aim your arrow at the sky

The ballroom is packed from the moment the doors swing open, and it shows no sign of relenting as the evening continues, and Briar sulks off to the side near the entrance, trying not to feel out of place and failing. “Fiona? No, not you. Fiona!” It isn’t polite to cut through a couple talking, but neither is blocking the only stairway down to the rest of the ballroom where she can see Fiona standing, looking at her. Relief floods her, the itching sensation of gazes fading way as they meet. “I almost thought you wouldn’t be here which would be strange after all the hard-work you put into getting me here-- Oh.” Briar stumbles on the last step as she takes in the full view of Fiona for the first time. “I did not see the full effect, you look--” She says it in Sidhe and then frowns, struggling for an easier English equivalent. Someone clears their throat behind her, and Briar moves off to the side, a hand on Fiona’s elbow. “Ethereal, maybe? I think that is the word. Have you been down here the whole time?”

“I…don’t even know how I’d know who you’re talking about from those mildly vague statements, but I’m not a friend of either of those people…I think? I really don’t know, but I don’t give a shit what you did,” the witch shrugs. “I’ve probably done stuff equally, if not worse, than you have. And they have your mugshot up in a couple places…did you know you’re banned from a cafe on first street?” Well, if she didn’t before, she does now. Seems like this Briar fake fae selkie person is playing a lot of ‘catch up.’ Sounds not fun at all and very exhausting. Especially considering she lived a life thinking she was one thing when really, she was another. “Yeah,” Naomi nods, “Andreas has been here since I’ve been here, I think…or at least as long as I can remember, and I’ve lived here since birth. Can’t say I know him though, I never really talked to him.” 

Hearing the words ‘this town,’ and ‘strict’ in the same sentence causes Naomi to cackle; loudly. Yeah, they were about as strict as they were loose, and boy, were they loose with the rules on being strict. “I like to say the council’s about as strict as they are loose. They’re willing to bend the rules a little for their best interests, don’t you mistake that.” Though her family has always, until recently, that is; maintained a seat on the council, Naomi’s never trusted them to make decisions for her or the ones she cares about. Her magic is skilled enough to do that anyway. This much she demonstrates to Briar, who seems fascinated by the whole thing. Naomi smirks at the selkie’s reaction, letting her take the watch from her grasp. “You’ve never met a witch before? Crazy…I feel like there’s way too many of us,” she squints, eyeing the selkie as if she’s gauging to see how truthful she is. Well, she is from a land only consisting of faes, so….yeah. “Well, witches do a bunch of things. Spells, potions, protective magic, healing, contacting spirits…witches can do a lot of things with the right tools.” It’s hard to describe, easier to show…but Naomi’s not in the mood to do a full demonstration of her abilities tonight, considering the unconscious fae lying before them. Naomi sighs, nodding when Briar says it’s best to put the watch back. It is…they both have a reputation that would make it look extremely bad if either had the stranger’s watch in their possession. And do they really have to wait for the ambulence? Probably not. Naomi shrugs, looking around before she points in the opposite direction. “Wanna walk to the bar up the street? I’m suddenly really fucking thirsty…and hungry…maybe I also need to pee…” 

“Well, I didn’t stop to ask their names when I was done, it seemed more important to flee the scene before someone came along,” she points out, satisfied with Naomi’s answer enough that she drops the arms she had crossed over her chest. At Naomi’s words, she stares. “Banned? Wait, is this the shop with the little glass figurines on the table when you walk in? Never mind, I didn’t like their coffee anyway.” She waves it off, largely unconcerned, though she hopes nobody she knows has a fondness for it, it’ll be awkward to explain how she possibly got banned from it. Nor did she entirely know why. Briar studies her. “You were born in town then? Has it always been so... messy feeling?” Her eyes drift to the man on the ground between them, brow arched in question. Briar isn’t liable to go anywhere else, this town was far safer than where she came from, and perhaps a tad more understanding to her predicament than anywhere else she could go. Naomi’s laughter and assessment to the town makes her stomach clench with unease and she rubs her brow. 

Briar shrugs. “I’m sure I’ve met a witch somewhere along the line - here or there - but never seen their magic up close. Your kind don’t stand out much unless they are doing magic, well done, you’d be deadly in a fight.” What better way to figure out how to counteract a witch than fighting one? She isn’t eager to get on the wrong side of a witch knowing what they can do, but she isn’t any less intrigued on knowing more, either. Not now, but maybe in the future, she decides, nodding at Naomi’s offer for them to leave. They did their duty, what’s the point in staying any longer? They are gone in the nick of time, the flashing lights entering the alley not long after they turn the corner. For a moment, Briar is half-looking over her shoulder, waiting for someone in a uniform to charge around the corner, but it’s silent the entire trek to the bar. She only relaxes somewhat when the door closes behind her. “Well, at least we’re in the clear long enough to eat,” she notes, moving to the bar with a frown, waving Naomi off to the bathroom. Someone sets two bar menus down for them to browse, but given she can’t read the damn thing, she just picks out a water and some fries. When Naomi returns, she arches a brow, returning to their earlier topic. “This place isn’t any worse than the Otherlands was then. Less prone to violence, still, I think, but why do people want to live here if their council people are so... not strict on anything important?”

Date: May 19th 2021 Time: 10:45 am Location: The Threaded Needle

@briarbishop​

“Well this is… it’s something!” Fiona calls from within her respective dressing room toward the back of the shop that her aunt had apparently once owned. An aunt who would, according to her family, be more than a little miffed if Fiona bought something to wear to the gala rather than allowing her to make it. She’ll take that to heart, but it doesn’t stop her from trying on dresses for fun. Besides, she has to learn what her own taste is, doesn’t she? Thus the trial and error, which she does now with her friend in tow. With some frustration, too, as she fumbles with the back of a dress that she knows well won’t be her choice, but still, she wants to try it rightfully… Fiona huffs a sigh as she walks backward out of the dressing room, looking to Briar over a shoulder. “Can you zip me? I’ll write ‘flexible’ down on the list of things I’m not.” Blonde hair is pulled aside in order to help with the effort, and Fiona smiles once the task is accomplished. “Thank you.” Then, she straightens up, looking at her reflection rightfully, with a laugh. “I look, um…” She’s got a small reservoir to pull from for comparisons, but Fiona shrugs a bare, freckled shoulder.  “Like a sad bird. Or maybe an evil one.” So tight, black, and feathered isn’t really her style. Good to know. Despite the failure, Fiona grins, turning toward Briar with earnest. “You should try something! Don’t you want to look as ridiculous as me?” After another laugh and a foolish shimmy, she turns back toward the rack and wheels back to the conversation they’d been having before zipper troubles arose. “You know, I really doubt that you didn’t get an invitation. I don’t see why you wouldn’t be invited. I can ask Lily, if you want. She’s a councilperson – for the fae, technically, but I’m sure she could check, if I asked. She’s… my friend, I think, so hopefully she wouldn’t mind.”

Dress shopping is as foreign to her as the television still. Her own clothes are the ones Andreas and his girlfriend bought for her and gifted to her, and a little ill-fitting as a result. Thus, she’s not altogether sure what to do surrounded by the frill and softness of gowns, eyeing a gown in a hideous shade of beige before Fiona calls to her. “Not optimistic sounding, you know,” she returns, thoroughly warned before Fiona’s appearance, and still unprepared for the sight. Her eyes skip from the black dress to the bare skin exposed at her back, lips slightly parted, before she pushes it away and zips her up. “It could be fetching if you enjoy looking like a bird, but does it work for a gala? I thought it was meant to be sweeping ball gowns, something like this.” She lifts a hand, pointing to a monstrosity of yellow and black fabric which looks something like a too large gown with the coloring of a bee. A small laugh escapes her at Fiona’s little shimmy, watching the feathers on her dress shake with the movement. Briar skims a hand over the dresses, focusing on the soft feel of them on her skin. “None of these seem practical, I’d look ridiculous in any of them.” Attractive, certainly, but she isn’t sure about waddling around in a skin-tight dress, barely able to bend her knees or arms. She squints, drawing out a long white dress with stretchy material, and hums at the comment. “I get a lot of things in the mail, but the only thing I can tell about any of them is they have my name on it and my address. I’m not sure on anything else, maybe there is an invite. What did it look like?” Not reading is more of a liability here than it is back in the Otherlands, she realizes, somewhat amused at the lack of questions from her job. It’s easy enough to match the names on the envelopes to a map, though, and she’s hardly required to know what the words actually mean. Belatedly, she remembers some of Fiona’s comment. “You’re friends with a council person? Have they heard anything about Andreas? I keep thinking... Well, I suppose he has no reason to come back.” It’s a bit jarring to imagine no Andreas around and no Alistair, too. She picks a dress in blue, arching a brow. “This one? Same as your eyes.”

“How normal I still am?” Fiona manages a tight laugh despite the searing pain on her skin, shaking her head. “That feels like a compliment. Thank you.” She takes more pleasure in it than she arguably should, but that’s been the effort, hasn’t it? Trying her best to be the person she supposedly is. Or was. Hard to be sure. “Um, they did tell me, I mean my uncle did, but I haven’t exactly tried it.” Flexing her hand, she winces. “Guess this would be a good time to start.” Danger, though, that’s noteworthy, especially coming from Briar. Fiona sighs. “Right. Um, this is fine, then. Not a huge deal, I’ll just ice it.” She nods, tucking her hand under the table before plunging headlong into questions. Headlong into waiting, too, as she watches Briar attempt to formulate a response. Empathy shows her the pain the dusting off of those memories causes, and she’s sorry for it before she even reads the feelings on Briar’s face. “Okay. That’s okay, you don’t have to–” But Briar goes on, and Fiona bites her lip and bites back any further questions. At least until Briar discloses things about injury. Fiona’s head tilts, brow furrowing. “Did you… did you get injuries like that often?” She can feel it, obviously, the pain that mention of the Otherlands causes. But what sort of pain is it, really? Physical? Mental? What was she put through? Fiona wants to know out of concern for her friend, but also falters, not wanting to stir up more unpleasant things. “I’m sorry, I, um… you don’t have to tell me everything, obviously. I’m not trying to be nosy. I just… I can’t imagine that.” She nods at the elaboration about shades, though to her they’re still little more than the voices that linger in whispers behind her. “No, no, don’t apologize. It’s, um, not a pleasant topic. I get it.” Why is she wondering? Fiona sighs, taking her own time to ponder now, looking down at her nervously drumming foot and stinging knuckles. “Um… I guess I wanted to know if there was someone like me out there. I mean, really like me. I know there are other people who were pulled from the river, who might feel some of this, too… but they don’t have the empathy that I do. And I… I don’t know. I feel like I’m handling it all wrong.” It’s a vulnerable confession, and she hates how sorry for herself she seems. “I-I mean, I’m lucky. I know I’m lucky, to have survived what I did. I hear it a lot. But it’s… it’s a lot.” Fiona has to bite back a sigh of relief as the timer goes of, indicating that the cookies are done baking, their stammered conversation eating up time quickly. The fae rises to her feet with haste, hoping to leave the other topics behind her. “Thank you, again, for bringing over the file. I’m sure it’ll be really helpful.” She’s not sure of anything. “Can I send you home with some of these? Brownies, or cookies, or both? As a thank you?”

Briar doesn’t know how to clarify her feelings on the matter and she mulls them over for several seconds before venturing, “I think so. The river stole your memories from you - or the ghosts did? I am not clear on this. But you’re still you.” Her eyes linger on Fiona’s expression, taking in the flexing fingers and timid wince, and guilt surges through her. Lips parting, she swiftly ducks her head, tracing a thumb over the indents on the table. “If... do you have any flowers? You can borrow from there, it’s only a small wound, it will only make them wilt a little, they’ll.. recover with time. The danger is in taking too much. Not knowing how to do it can be as dangerous as doing it.” What, then, will stop a fae from panicking and stealing everything from the people nearby? Scar the land, or the person, to heal themselves or someone else? She lifts her chin. “I don’t know how to describe, but it’s like warmth, I’m told. You just sense it and... pull, I think?” She’s only been on the receiving end when it feels like someone is stitching a wound, the yank and tug on flesh, unwilling energy stolen from an unwilling host, but she doesn’t know how it works on the opposite end. So distracted is she at how it works that Briar almost misses the question and she blinks for a moment. “More often when I was young. I learned eventually to make the hits land somewhere less important,” she says, though it explains little of the way the pit worked in Morrigan’s court, how such wounds were purposely received if it meant people were rooting for you to survive. Her brows furrow, thinking over Fiona’s words. “There isn’t anyone like that in the Otherlands. I have never heard of a Riverborn anywhere other than Lethe.” She looks between Fiona and the sweets Fiona has, nodding shortly, waiting for the other woman to pile a little tupperware container for them, feeling dismissed and forcing the strange reluctance away as it surges. She toys with the little container as she holds it, walking towards the door. “You’re allowed to hear what people say you are and disagree. Better to feel like yourself than feel like you’re the person others want you to be, trust me on that.” She hesitates only a moment longer torn on saying more, but she feels as though she’s already said too much. “Thanks for the cookies. Let me know if you need anything.” She offers a smile and heads out the door with only a single look back.

Francisca smiled, the kind that held no meaning other than amusement. “If you were responsible, you wouldn’t be wasting any time.” she pointed out at first. Once the brunette checked the other’s pulse, it was there that the lamia knew she may have realized the truth of the body’s state. Now if she could do less talking and more leaving, so she could turn the deceased into ashes. “No it’s not.” confirmed Frankie. “But if it’s one thing I learned about Lethe is that not everyone plays by the rules. The system and its people are flawed.” Taking a step towards the body, she kicked it with her ankled booties and locked her gaze on the woman. “Cannot confirm, nor deny.” she teased. “Does it matter? If you’re law enforcement, might as well state your case.”

Briar tilts her chin, amused at the woman’s response. “Maybe I’m just a dumbass with no concept,” she allows, but she straightens once she realizes the fae is dead, sighing. “Certainly a fool to be staying here, chatting over a corpse with a stranger, no matter how flawed the system is that allows it. Is this one of your friends?” No, not if the lady is just kicking the body, even Briar has a little more respect for the dead than this. A little. The question surprises her, unsure of whether the woman is serious or not, and she squints at her in mild disbelief. “You think I’m law enforcement? No, if anything, they’ll probably think I did. If you’re involved, it doesn’t matter to me, you haven’t attacked me. Yet.” She steps back from the body, hands swiping down her pants. “I’m Briar, who are you? Not law enforcement, not a friend, not a curious bystander,” she says, ticking down a mental list in her head. How do they handle bodies in the arena? “Last rites? Disposal? Confirmation of death?” 

“Nice to finally put a face to the name. I’ve heard of you. Nice to meet you, Briar,” Naomi says with a little wave, suddenly craving a cigarette. It comes from time to time, along with the need to get high, but it’s easier when Layla’s around. Right now, there’s an unconscious origami fae at her feet and she’s feeling a little anxious. No Layla here to help either….fuck. Naomi sighs, “is that the councilman who resigned? Seems like a stick-in-the-mud.” The only conversation she had with the man had been when he came over to set up their new security system. From what she gathered, he wasn’t much fun. Naomi winces when Briar examines the man’s arms, but at least they aren’t broken. His leg though, apparently that’s fucked. “Great…” The witch sighs, cursing under her breath when she realizes this means they have to call 9-1-1 now. 

“Ugh,” Naomi flinches at the thought of her blood boiling beneath her skin. Like…actually boiling, not just the expression people use when their angry. “My blood is not soup, it shouldn’t boil.” Whatever Briar experienced in her time living in the Otherlands hadn’t been good, Naomi knows that much. Hearing her story of blood boiling now only confirms her suspicions. “People talk. Word spreads around here pretty quick,” she explains, realizing it may seem a little weird that Naomi, a stranger to Briar, knows so much about her. Ha! If only the selkie knew…Naomi merely nods, looking down at her phone again. A broken leg isn’t that bad…he’d live if they left him by the trashes. Why did they have to stay? The person who beat the living shit out of him left him here! Naomi grumbles, dialing ‘1-1′ as Briar goes on to make several pretty good points in favor of calling an ambulance. Yeah, yeah, so they should be good Samaritans and call it in. That doesn’t mean Naomi can’t roll her eyes while talking to the 9-1-1 operator, though she does try her best to leave the sarcasm to a minimum. Once she’s off the phone, the witch pockets her phone, debating if they should wait for the ambulance to show up. They called them, wasn’t that enough? “Huh?” Oh yeah…she supposes it’s a valid question, especially since she very well could be a fae in disguise. Naomi raises her hand, the tips of her fingers emitting a light purple hue as magic passes through them. Seconds later, the man’s watch materializes into the palm of her hand, and she holds it out to Briar. “Witch. Sorry to disappoint, but I didn’t kick the shit out of this guy. This time.” 

“Just how far spread is my face in these parts? If you’re a friend of the vampire lady outside the one shop with cakes, or the werewolf outside of Terrance’s, or anybody else, they can take their complaints elsewhere, it was a fair fight,” she says with a flick of her hand, eyes rolling. She’s met her fair share of people eager to prod her. Push her first, she pushes back, and the cycle continues. Her head shakes, amusement coloring her voice. “That’s him. I think you know more about him than I do, I’ve known him less than a year, but I’m told he’s been in town for a lot longer.” It’s why everything about him is so... difficult, but she isn’t about to explain the weird sibling issues to a stranger, no matter how entertaining the stories.

Naomi’s response is typical enough to make her snort. “You’d be surprised what your blood can do in the hands of someone interested in experimenting. Not an issue in this town I’m told, they seem strict. Somewhat.” More so than the Otherlands, at any rate, though it’s hard to fall any lower than the place Briar escaped. She doesn’t say anymore, too busy watching Naomi talk on her phone with evident fascination. It isn’t her first time seeing a phone, but still one of the most intriguing. Helps Naomi is expressive as she talks. “I have never seen magic like that in my life,” she declares, frowning, hair on her neck and arms standing up at the magic emitting from Naomi’s hands. Her fingers close around the watch, gaze drifting to the man’s bare wrist, and then back to Naomi with a thoughtful gleam in her eyes. “I haven’t fought a witch yet, or I am not sure I have fought one yet. What do witches do?” It isn’t like someone sat her down and explained the other species. Briar only knows of them, and she’s learning along the way, albeit through her fists more than she would prefer. She holds the watch out. “Probably don’t want the police showing up with this in our hands,” she points out, eyes scanning the area around them. How long does it usually take the police to get here? “Magic it back, or whatever it is you do. Are we supposed to stay here and explain what happened to them? Because that... might be a bad idea, you know given my reputation with fae that you seem to know about.” 

The thought about houses has her bobbing her head in a nod. Maybe it’s that motion that distracts her enough to allow a question to come tumbling out, unbidden: “Would you help me?” The recovery is quick – though recovery is a strong word. Mostly Fiona stammers, apologetic. “I-I mean, um, with the house… changing. Feel like I could use some, you know, extra eyes and whatnot. To pick colors for the walls… or… stuff like that. You don’t have to help! I just… thought I’d… ask…” Jeez. Luckily the cookies serve as some distraction, though Fiona’s hands fumble more than they would normally. Enough so that the second tray of cookies into the oven goes slightly awry, and they clatter onto the oven shelf as Fiona cradles her own hand. “Oh, ow. Ow ow ow.” The fae grimaces as she hurries to the sink, putting cold water quickly upon scalded skin. “I guess clumsy is one of my qualities, because I sure do seem to be good at managing to hurt myself.” She attempts to laugh it off, but still winces as she turns away from the sink and tries to listen to Briar’s anecdote attentively. The stammer makes her frown. Everything else – others’ memories are enough to make her jealous some days. But these don’t seem the type to be jealous about. Still, Fiona doesn’t pry, just smiling as Briar takes another bite. “I’m glad you like them.” She offers, genuine, her smile wide despite the throbbing in her hand. “Oh! Oh, yes, I can sit. Obviously.” She has to shift a few things, which causes another grimace, as well as a flickering gaze toward that file. It’s not as if she doesn’t appreciate the acquisition of the information. Of course she does. It’s… just a little daunting, that’s all. “Feel free to take some home, by the way,” Fiona mentions with a nod toward the brownies, cradling her burnt hand once more. “I make way too much stuff, nowadays. It’s in my best interest to give it away, I think. But the doctors said making stuff might be good for me, so… I’ve bought a lot of brownie mix lately.” She manages a little laugh, though her knee bounces now, nervous for a reason she can’t quite name. “Can I ask a question?” She just did, but Fiona won’t get caught on the logistics. “Um… you said you’re from the Otherlands, which I’ve been told is where my family is from… so, did you… did you ever meet anyone else like me in the Otherlands? Someone who lost their memories like I did?”

Help? Briar lingers on the question long after Fiona finishes talking and the cookies distract her from it for several long moments, the motions of baking unfamiliar. “Are you sure you want someone like me helping--” The clatter of the tray and Fiona’s sharp inhale halt her words. She stiffens in her seat, waiting for the tell-tale drowsiness that comes from a fae stealing to heal themselves. Fiona runs her hand under the water and Briar’s shoulder slowly slump. She waits for Fiona to settle in her seat before she speaks, words tentative, unsure of how to say it without, possibly, flinging dirt on open wounds. "With how normal you still are, I forget you don’t remember everything about being a fae, like how to heal. Did your family not show you?” she asks, throat tightening, making it difficult to swallow the cookie she’s chewing on. She lowers it to a napkin, and she should show her. She should-- Her teeth lower to her lip, unable to force the explanation past her throat. “It’s dangerous if you aren’t trained properly, but it’s useful sometimes.” There, that she can say that, it’s truthful. She blinks, and nods, listening to Fiona’s question patiently. A right answer to it is slow to come across and her fingers tap on the table, thinking. “I did not spend time with the fae the way you might imagine, and I was not so... fondly regarded that people would share secrets like that with me,” she admits slowly, not wanting to explain the reasons beyond that and hurrying to continue. She leans forward, elbows on the table, fingers tapping. “I don’t think anyone has the way you did. I’ve taken hits hard enough to forget things for a couple of weeks, but those are injury related, not, uh, not ghost. Shade. Whatever they are called.” Ghosts is what she calls them, but she hasn’t spoken to any of them. A few linger around her, perhaps content to grab onto someone in the way the ghosts from the Otherlands cannot, but they are blurry figures she refuses to examine in any depth for the mere principle of it. “I try not to think about the dead too much, sorry. But why were you wondering? The fae, they... even if there was, I do not know if any of them would help you, though your family could certainly trying asking.” Their name holds sway if they use it.

Wouldn’t she – what? Seek out violence against a particular species? Of course not. But there is some semblance of bitterness there that has nothing to do with Aurélie, and as much as she knows she shouldn’t pry… “Me? No, I would not. But you clearly have a vendetta that I do not.” Daring, maybe, but her own inability to pin down the intentions of this selkie girl is beginning to frustrate her. Briar goes on and Aurélie’s head tilts, but she nods. “I see.” It has occurred to her before that she knows so little of this other woman’s past, but mainly in the vein that Aurélie didn’t know what sort of threat she posed. “How is it exactly that a selkie wanders over to the fae realm? And makes such enemies of them, at that?” Now, her curiosity is piqued for different reasons. A vague sense of pity, too, but she tucks that far back. After all, there’s no need for Briar to be attacking people thanks to her own hard feelings. Her lips purse at the selkie’s movement, a palm splayed onto her chest. She does the same herself when upset, though it’s been ages since she had a pounding heart to try and calm. Still, it strikes a chord in her, much as it shouldn’t. The next comment saps that away, replacing it with a laugh that toes the line at bewildered. This Briar is bold, she’ll give her that. “I have no qualms with my family.” She’s happy to have a family at all, even if some of them still bristle at the species she calls her own. Not much to be done about that. “It has always seemed to me that the fae, compared to other species here, pose very little threat. You clearly think otherwise. And yet I see you with Fiona often.” Never one to shy away from the truth. “She is as fae as the rest. Do you not fear her?” Aurélie almost wishes she would. It’d undoubtedly keep Fiona safer, no matter how misguided that fear would be.

“Never hated someone before? It’s complicated,” she mutters, because she can barely decipher her own feelings to herself, let alone to this nosy vampire. Vendetta makes the whole thing sound like a fae’s response to minor slights and it’s so much more. Briar refuses to explain it, eyes averted from Aurélie and the unconscious fae, and only lasts until the vampire finishes her questions. Her heart spikes, and she curls her fists at her side. “I didn’t wander into the Otherlands, it doesn’t work that way. People don’t just... walk in and walk out, you have to look for it.” Fear scuttles beneath the surface, crawling across her skin like light-touching fingers and she drowns it under fury, letting the way her blood pumps with anger drown out the way fear makes her heart spike. Easy, she’s done it all her life, emotions under emotions. Vampires, though? Briar sucks in a breath and lets it out, forcing her heart to calm, because a vampire has no way to read emotions, but they can read her traitorous body. “It wasn’t my choice to come there nor was it my choice to make enemies of them. They deserve it.” She flinches at the childish tone of her voice, imagining the chiding from Andreas, but what room does he have to talk? He left her. Briar can’t stand looking away from Aurélie anymore and her hand drops from her throat, watching the other vampire, unsure. Uncertainty shifts to annoyance in a heartbeat. “Do you enjoy prodding at things that don’t involve you? What does it matter to you what I feel about the fae?” she asks, rattled into sharpness. Do you not fear her? Did she? Briar didn’t think so, none of their conversations ever brought pangs of fear the way it did with others, but... Gods, she’s only ever thought of Fiona and Alistair as faes she could outfight if need be, she’s never given a thought about whether she truly feared them or not. She exhales, angry and afraid once more. “If you think the fae pose no threat, you clearly haven’t been on the opposite end of one.” The words are spilling out faster than she can stop them, spiked by this prod of questions, asking and pointing out the very things others have only tiptoed over. “Do you know what it’s like to be around someone who can sense your every emotion and use it against you? Playing with you? They use you and discard you. Like dogs, lady. Like toys.”

“Maybe?” Naomi gasps, the crease in her brow deepening as she frowns. “Gee, thanks. I’ll take your ‘maybe likeable’ comment and raise you  a, ‘you’re actually a little funny,’ compliment. I’m Naomi, by the way.” The witch can’t help but chuckle at the situation because well…it’s a little funny looking. Briar standing over some passed out fae with his ass up in the air, twisted up like a pretzel is rather amusing. Hopefully his arm isn’t broke, Jesus…as Naomi eyes the twist in the fae’s arm, Briar goes to examine his pulse. That’s probably a better idea. “Okay, but is his arm supposed to be back that far?” Naomi points with wide eyes, looking at Briar. Really, is it? 911 could decide, Naomi thinks, pulling out her phone. 

“Seems like you’re talking from experience,” the witch mutters, squinting from her phone to Briar as she debates calling the police. How likely would it be that she would somehow get roped into this? Not only did Briar have a reputation, but so did she. Even with a kid, a partner, a business, and a grandpa in the field, the police still seem weary of Naomi Clover. Naomi sighs, “you’re from the Otherlands, right? I’m sure you’ve had your experience with fucked up faes. There’s plenty, especially from there.” An understatement. Almost, if not all faes from the Otherlands are fucked up. But who isn’t? Even Lethe has its fair share of fucked up…everything. “If you go down, I go down. You’re not the only one with a reputation…if I have to save you to save me, I will,” the witch assures, biting down on her bottom lip as she goes to dial ‘9-1-1.’ “Oh my- nope, yep, you’re from the Otherlands, so you don’t know. Uh…911 is for emergencies, it’s what us and the humans call if someone is in danger or hurt. Like this idiot,” Naomi rolls her eyes, looking down at her phone. Only ‘9′ has been pressed and she can’t bring herself to press ‘1.’ What if they do pin this on her somehow? “Hm…on a scale of one to ten, how bad would it be if we just left him by the trashes over there?” 

Several long seconds of confusion reign before she realizes Naomi is joking, and it’s only the chuckle that clues her in. “Oh, I’m Briar,” she states blandly, head shaking. “Well, so long as you don’t ask Andreas, I am hilarious.” Her sense of humor is more morbid than her brothers, and she hasn’t met enough people to know if it’s common or not. Briar returns to examining the fae, taking in the odd position of his arms and legs. “Unless he has a previous injury, his arms are fine, they can go a little bit more before breaking. Left leg is broken though. I think he should just be happy he’s still alive and no one saw his poor attempt at defending himself.” Briar scoffs, knowing she should be sympathetic, or at least pleased none of the fae here are worth a challenge. But she isn’t, and she pushes up to her feet, brushing off her pants as if nothing is wrong.

“I didn’t imagine my blood boiling when I made the mistake of getting too close to them, yes. It’s the one injury you can’t ignore easily.” It makes her skin itch to imagine, her face scrunching with distaste at the memory. “Unfortunately,” she mutters in response to the question, folding her arms at the mention of the Otherlands. Less to do with the question, and more to do with how little she likes to think of it. “Do I want to know how you know that, or has it made its rounds?” Huh, she commits the number to memory with a slow blink, somewhat baffled at how people would find the time in a genuine emergency to do so. “Guess he’s lucky you came along then, I’d have-- Ugh, I would have someone inside to handle him,” she corrects herself midway through speaking, annoyed that Andreas and his tendency to be good is rubbing off on her. And he’s not even in town anymore to see it. Briar snorts. “Depends. If you want to ensure he’ll never walk again, be my guest, but we’re better off with your first option. When he wakes up, he’ll tell them what really happened and we’ll be in the clear -- or I’ll break his other leg,” she supplies, aiming a look towards him, as if the unconscious man can somehow hear it. A stray thought hits her and she looks back at Naomi, somewhat amused at the notion. “We established I didn’t do it. Did you? What, exactly, are you?”

Taking a long drag of her cigarette, Frankie had been eyeing the woman and the unconscious body of a fae for a while now. In truth, she was here to just incinerate the poor thing, but of course her plans had to be ruined. So instead, she listens as if she was attending a fae 101 course and simply nods. “Oh I know you didn’t do this.” she pointed out at first. “You wouldn’t be out here spewing facts like that now would you?” She then tilts her head and narrowed her gaze, “Besides you look bummed out, as if you should have done this to them. Envy the hand of the person who was scorned?” 

“Could be I’m spewing facts to bide my time, probably not wise to assume anything from a stranger,” she remarks, reaching for the person’s wrist and checking their pulse, though it’s fairly pointless when she’s seen enough dead fae to know this one is beyond help. Still, never let it be said that she didn’t try. With a roll of her eyes, she sets their hand on their chest, pushing up to her feet. The question makes her pause, frowning, vaguely insulted. “Only an amateur would kill a fae like this. Too slow to get them before the lightning, and too fast to show off, I’m less than impressed and certainly not envious. Surprised, though. Killing is allowed now, is it?” Briar doesn’t enjoy carnage and death, but she understands the necessity of it, understands it’s the only thing that really knows, too. She steps aside with a sigh, rubbing her brow. “I am the fool now assuming you aren’t involved. Are you?”

There’s a moment of pause, Fiona turning over the details over in her head. “Is… Is there a reason I shouldn’t be allowed to bake?” Here she is, trying to make cookies, and she might be invoking a hazard. She doesn’t quite recall anyone instructing her against using an oven, but it could very well have slipped her mind. “Well, there’s a recipe to follow! I’d be happy to have the help, if you’re willing.” The comment about fire turns her head contemplatively, but Fiona just nods. “Oh, I’m really sorry about the mess.” Her traveling gaze has reminded her and she sighs. “I’ve just been, um, I don’t know. Rifling through stuff, hoping something will prompt a memory. Clearly, uh… it hasn’t. So.” Trying and failing to hide her disappointment, Fiona turns back toward the fridge and cabinets. It’s when she has her arms full with eggs and a bag of mix and a bowl that she’s whirling around, surprised by Briar’s comment. After a beat of contemplative pause, the fae nods. “I guess that is one way of looking at it, isn’t it? New memories.” Another moment of thought before Fiona gives her present company a genuine smile. “Thank you for that.” Anyway: back to the cookies at hand. “Well then, we’ll have both.” She says confidently, ingredients splayed out on the kitchen counter. After cracking an egg, she looks back over her shoulder, grinning at first before furrowing her brow. “Huh. I guess… I could repaint the walls.” Fiona shrugs, tossing the eggshells into the trash before turning to face Briar fully, arms folded. “It sort of feels like living in someone else’s house, you know? So I’ve been… scared of disturbing it. But I could change it.” With the mixing bowl balanced in the crook of her arm and the bagged mix now cut open, Fiona crosses the room, offering the bag to Briar. “Here. Pour it in, and then we can mix it and pop them in the oven. Easy enough from the looks of it, I think.” Once that’s done with, the cookies divvied up upon the baking tray and put into the oven, Fiona claps, remembering suddenly. “Ooh! While we wait for those…” She quickly turns back to the cooling tray upon the counter, cutting out a corner piece, placing it on a plate, and presenting it to her friend at the table. “Ta-da! Brownies. Still warm, which the Internet told me was the best way to eat them.” Her lips quirk once the offer is accepted, and Fiona tries not to look too expectant as she watches for Briar’s reaction. “Well? Is it any good?”

“I...” Is there? She scans her from head to toe, head cocked to the side in contemplation. Even without her memories, Fiona seems less likely to cause a catastrophe in the kitchen. “No, I think their warnings were more for me than you. How did you learn to do this already? Just... the recipe?” She repeats the word a little awkwardly. Realization strikes slowly, and when it does, Briar is looking around the room with growing amusement, realizing Fiona has likely scoured every inch of her home for something to jog her memory, or for some attempt at normalcy. “Do you want to know?” Briar questions aloud, smile evaporating, her eyes lingering on Fiona’s back as the woman bustles around her kitchen. “Andreas, he, uh, he wanted me to know where I came from when we realized we were related, but I don’t know, I didn’t want to know I think, I’m just... wondering if it’s similar for you. If it’s what you want.” She stops there, grimacing, because Fiona hasn’t had new memories long enough to know, has she? “Sorry,” she mutters. “But, yeah, change it, this is your house. If you get your memories back, and you hate it, you could just... fix it, you know? Uh, wait, I don’t... Oh.” She follows Fiona’s instructions, a little baffled how these things together made cookies, at least until they are done tossing it on a tray. She licks a piece of dough from her fingers, curious. “I haven’t had cookies before,” she says with surprise, returning to the table as Fiona brings over the brownies, as she called them. Briar prods hers tentatively, unsure, but a glance at Fiona’s hopeful expression has her ripping off a piece. It’s strong, a burst of flavor, one that has her blinking, chewing slowly. “I haven’t had brownies either. Is it... meant to be gooey? It reminds me of something... Little cakes I got in the kitchens once when I was younger, before... before everything else. It’s nice, I mean.” She breaks off another piece to eat and after a pause, she nudges the chair out across from her. “You can sit, too, you know,” she murmurs. “I mean, those won’t be done for a few minutes, right?”

Of course she assumes the worst, seeing Briar like this. Despite how the family may scoff, Aurélie has never been able to fully shed her suspicions about this strange selkie woman. No matter if they had Fiona back or not, someone should have to answer for the way that the poor thing had suffered. And Briar, with her bristled nature, the last person to have seen Fiona with memories intact – was she not the obvious subject of suspicion? Even more obvious now, Aurélie would argue, crouched over an unconscious fae like predator over pray. The vampire doesn’t say a word at first, merely crossing her arms over her chest and letting her own expression do the talking. It’s the last statement that raises her brows, something like surprise flickering across her face. Bold, a claim like that. It’s only once she’s glanced over her own shoulder that Aurélie speaks up, taking a step forward. No fae blood scattered around, surprisingly, so she feels safe enough doing so. “You hold quite a grudge against the fae.” Yet another reason to send one tumbling into the water and to her possible death. “How is it that you know all of this about their weaknesses? I understand a need for self defense, but you seem to me as if you have made a hobby of fighting them.”

Briar visibly grimaces. Of course the last woman she wants to see is the one who shows up, arms crossed, judging before Briar finishes speaking. For what? Defense of the fae? She shoots Aurélie a look, half baffled and half irritated at the comment. “Wouldn’t you?” she retorts, refusing to elaborate, eyes returning to the unconscious face, one who looks so much like one from the Otherlands that she is torn on the desire to leave them alive. But, no, this is just... probably some poor sod to be related to an Otherlander. “I was raised in the Otherlands, I know more about fae than I know about my own kind. What, do you want a list of facts on their history? Their holidays? What makes them tick?" Briar shifts on her haunches, looking up at Aurélie, studying her intently, unsure of the best position to spring on a vampire that doesn’t end in her premature demise. Better to stall her while Briar figures out a game plan and she sighs, annoyed. “I’ve seen the worst of their kind, there is no good Otherlander. I don’t even know if there’s any good fae.” Against her will, her eyes drop to the pavement, heart giving a loud, painful thump that draws her hand to her chest because she knows without finishing how untrue those words are. If there’s any good fae, it’s Fiona, but she doesn’t know if Fiona is the exception or the rule and finding out is far too risky, it’s better to stick with what she knows, isn’t it? She can’t go back. She won’t go back. “You must know, you married into a family with one of the worst in their tree,” she says instead, gaining control of herself enough to stand up and face her once more. “You know what they are capable of, don’t you?”

“Fortunately, yes. I learned the hard way back in grade school,” Naomi mutters passively, looking down at the unconscious fae, then at the woman. She recognizes her as the one they call Briar; some fake fae, actual selkie who blew into town months ago and started bullying people around town. Or maybe bulling is the wrong word. What does one call someone who randomly starts kicking people’s asses? A bully, right? Naomi squints at Briar, trying to gauge whether she’s still lethal or not. Judging by the way she’s talking and the state of the fae on the ground, she could very well be the one who caused (and/or ended) this fight. 

“Hadn’t thought about the throat technique. I’ll have to remember that,” she nods before adding, “fae’s are the fucking worst.” She only half means it. Mostly she’s saying it to keep on Briar’s good side. Not that’s she’s afraid of the fake fae, just…Naomi’s trying this thing where she doesn’t get into fights with people. Naomi puts up her hands, “I didn’t say anything. Though it doesn’t look great in your favor, you standing over an unconscious body like that. Lucky I’m not a cop.” She lets out a small snort. “Speaking of cops, should we uh…call, someone about this? Like…911, or…?” What is the protocol when you run into someone somewhat volatile standing over an unconscious person? 

“Fighting fae while you were in the middle of your studies? Huh, maybe there’s something likeable about you,” she muses, head shaking as she examines the unconscious fae for a moment longer. With a sigh, Briar reaches for their neck, fingers pressing against their pulse and silently counting, then she reaches for their eyes, prying one back to examine. “Alive. No damage from the looks of it unless they are hiding it in that hair of theirs so they probably just overexerted themselves. Amateur.” Not many fae fighters in this town, or none that she’s run into yet, and she’s pleased to know it. The last thing she wants is more people here to know how to kill each other.

Briar raises a brow. “Try to move quick when you do it. You gauge them wrong, you’ve put yourself in their path for an open shock and if they get your hands on you...” She shivers, rolling her shoulders to ease the memory from her head rather than linger on it. No, she’s quite content to not feel lightning racing through her limbs again, thank you. “I don’t have the best reputation for it, true, and now apparently no council protection, but surely security in town isn’t so lousy to toss me into a cell for minor suspicious activity.” Well, maybe, she doesn’t exactly have a good track record, she thinks, scowling. Threaten one fae with her two babies nearby and suddenly she’s a monster, even if the reasons were legitimate. “Who are 911?” she asks, abruptly uneasy.

“Did you know fae can only hold their lightning - or however you wish to call it - for a few moments before it starts fizzling out and leaves them a little winded? Recover quick,” she adds, almost absently, crouched as she is by the unconscious body of a fae. Her eyes lift, brow raised in challenge. “But if you dodge it well enough, you can use that second to catch them in the throat. No time to summon more. They never expect the throat shot.” Briar squints, looking around. She isn’t responsible for this particular fae, but she recognizes the smell in the air enough to know this was someone who fought and lost. Pathetic, really, they don’t even have many bruises. Briar looks up, hand dropping from her face to sigh with some annoyance. “I didn’t do this, don’t cause a fuss. Just curious about why, and wondering if I get to shake someone’s hand for it or not.”

When was the last time he did this? That was a question with a dark answer, one that smacked into his face like so much lead the moment she posed it. The last time he had fought underwater was thirty years prior, the night he lost his family, and admittedly, he was rusty. Very rusty, but the whole point of going to Lethe initially was to be safe, was it not? Yet here he was, more whole than he was then and…patently unsafe. “Too long ago. Not a story I am wanting to tell tonight, mijn zuster.” It was easier to talk about his parents, no, their parents. Warmer memories, should he skirt around how they died for a while. “Ja, that is her, but no, we are not related by blood. There are selkies all over. We tend to take on the languages and culture of the humans near where we live, to be safe. So we are from the Netherlands, across the ocean. Esther, she tells me your name was Beatrix, before you were taken. Beatrix van der Zee.” Not that he expected her to want that name, to feel any connection to it. She had been Briar as long as she could remember, he assumed, but she deserved to know the name their parents gave her. “Selkies, we do not have many children. It is hard to keep them safe, better only to have a few. So no, it is just you and I. As for Esther, she took me in when…when our parents were hunted down. Killed. Mama, she…” Andreas closed his eyes a long moment, taking a breath to steady himself. Old wounds still hurt when you poured salt into them directly. “She sacrificed herself so that I could get away. Papa was cut down trying to protect us both. We lose so many that family, it is not just limited to blood. So that is why Esther is family.” He explained, watching his sister carefully as they bobbed in the water. She didn’t show emotion easily, if at all, but he needed her to hear this. “But Briar, you are family too. I do not say that lightly, but I do not expect you to feel the bond either. It was broken long ago and maybe, maybe we can mend it over time. You are my sister, that is all that matters to me.”

His hesitation is obvious enough to bring her eyes up from their staring contest with the water. It’s the first sign that his past is messier than it looks, and Briar feels a measure of tension leave her. A sister shouldn’t wish suffering from her brother, but she feels a fraction closer to him knowing she’s not the only one with weights around her ankles. Different shackles, but a jail nonetheless. “Beatrix. I had always wondered what they picked, if anything.” It taste like nothing on her tongue, just another word whose meaning is lost to her. She rolls it around in her head and tries to imagine it as her own, but it’s unfamiliar. It’s wrong. She lets it go and she catches his gaze. Holds it, because she can’t let this go unspoken and she’s an expert at causing wounds. This is the first time it’s brought a worried frown to her face, though. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up about this. If you are, we should stop now and go back to thinking we’re alone. Whoever Beatrix is, whoever they wanted her to be, she died a long time ago,” she says, far blunter than she intends, but unwilling to let him imagine a world where she could become that woman. Briar waits, trying to read his face in the dim light, to know whether she should leave or not. Instead, he seems to struggle with speaking. A request to leave? Her head tilts, a foreign pinching in her chest, loosened only when he speaks again. Loosened, and tightened in another way. “They were brave then. I guess... I guess any parent willing to do that wouldn’t have let me go of their own volition.” She should feel more. She should feel something, but in all the years she imagined her family, and in all the centuries she stopped thinking of them altogether, she long accepted them dead and gone. It’s not a pain to hear the details, not to her, it only eases the part of her that felt abandoned. She eyes Andreas for a long moment, before tentatively reaching out, her fingers settling on his shoulder awkwardly, trying for a comfort that feels as foreign as her birth name. “I can’t promise you anything,” she starts, hesitantly. She drops her hand, kicking off the wall to float on her back. “How much do you know about me? Not Beatrix, but Briar. Feel like we should put some more cards on the table before we decide anything.”