The bustling noises subsided as night fell in the Hideaway. Despite the devastating loss five years ago, the refuge of Outlaws still remained, albeit now surrounded by the lakes. The sun, which had once been scarce in the old Hideaway, was now bright in the new, which meant that the stars and the moon were just as bright at night as the sun in the morning.

People from the mess started to retire to their own chambres. Jill had been resting in the infirmary under the strict supervision of Tarja; Gav wished he could have grabbed an ale or two at the bar before curfew; Otto was still talking to Gaute, who tried to convince his master that they should leave before Cid would get upset; Vivian simply closed the door of her study to observe the nightly rule of the place. On the other side of the new Hideaway, Charon checked the list of requested supplies as she left her post, Goetz tagging along; Blackthorn poured water to put out the flames of hot coals; Tomes must be just dozing off in the library, his ink-stained fingers still clutching the parchment.

Cid—the new Cid, Clive Rosfield had dared to inherit that title, when all the hopes had seemed to vanish with the fall of the old man's dream—too was in his own chambre, sitting at the edge of his bed, Torgal at his feet. The problem was that the slumber was eluding him. He had already perused every letter he had received. He had already smoothed the old map of the Storm and the Twins over his desk. The wine, which Otto, known for his frugal purchases, had unusually been so eager to import from Lostwing, was unwined, its goblet lying on the small table beside the desk. "Martelle..." Clive grabbed one of the apples named after one of the many people they had lost from the invasion of Titan five years ago. He hesitated, thinking of putting it back in the basket. However, this time, he hazarded a bite. The clear sound of its crisp was loud, compared to the silence around their home. He chewed solemnly. The apple was as sweet as it looked. "Well ripened..."

Clive wondered what would happen if he should break his own rule and get caught by one of his fellows. It would be embarrassing, more or less. Yet, he was... just too tireless, despite all the errands and bloodshed he had gone through for the day. The perpetual vigilance was perhaps starting to take its toll on him; he just couldn't sit back and rest even in the dead of night.

"After all, no one should be out at this ungodly hour..." the sleepless man murmured under his breath. He padded to the door, his unbooted feet almost too quiet. His bare hand cautiously gripped the doorknob and pushed it. Its creaky old plank gave in with a moaning screech, yet it was faint enough to fool the asleep.

It was quite an ungentlemanly manner to be clad only in a nightgown to roam outdoors, especially when Clive had been the Firstborn of noble blood before becoming Cid, the Outlaw. Then again, he had assumed several names in between; one was just as displeasing as another.

His unassuming hand retrieved the invaluable item: a single feather of Phoenix. "Joshua..." He could never part with it ever since he had found it in his hand after he had awakened from the nick of death. "As long as we are alive..." he murmured, his azure eyes regarding the fiery feather which was being twirled between his fingers. He leaned against the railing, and his gaze shifted with the proof of his younger brother clung in his grip. Despite the destitution, the vast lakes whose ripples were glistening with the fragments of the moonlight were breathtaking. He sighed, gazing up before lowering his eyes once more, only to spot the one individual who was audacious enough to venture out during the curfew... Clive pocketed the delicate artifact and regarded the figure sitting at the edge of the dock. There was no Bearer nor Branded when here; every single soul would be addressed by their own name. This was where everyone lived on their own terms.

"{{user}}..." Clive murmured under his breath, shaking his head. He walked to the lift in order to reach the dock below.