinks, eager to be relieved from the harsh life of the frozen frontier even if it was for a few short hours. Tonight, the tavern was a bit more crowded than usual. The sudden downpour brought an influx of customers; every table was full of people huddling together with drinks in their hands, trying to dispel the chill from the winter rain that had seeped into their bones.
Uproarious laughter and boisterous cheers drew Flins’ attention. He spotted a large group of people gathered around a table near the bar, surrounding a man who stood half a head taller than everyone else in the room.
Obscured by the crowd, only tufts of golden hair and a pair of cerulean eyes, gleaming like crushed gems and sparkling with mirth. But Flins felt a tug then, a force that compelled him to move closer, to get a closer look at the man. And so he did, weaving through the dense crowd until he found an inconspicuous spot within the crowd where he could observe the man freely, discreetly.
Flins looked at the man thoughtfully. The man's outfit looked foreign, but that means nothing in this melting pot called Nod-Krai, where drifters from every corner of Teyvat made their home here. But Flins believed he had never seen the man; a face as striking and a figure as impressive as the man's would surely have left some impression on him.
Flins lowered his gaze, quickly spotting the insignia engraved on the man's black breastplate, slightly obscured by the man's heavy coat. The Insignia belonged to the Knights of Favonius, Flins believed, and this cleared up the man's identity.
A knight from Mondstadt in Nod-Krai. Interesting.
The center of everyone's attention, the Knight of Mondstadt, grinned at the crowd, looking gallant and dashing. “Bottoms up!” He exclaimed and tipped his head up, downing his drink in one go. Some of the drink spilled from the corner of his mouth, sliding down tantalizingly to his bobbing adam's apple.
“Phew! That was a strong one,” The man laughed; the sound was rich and warm, pleasing to the ears.
The man then put his cup down heavily on the table, making the dozen or so bottles strewn on top of the rusty metal table wobble precariously, and said, “That's it for tonight, folks. Anymore, and I'll have to crawl my way back to my room!”
“Oh, c'mon, Sir Varka. One more round wouldn't hurt!” Someone in the crowd shouted.
Sir Varka. Varka.
Flins repeated the name silently, tasting it in his mouth. It left his tongue pleasantly tingling.
“Yeah, you haven't had the real Nod-Krai welcoming experience yet!” Another person chimed in, a skinny man with a bushy red moustache. “You must know that not leaving the tavern with wobbling knees is considered offensive around here.”
“Oh really?” Varka raised his eyebrow, clearly knowing that the skinny man was speaking nonsense but playing along regardless. “Well, I certainly have no intention of offending the local custom, so I suppose it can't be helped. One more round it is!”
The crowd cheered, and Varka smiled helplessly. “But one round only, you hear me? I promised the Cardinal I'll be back to the camp sober.”
As if on cue, Paavo, the young waiter, arrived with a tray laden with several shots of colorful drink arranged neatly on top of a roulette wheel.
“One Roulette Special!” Paavo called out as he set down the drinks on the table.
The thin man explained the rules to Varka, who was new to the game, and then three more people joined in to make up the number.
Although Flins had never participated in a game of Roulette Special, he was quite familiar with the rules. If he remembered correctly, the rules should be that the participants of the game had to take turns spinning the roulette wheel and drink the beverage the pointer stopped at. If the beverage was nonalcoholic, they did not gain any points; if the beverage was alcoholic, they gained points in correspondence with the strength of the drink, and the person with the higher points had the right to ask a question to those of lower points.
Interestingly enough, whether it was luck or his natural affinity with alcohol, Varka picked alcoholic beverages each time, earning himself the highest points. One round turned into two, and the game went on for half of the night, and Flins stayed throughout, gaze never leaving the oblivious Varka.
He took in the shape of his face, the criss-crossing scar on the lower side of his right jaw, his straight nose and ruddy cheeks and rosy full lips, and his eyes, twinkling like crushed gems under the dim light of the tavern, so full of life and joy and warmth, hooking the hearts of those who set their sight on them. He watched him as if trying to burn him into his memory, as if he were fearful he would forget him as soon as he blinked.
By the time the game was truly over and the tavern was preparing to close, Flins found himself reluctant to head back to the cemetery, staring at Varka's retreating figure with unwillingness in his heart.
Flins had mingled among mortals for many years. He knew just how fragile a mortal was, how fleeting their life was. And joining the Lightkeepers made him all the more aware of the fact. True, he admired their resilience, their tenacity in the face of adversity. But he had enough awareness to know that he should not involve himself too deeply in mortals’ affairs, for things rarely ended well when his kind became entangled with mortals.
But the longing in his heart was impossible to deny. The rising anxiety that was pressing upon him like rising tides, a voice in his mind telling him not to let that man go, or else he would slip away from him forever, falling into the hands of another.
Before he knew it, Flins had risen from his seat and gone out into the cold night, breaking his centuries old creed. He looked around, heart beating unusually fast in his chest as he searched for that gallant figure in the underground alley.
The alley was poorly lit; the lone neon lamp was flickering like a firefly's tail, but it posed no problem to Flins. He quickly spotted Varka, who was walking leisurely towards the mouth of the alley, unaware of the pair of glowing eyes following him closely.
Flins let out the metaphorical breath he unknowingly held in, and silently recited an incantation. Varka then stumbled and lose his balance, his body swaying forward.
But Flins did not let Varka fall to the ground. He caught him in his arms; with one hand on his waist and another between his shoulder blades, holding him steady. This close, Flins could feel the warmth of his body, could smell the tantalizing aroma of his body, and Flins had to physically restrain himself from leaning in and taking a sniff.
“Are you all right?” Flins asked instead.
Varka blinked slowly, staring up at him with confused eyes, which cleared up far too quickly to Flins’ liking. “Uh, yes. Thank you very much for your help. And don't worry, I just tripped on my feet. Drank a bit too much, I suppose ha ha ha.”
Varka withdrew from his arms with a flush on his cheeks, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment, and Flins reluctantly let him go, feeling the loss so keenly. He wished he could just stuff the other man in his pocket and take him home.
“Do be careful, Sir. The path is wet from the rain, and the frost made it all more precarious to tread upon.” Flins smiled faintly. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins, though you may simply call me by my surname, Flins.”
Varka smiled brightly. "I'm Varka, the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Flins.”
Varka held out his big hand, and Flins took it in his. The handshake was firm, not too hard nor too soft, with dignity befitting a leader of a prestigious organization as the Knights of Favonius.
“Pray forgive my presumptuousness, but back in the tavern I happened to overhear that you had just arrived in Nod-Krai this afternoon. I worry that you might not be acquainted with Nod-Krai's terrains yet, which can be very treacherous in some parts and rife with threat from Wild Hunt. It is especially dangerous to traverse alone at night.”
Flins continued. “It is not that I doubt your ability, Sir. As it happens, I am a member of the Lightkeepers. We swore an oath to be the light in darkness, and we take our oath very seriously. I would be ill at ease if I did not offer to be your guide.” Flins took a step closer towards the other man. “So, Sir Varka, would you let me do the honor of escorting you back to your camp?”