#poor miri

Last time, Miri's mind was clouded. Her friends wore the faces of enemies, subtle thoughts slipped into her mind. Watch here. Look  there. Leave the door unlatched. It tore her, realizing every thought between the dungeon rescue and standing above a bleeding Tenithar might not have been her own. Was not her own. That her actions were. 

There is no fog this time.

The frying pan is dead in her off hand, the goddess's blessing withdrawn from it. That is the smallest comfort. The only comfort. Her power is weakened, but her sword is sharp, and she can feel it in a hand that clutches the grip without her leave.

She strikes, the blade glancing off armor, but the weight of it driving the girl to one knee, using the blocks Miri's taught her.

"This isn't you," Isabaeu shouts. "Fight it!"

Miri tries. Screaming in her head, praying, she tries. It's not like before, where she could pull back her strength, where a jolt of magic could make her mind see clearly once more. She knows this is not her, and that is where the problem lies. 

How can she fight her own body when she is trapped within it?

The stink of blood clogs her air.  The sword she has rarely wielded gleams in the light of the fading red sun. 

She cannot win this fight. She cannot allow herself to win.  This is the oath Miri once swore to Liadin, only she sits on the opposite side of it now. She hopes Isabeau understands. 

Miri would gasp and rush to Robert's side, kneeling to help him to sit up and tend to his boo boos. After some consoling and many healing kisses to the boy's injured noggin, the lady would take her son by the hand and power walk her way to find Reshuv.