#misty text

And thinking about now, Mollymauk waking from the dead a second, impossible time. He doesn't wake up already horribly dying. When his reknit chest expands, the breaths come easily. He opens his eyes, and he isn’t surrounded by darkness, but a carnival of color, his body covered in flowers and fungi. New life blooming even as a whole, massive city fades and dies quietly around him. 

And this time, this time, he isn’t alone. Kneeling at his side, standing over him, are people. People who stare at him with disbelieving eyes, like he’s too good to be true, who catch him as he bolts in fear and hold him like they’ll never let go. They laugh and cry and speak to him gently, and even if he can't make sense of their words at first, they are insistent, reassuring. Here are clothes, here's your name, here are ours. This is you, this is us. This is, all nine of us, us. We missed you. We love you. Welcome back. 

He doesn’t know where he is, and he doesn’t know who he is. But these people do. And somehow, he recognizes them, knows them better, perhaps, than he knows himself. 

Like Lucien can evidently notice and trace a Scry back to its caster and their physical location. He can track his way to this fortified location; stealth into the quarters of one of the most magically and politically powerful wizards on the continent; and murder her without much of a struggle under the noses of the seven level-13 adventurers hired to protect her, without them noticing until the middle of the next day.