#treunar

　❛　nurse　beauchamp　！　❜

　　claire　had　taken　to　sleeping　in　her　field　uniform　．　it　wasn ‘ t　ａ　foreign　feeling　at　all　．　whenever　she　woke　up　with　her　blouse　twisted　‘ round　her　torso　＆　ａ　belt　buckle　digging　into　her　abdomen　，　she　fondly　remembered　rickety　cots　，　dense　rainforests　or　dry　desert　landscapes　，　＆　of　course　her　dear　uncle　lamb　．　ａ　small　smile　sprang　to　her　lips　as　she　joined　fellow　nurse　ruth　pennington　outside　the　tent　，　wriggling　her　toes　＆　stomping　her　feet　to　get　properly　into　her　boots　．　

　　the　sun　had　scarcely　risen　;　what　little　light　it　provided　was　washed　grey　by　persistent　clouds　．　the　encampment　was　yet　quiet　，　no　lamps　were　burning　．　　fussing　absently　with　her　wild　curls　，　claire　didn ‘ t　have　time　to　ask　her　companion　what　was　going　on　before　she　was　wordlessly　whisked　away　toward　the　medical　tent　．　the　girl ‘ s　pinched　face　looked　very　grave　＆　very　pale　．　neither　claire ‘ s　initial　confusion　at　being　woken　so　abruptly　nor　the　warm　echo　of　quentin　beauchamp ‘ s　memory　could　prevent　her　stomach　from　sinking　．

　　inside　，　the　tent　was　bustling　with　life　．　ａ　gaggle　of　uniformed　men　–––　boys　，　really　–––　were　crowding　around　a　field　cot　occupied　by　an　unmoving　body　．　by　the　glow　of　the　kerosene　lamps　claire　could　immediately　tell　how　torn　＆　scuffed　their　clothes　were　，　though　none　rivalled　the　patient ‘ s　in　raggedness　．　one　of　the　soldiers　quickly　accosted　them　＆　began　to　talk　insistently　at　claire　．　

　　❛　step　aside　，　gentlemen　，　❜　　she　interrupted　，　giving　the　young　man　ａ　gentle　push　in　the　general 　direction　of　an　empty　stool　．　　❛　let　me　through　！　　ruth　，　where　the　hell　is　doctor　hampstead　？　❜

　　❛　he ‘ s　coming　．　here　，　❜　　motioning　toward　the　man　with　ａ　pair　of　scissors　the　same　time　as　claire　withdrew　her　hand　from　his　heated　brow　，　　❛　carefully　．　he ‘ s　been　lashed　．　❜

　　together　they　turned　him　onto　his　side　，　only　to　find　the　white　linen　there　drenched　in　blood　．　the　soldier ‘ s　eyelids　were　now　fluttering　open　＆　shut　periodically　，　his　pupils　aimlessly　rolling　around　．　claire　grabbed　him　by　the　chin　＆　tried　to　get　his　attention　while　nurse　pennington　snipped　away　at　the　pathetic　remains　of　his　uniform　dress　shirt　．　his　face　was　ａ　handsome　one　，　though　covered　in　sweat　＆　barely　animate　，　hanging　limp　in　between　her　hands　．　she　shook　him　again　＆　his　eyes　finally　snapped　open　．　they　focused　for　the　briefest　moment　＆　claire　saw　something　like　understanding　in　them　．

　　❛　mr ．　fraser　，　❜　　ruth　started　to　say　，　dangling　something　shiny　somewhere　next　to　claire ‘ s　head　．　she　decided　to　go　with　it　．

        THE WOUNDS OF REXXENTRUM HAVE FAR FROM HEALED.  Though the Cobalt Soul's word can shield its expositors  ---  and their friends  ---  from much of the brunt of the city's darkened corners and berths, they are no longer an organization which operates below the law, but rather strengthens and works within it, reforming around it to shape it into a better form of the Empire they would all rather live within.  Still, such tasks take time, as all tasks and the weeks of Beauregard's trial and case against Zeenoth  (though successful, though so successful)  had shown.

        When venturing outside of the Soul, Caleb Widogast must be careful  ---  that the Nein are heroes of little that the people would know does not bother him so much as the fact that they are yet unsafe, however accustomed to that they have all become.  The capital city of the Empire still arrests his attention in the worst of ways, regardless, filled as it is with memories and the overbearing statues of the Dawnfather that nearly swallow him in his shadow as much as they would proclaim light, and Caleb finds...  well, with Trent Ikithon still being prepared for trial, and whispers only just beginning to work their way around the Cerberus Assembly, that there is a target on his back more often than he would like.

        That, apparently, is the sticky part about telling the truth, even after all these years of keeping so much of it hidden away, rotting for fear, within the deepest recesses of his hidden heart.

        So perhaps it is not entirely surprising, then:  especially as rumors have equally begun to quietly spring, albeit unsubstantiated since no one has seen such a figure, of a disruptive Empire mage travelling with a Kryn one to the very heart of the capital.  No, Caleb should not be surprised that he finds, one day, a target on his back, and narrowly ducks out of the way as a familiar insignia flashes on the hand of a shopkeep who can clearly see through his illusory Disguise Self, a dark grin on their features, and he has to fight back.

@treunar​​  ☛    «  𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬  𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐫  »     :          ❛        𝐟𝐨𝐫    𝐲𝐨𝐮    𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞    𝐢    𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥    𝐛𝐞    𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐤     .        ❜ 

        he    will    say    these    things  ,    sometimes    –––––    𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲    𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝   .      things    that    could    𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞    𝐭𝐡𝐞    𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭    𝐭𝐨    𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥     &     𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧    𝐭𝐡𝐞    𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬    𝐭𝐨    𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫   .      are    there    any    defences    for    this    kind    of    onslaught   ?      claire    wiggles    underneath    the    heavy    blanket    but    𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬    𝐧𝐨𝐭    𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧    𝐡𝐞𝐫    𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝    to    face    the    offending    party   .      he    is    so    𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐲    𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫    at    times    that    she    can    hardly    bear it   .      jamie  ,    her    jamie    –––––    𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫     &     𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧    𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞    𝐚    𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠    𝐠𝐚𝐬𝐡   .      how    lucky    she    is    to    have    come    from    such    a    faraway    place  ,    to     ultimatively     have    𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝    𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞    𝐢𝐧    𝐡𝐢𝐬    𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬  ,    to    have    found    him    𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲    –––––    separated    from    him    by    centuries  ,    but    never    far    enough    removed    to    be    kept    away   .      for    him  ,    𝐬𝐡𝐞    𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐬    𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬    𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞  ,    𝐭𝐨𝐨   .

with a cocked brow,  bree leaned back in her seat and watched in amusement while he tried to wrap his head around the use of all the buttons and sticks on the dashboard of her car.   she had caught claire peering out through the window to check on them several times in the hour they’d sat there,  likely worried her highlander husband would wreck havoc on her  their  daughter’s car.   so far,  all they’d managed to do was go over the radio and the headlights.   this was going to take forever ...

       ❝   no,  i ––   i wouldn’t call you that just yet. ❞        she said with a laugh.

he was exceedingly stubborn,  a trait bree knew was reflected in herself.   it seemed as if it was from him she had inherited this,  alongside her height and fiery hair.   after so many years,  she finally understood what mama had meant every time she said she looked so much like him.   bree had always just assumed it was daddy she meant,  but she and frank had never shared any physical likeness,  and for good reason.   facing jamie now,   she saw herself  reflected  in his person  –––  more important than the height  &  hair,  was the spirit.

       ❝   you are making progress though,  and that’s  good.   mama’s waving us back inside now  &  i have a feeling that means dinner’s ready,  so how about we pick this up again another day,  huh?   ❞

@treunar​  ☛    «  𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐝  𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐡  𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐡  »     :          ❛        𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭    𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧 ’ 𝐭    𝐢    𝐝𝐨    𝐟𝐨𝐫    𝐲𝐨𝐮   ?        ❜

        ❛        𝐡𝐨𝐰    𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐟𝐮𝐥    𝐨𝐟    𝐲𝐨𝐮    𝐭𝐨    𝐚𝐬𝐤    𝐦𝐞    𝐚    𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧    𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡    𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬    𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡    𝐚    𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭    𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫     .        ❜            

        she    takes    the    offered     wine    glass    from    her    husband ’ s    hand  ,    𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐩𝐬    𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠    warm    skin   .         he    looks    so     𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐲    𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞    tonight    that    claire    is    sorely    tempted    to    linger  ,    knowing    if    she    does  ,    𝐡𝐞 ’ 𝐥𝐥    𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰    𝐡𝐞𝐫    𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥   .       whatever    force    it    is    that    binds    them  ,    whatever    gravitational    pull    keeps    them    together  ,    it    always    sends    them    𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠    𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝    𝐨𝐧𝐞    𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫    ––––    even    at    inopportune    times     .

lewis anwyl was not, in general, the sort of man to make social calls. for the most part, to put it kindly, he was reclusive; to use a harsher term, he was positively antisocial. even to his scottish hosts, he spoke nary a word except at mealtimes. when rumours had reached his ears, however, of the miracle-working healer at lallybroch, he could not help but take some marked measure of interest. anyone with medical training beyond the level of an apothecary was somewhat rare, as far as he understood, in this part of the highlands, but judging by the way the locals spoke of lady broch tuarach, her skills and expertise rivalled that of a physician. surprising, to say the least.