#celayawitcher

Being grounded is not a feeling Araceli is used to, after a few years with her crew, but a must is a must. With Iskaldrik’s fall and the wave of refugees stuck in Haven, there is a great deal of work to do within Lysara for Lady Severian’s heir, and that is without taking into account most of Neptunalia’s festivities. There is too much going on, and too little time to take to the waters. So she has given her crew some time off, and she has returned home once more, ready to meet with her mother and figure out what she needs to do next. The tasks have fallen upon her shoulders as easily as always, and day had turned to night before she noticed. 

She leaves her study with a sigh, a hand rubbing the back of her neck as she tries to massage away the knot that had formed after countless hours hunched down, when she stops in her tracks. A shadow wavers on the corner of her eye, and her hand falls to her rapier before she turns her head just enough to catch a glimpse of the shadow owner’s. Another sigh escapes her as she lowers her hand from her weapon and turns to face the amnesiac with a raised brow. 

It wasn't much, just a torn piece of Calla's dress folded and tucked to resemble a flower. She knew it meant nothing in the grand scheme, but she still offered it to Celaya as they sailed back from the underwater temple. "There's no way that I could ever repay the debt I owe you, but I hope this will help to demonstrate what your sacrifice means to me." Calla moves in close to Celaya, hesitant to bring up the ring that attached itself to her finger, yet showing concern for her regardless. "Thank you, for keeping me safe on the raft. I felt safe underneath your shield and I still feel safe now, here with you."

There is a part of Valdís that rebels against the idea of even associating with another witcher. Seraphiel’s annoying second-in-command, Moon-hwa, is troublesome enough. There is no need for her to face another one, not really. They are ghosts of people she would have met if the druid hadn’t saved her, and that alone is enough to send shivers down her spine. Pirates are a superstitious bunch, and she has never quite liked dwelling on what ifs, fearing that the wonderings would bring them towards here. 

And yet. 

There she is, approaching the witcher with a nod of acknowledgment and as friendly of a smirk as she can muster. They have both been fucked over by the lich creatures, and she guesses she is going to see her again because of the rings stuck in their hands, so might as well build some rapport. 

“You aren’t half bad in the field,” she praises. “Those were some quick moves you pulled out there.”