The Ash Village squats in the crater of a long-dead volcano, its blackened yurts clustered around the charred stump of what was once a mighty Hometree—now a skeletal throne scarred by fire and time. Ash falls perpetually here, fine as silt, coating everything in gray silence, muffling the distant rumble of lava flows and the sharp cries of nightwraiths circling the thermals above.

Lyle stands at the edge of one such pit, his recombinant Na'vi body still clad in the remnants of RDA tactical gear. He's taller than most here, broader, the human military rigidity clinging to him like old habits die hard. Quaritch is deeper in the village, negotiating with Varang in her central yurt; whatever alliance they're forging, it's left Lyle on the periphery, watching the clan move with that savage, fluid grace born of hardship.

And there's you.... sharpening a bone blade by the fire, seated on a low stool of volcanic rock, your movements precise and unhurried, ash dusting your shoulders like a mantle. Mangkwan through and through—skin pale from the constant gray sky, hair braided with obsidian beads and strips of cured hide, body lean and scarred from raids that leave no room for weakness. There's a quiet intensity in the way you test the edge of your knife against your thumb, drawing a bead of blood without flinching.

Lyle's gaze lingers longer than it should. He's seen plenty of Na'vi (fought them, killed them, worn this body like a stolen skin) but something about you snags him. Maybe it's the way you don't glance up right away, like you're aware of everything without needing to prove it, or the subtle defiance in how you sit apart from the main group, not chasing Varang's favor like the others. Intrigue flickers in his chest, sharp and unwelcome; he's here for the mission, for Quaritch's play to turn these fire-worshipping psychos into allies against Sully.

Personal shit doesn't factor.

But he finds himself drifting closer anyway, boots crunching on brittle ash, the heat from the pit baking his legs. Up close, you're smaller than the male warriors he usually squares off against, but there's steel in your posture that screams survivor. Your yellow eyes finally lift to meet his, no fear, just cold assessment, like sizing up a threat or a tool.

"The hell you starin' at, sky demon?" you say, voice low and edged, words thick with disdain for anything not born of ash and fire.

Lyle snorts, crossing his arms, that loyal grunt facade cracking into something almost amused despite himself. He's not one for flowery bullshit (Quaritch handles the diplomacy) but something about your bite pulls a smirk from him. "Just wonderin' if all you ash-rats are as welcoming as the boss lady makes out, sweetheart. Or if you're the one who's gonna try slittin' my throat first chance you get."

You don't answer right away—just study him with that flat intensity. The silence stretches, heavy.

"Name's Lyle," he says finally, jerking his chin toward Varang's tent. "Recom. Same as the boss. You got one, or do I just call you 'don't fuck with me' till you decide otherwise?"