#soulescence

A twig snaps beneath the ball of her foot touched gingerly to the forest floor, lancing pain from mid-right thigh more intense than her shuffling strides evoke, but if the pang tugs a grimace across her mouth, Valeera has long stopped caring for the sound of her passage, her aspect tense and directed straight ahead. The pain recedes to an echo of itself as she hops forward with that leg, blooms as it takes her weight for her left to lope after it. Recedes. Blooms. Recedes. Blooms. Her throbbing shoulder adds another beat to the tattoo, a diatribe of self-reproach punctuated by the rhythm of it. She had been slow, had underestimated the reach of those tendrils, and for all that hadn’t even managed to procure any usable information from the Shath’Yar garble her foe had emitted as it died. Worse, her injuries would keep her from searching elsewhere for however long it took them to heal.

Her exasperation is unalloyed by the knowledge that others are looking, too. SI:7, the dubious Black Talons, the Horde…… Someone would find N'Zoth, somewhere, before it was too late.

Sound to her right and Valeera jerks towards it, movements spasmodic ( another shameful indictment against her abilities ). An instant of indecision decides her too clumsy to run or hide, too proud not to stand her ground, and draws her daggers, her heel reluctantly flattened to the detritus below as she crouches, blades and body poised like a coiled spring in readiness for whatever crashes through the trees.

Only it doesn’t crash through, the moment stretching on for long enough to grow uneasy then frustrated again. The creature ------ small, light, by the noise of its footsteps, not one of the Faceless Ones ------ does not seem to know she’s there. It doesn’t have her trail, isn’t about to launch an assault against her.

Features unmistakably elvish resolve in the shade between the trees where purple malformation was anticipated, Valeera making no move to hide herself.

" — 𝐈 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐄 to your tea." Despite his own considerable experience, it paled beside the mastery ( indeed, artistry ) that was Eri's brew; still, he could hardly hope to surprise her if she was the one serving. Byakuya prepared their cups on his side of the table, pouring until the words at the bottom of her cup disappeared beneath the steaming, amber liquid. Satisfied she wouldn't see them until she had drank her full, he placed the cup before her.

          He can’t deny the surprise he feels when he sees her standing within the Ninth,  as if maybe he’s in some sort of dream.  That wouldn’t be entirely out of the question,  would it?  On particularly sleepless days he sometimes moved through the division in a haze.  Shuuhei very nearly pinches himself to see if that is the case  but no,  this was really happening.  The back of his neck feels a little hot and he does his best to ignore it,  the files he’d gone and retrieved held fast beneath his arm.  Don’t make a fool out of yourself!  he quietly reprimands,  chest puffed out a moment later as he gathers himself to go up and greet her properly.

          He hated that,  the lonesomeness that it wrought.

"𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐁𝐄𝐋-𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐀 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒 𝐖𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐓 celebrate Apacci’s birthday tomorrow.”