——beyond bravery.

Blood all over her face, all over her dress, a mess of half-dried and still-wet crimson. Pieces of cut flesh tangled in her black hair. A sword she stole from some guard that slips from her hand with a shaky, ominous clang. There's a person— no, no, not a person anymore, a body— laying splayed out in front of her, his wounds still sputtering out more red all over polished floors. One of many in that room.

Kallian's already sitting limply on the floor before she could notice it. She could hear Soris faintly calling her name in the midst of all the deafening white noise, but her brown eyes are trained on Nelaros' body on the floor.

They were supposed to get married. She hadn't bothered to get to know him — figured it changes nothing regardless of who she marries as long as she gives birth to two or three, and then she could live out the rest of her sorry life a rat amongst other rats. Ignored that tug in her heart when he said— what was it, he said, he'd spend his life learning to make her happy.

There's a trail of bodies left behind where Kallian marched past since she got out of captivity, trying to swallow the bile rising in her throat every time she cuts another down, and still nothing feels worse than this. Her head feels queasy with the stench of blood.

She holds Nelaros' limp hand in both of her own, shaky, pressing her dry cracked lips to his cold knuckles, to the stained wedding ring on his finger. She's not sure if there's tears on her face or not. She's far from dying in a pool of her own blood in some fancy estate, and yet it feels like she is anyway. It's an unsightly scene for a wedding — a bloodstained bride, her once white dress in tatters with her unfortunate groom, a union realized in death far before it could in life.

"Kallian," Soris repeats lightly, and Kallian swears she could have torn into him with her sword. "There's no time. We have to go." Leave Nelaros here.

Kallian's wide eyes are devoid of hope. "They'll kill us, Soris. There's nothing we can do."

"We can't just sit here and wait to be killed!"

Kallian bites back the I can sitting in her throat.

@stlwrt — all right, since you're such an expert, why don't you show me? / from steph

Bruce fought the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he just pinches the bridge of his nose before huffing out a word. "That's not what I mean. You're over reaching when you throw. You're going to cause long term issues with your shoulder if you keep doing it. The moment you feel a pull in your arm, you let go. Let your fingertips guide the batarang. Don't force it."

"you know, the best-by date's only a suggestion, but pretty sure these are rancid." there was no 'pretty sure' about it. if she opened the bag ( and she was so so tempted to do so ), the smell alone would confirm it with no additional help.

and she usually does make sense.

she was grounded, shaped in her own people's traditions, able to speak the language of her ancestors, to be able to slip into life as only a mirialan should she give it effort. Shamara does not wish to offer that effort. she is was a Jedi. that is all she has ever been.

she seems almost to stare through Alex, barely noting the metal hand's coolness dancing up bare thigh, ignoring the way it settles at her hip.

"wishing won't make it happen." won't bring back an entire Order of people who had been home and comfort and hands willing to catch people before they plummeted off heights.

( she thinks she's still falling, even now, tumbling without so much as a stray branch to slow it )

what she's not patient enough with, though, is the thought that shamara may never move on.

it's not a thought she voices, even with the words just barely hanging on the tip of her tongue. she can't just say just move on, not like that. so she waits here, patiently as she could, taking every ounce of shamara's pain and grief and ire, if only because she has no one else in this damn galaxy who would unquestionably be on her side anymore. some half-assed replacement for what shamara had.

( alex decides it's better she ignores that dull pang in her chest. )

lord. it smells like a fire hazard in here.

writhing in pain. unbelievable pain.

she knows the city too well to have made a mistake, it was muscle memory. she knows the routes by heart, the math to navigate by grapnel without careening into buildings. and yet somehow her foot slipped?

something was wrong.

her leg was broken, that was obvious to her. she was unable to stand, but it was more than just her femur. a duller pain on the opposite side, her hip.

a flare up of an older injury? something else?

regardless, she needed help getting home. before someone who wasn't on her side found her laying in a back alley in full bat suit. Kate struggled for her distress signal ping. she had no idea who would come, only that someone would soon.

so, here she is, swinging from one building to another. staying safe, y'know, as she promised.

she catches sight of batwoman long before the signal's sounds reaches her ears, only tearing away for a second to make sure her grappling hook grabs the right place. then, one more swing, a flip, and she's landed with a roll on the ground safely. perfect. no notes.

finally, the dalish elf sighs, willing herself not to think about whatever hell the city must be, pinches the bridge of her nose. "no, Kallian. they'll not do anything of the sort." she could hazard a guess as to how close to that line Zevran may get in jest, and that guess was still leagues away from Kallian's apparent fear for it.

not good with humans, the other elf professes, and not for the first time since they've set out, Sharrah wonders why Kallian chooses to cling tighter than a fledgling to the one elf that was distinctly not one of her own kin. perhaps it was simply the familiarity. what little of it there was.

yet if Kallian turned heel right now and ran, there was little of her that would be missed — her skill with a blade left much to be desired, evidenced well enough by the other woman's request for help.

she lets out the breathe she didn't realize she was holding.

"i— i am grateful." she murmurs, finally allowing herself to sit on her knees on the ground. stiff regardless, but remarkably less anxious. "i would like to be of some use to your— our quest, long as you have the patience ..."

Blue light flickers from her hands momentarily, flashing sharp heat through the pantry, haloing the shape of her body from the other side. "You know you had an infestation, right?"

Emphasis on had.

Half-used paper pouches of flour slouch on the countertop, sitting in the middle of a plastic garbage bag. A paper bag of cornmeal swiftly joins it. The rest of the contents of Aiden's pantry was scattered about the kitchen floor, and any dry goods clearly sitting in some sort of purgatory.