#progressday25

The air was so sickly-sweet that it clung to the back of Diarmad's throat like spoiled honey. His limbs hung slack in the silken strands that bound him, but every breath, every twitch sent a ripple of pain through his body - the genath'asir was many things, had done worse but he wasn't a sadist - he was reformed to walk this path. To stand apart from the Dark One's influence, he should have known that it would come with consequences.

He had lost track of time, but he heard the tide overhead, smelled the ocean, saw the water as it dripped from the molded stones of the ceiling. The cold had seeped deep, past skin and sinew, curling around his bones, whispering something worse than death. Somewhere nearby, a ragged breath. A shudder. The faintest stir of movement.

He forced his head up. The web shifted slightly, tightening, biting. It took all his will not to groan. A genasi hung to his left, a druid to his right... Based on the woman's words, he'd understood that the man must be a darkfriend, and the woman had a similar thought to him. Their bodies, pale and trembling, were caught in the same gossamer chains that held him. His voice came rough, cracked. "Still alive?"

There were curses in this world that even he had not seen, but there were rumours from the Age of Darkness of Forsaken with the power to create something truly vile - but all things had conditions. "Whatever she asks, don’t say yes."

Work was good. Steady. Really good, actually. Alrik had expanded before Progress Day but now - well - he had humbler beginnings than most, laced with the sort of tragedy that left him discontent. Lysara wasn't his home, it would never be his home, but he couldn't deny that in the time since he'd arrived things had improved for him. Love. Purpose. Destiny - they'd all integrated into one, tethering itself to his inherent curiosity and sure-footed pursuit of moving ever forward. It was in his nature to continue to tinkering, his father was a blacksmith so where runed iron were where his origins began, he'd managed to bridge that to his hammer, his body - and now the witch questioned: what was next?

Obsidian eyes flickered from the forge, the midday sun beating down on him as the embered flames glint across his hues. "Adrian." Alrik greeted, it had been a long time since their road from Iskaldrik to Lysara, now with those robes there was no denying where the other had landed. "I didn't know you were an Accepted, my sister joined the Tower too."

A whirlwind of dust kicked up and washed across the lower benches as the mechanical horse-drawn chariot whipped around the corner. He'd been perched in the corner, his body recovered from Orryn's attack but his ego still bruised, when he caught sight of at least one familiar face. Scattered though the Iskarans all were, the witcher still had his oaths - and as a member of the Guild that took on another shape now. "I think I might put my name in." Torsten stated plainly as he saddled adjacent to her, gesturing toward the race track again. He'd been riding Harold for years, how different could a chariot be? This was mechanical, not magical, narrow as his thoughts could be he took no issue with progress in that sense. "Doesn't look difficult."

It had taken Polaris a beat to recall where he'd seen the woman before, but recall he had. On the other side of the eluvian there hadn't been much time for idle discourse, but while he'd once been in Aetherian chains, building structures at the behest of his captors, he had seen her at the side of the Archon himself. There was a... visceral reaction... but the Baran was old enough to know that not all cages were universal. Some were certainly more comfortable.

A petty exhibition of his own orchestrated itself through the quasi-sentient statues he'd carved of the magisters in question. One laughable display after another, a guffaw here, a flatulent joke there, it paid him a measure of amusement to see the Lysarans laughing at the figures that had, at one point, destroyed everything that Polaris once held dear.

"Talisa, was it?" He asked, brow raised as he gestured candidly to the statues. "What do you think?" The statues captured the likeness of Kansaldi, Anthin, Aeldhert, Aelthryth, and the Archon quite well - if he did say so himself.

There was always more going on than Torsten cared to entertain. He'd recovered physically from the wounds he'd sustained a little over a month ago, but the echo of his failure still settled in his bones. Arros, of all people, was perhaps the last face he'd expected to see in Eterna. Torsten, it seemed, had become all too comfortable with the notion that there were simply people he'd never seen again. Grateful as he was the Queendom had offered Iskarans refuge, ducked below some extravagant display of magic and some entertainer sending whirring, mechanical doves fluttering from his hat, he couldn't help but wonder if this was where all witchers had come to die.

"Back from the dead," Torsten commented, aiming to get Arros' attention. "again."

"And then, Thora demonstrated some of the most exquisite sword skills I've ever seen." Althea had been regaling Aurea with everything she'd seen and done while away for - well - no time at all for the Alpha, but six long months for her. The three months she'd spent deceiving the giants, living in fear that she'd end up in their soup pot - prepared to vaporize whoever she needed to in the end. It had been a lot, "Sylvanis was beautiful though," she added, thoughtfully, "a rare glimpse, I think, into what could've been. What could be." Unfortunately so long as they were being burned at the stake or thrown into mines, that past would never come again. "I wish you'd been there, a werewolf was the only thing that ragtag group of misfits was missing."

A sunhat larger than was needed with more wine than she'd ever drink herself, the legionnaire had secured a spot for herself on a lovely little cruise meant to shepherd her from island to island. It was the least she could do for herself after spending three months living among giants, and then another three of rigorous study. One might say she'd been, booked and blessed. Of course, no time had passed here but she felt lifetimes older. What she hadn't expected, was to see a witcher among the celebrations. "Careful, Sigtryggr, I might begin to think you're following me." Or was it the other way around? Not that it mattered.

Three months living in Angrboða's cage, then another three studying in Sylvanis. One could say that Althea was something of an expert on matters of - well - most things. All in all nothing had changed except she'd gotten quite good at braiding strands of hair as thick as Aradia's water-retaining thumbs. "Your girlfriend won't stop talking to me about you," she sighed into her wine, observing the festivities from a respectable distance - a balcony overlooking the bazaar. Broad sunhat in place, sunglasses to match. "it's wretched, please ask her to stop."