#thelightprevails

@thelightprevails

Send me 💔to have a conversation with a deceased character from my muse’s past.

It is, perhaps, a bit too late at night when a figure steps into the Abbey. More or less. His footsteps make no sound, the doors do not move as he goes through them, despite his going through the motions of opening them. He walks through solid wood without any trouble, washed out and faded at the extremities.

A ghost. Specifically, of some noble man, dressed in all the finery one would expect. Not particularly tall, nor overmuch handsome, but with a kind face. Even with the effects of his unlikely state, he seems kind.

But nonetheless, he makes his way through, into the Sanctuary itself, and finds a pew, gathering himself to pray. 

His voice carries through the old halls, deep and somewhat distorted by an unknown effect. Even to those who would speak French, it’s hard to make out, unsettling those upstairs meditating, those scourging themselves for a chance to walk about into the Light’s good graces. Something about it likely being a little late for his words. Something about a wife.

No one batted an eye when Randal walked into the abbey. Most common folk were blissfully unaware of his murderous actions the month before; those that were had said very little on the matter. 

@thelightprevails

Somehow, it feels safer at night, to come into such a holy place.

During the day, it is somehow too bright, too holy, too... unwelcoming, for her. Crevecoeur has since proven she could reside in such a space, when she saved the Light of the Hamlet, all her time in the darkest spaces taking down creatures darker still. But nonetheless, she felt unwelcome among these sacred halls, as if the door would bar her entry.

So she does not go in the door.

Instead, she comes in through the window, effortlessly flying above the broken glass, rolling across the hard stone to find herself among portraits of saints and a remarkable lack of dust for how few people lived here, these nights.

That being, of course, one.

On still silent feet, Crev pads through the halls, looking for that damnable space where one could hear the graveyard. She suspected she’d find her favorite meddler there, listening in hopes of staying a fiendish spade.

The past day has been... difficult, to say the least. Crevecoeur spent her night and a good deal of her day with her head in her hands in the corner of her room, elbows on her knees and silently counting the space between the breaths of the woman on her bed - they’re always one moment too shallow for her peace of mind but too even to panic. She tries to busy herself - she draws a bath, glaring at every person who even tries to speak to her like a mistrustful cat on her way back up with the water.

It goes cold because everyone who would is too asleep or two stubborn to use it first. Crev uses it later when she concedes that being covered in grave dirt isn’t helping anyone. 

Everything feels a little like wasting time and increasingly like watching someone die. Every heartbeat a little more like hopelessness and futility, an itch to do anything but watch someone die again, be productive somehow. There’s no danger in going out, there hasn’t been since the Abbey’s monsters were slain and Randal came home drenched in scarlet and Crev’s own fury mirrored back at her.

So she goes out. It’s eight o’ clock, and if she doesn’t wash her clothes she’s never going to wash them.  Crev takes Toustain’s robes with her without thinking, realizing almost too late that she needs to be careful with it. The monotony of getting everything clean a welcome relief from worrying all the time. Once the clothes are dry enough, she folds them up and carries them back with her, up the stairs and toward the small room she now called home.

And there is a voice - not all that strong, but audible, and... gods, that’s Toast.

Crev sprints down the hall, almost dropping her basket and then nearly dropping it again as she trips over the edge of the doorframe.