The fanfare of Progress Day and anxiety of the crashed ship was already behind Eterna. Freydis herself had already gone on another journey, primarily with Witchers, that led her closer to Iskaldrik than she had been in nearly a year. With distraction and duty behind her, Freydis had sought out to speak with one healer in particular. Freydis had learned that Zeliha could be found at one particular Stumble Inn, owned by the very banshee Freydis had been on a strange journey with not long before. The thought of the Dark One’s emergence being one step closer to a reality twisted in Freydis’ stomach in a similar way that the mere thought of her Blight-stricken fight for survival out of the broodmother’s lair did. Luckily, meeting Calla by complete chance had led her not only to the establishment of a new friendship, but to a resource that would allow Freydis to provide Zeliha with a resource in the healer’s interest in trying to find a way to reverse or mitigate the effects of the disease. Freydis found the bubbly woman in one of the common areas of the Stumble Inn and suddenly felt oddly nervous approaching her. “Zeliha?” she greeted softly, trying to garner the other woman’s attention. “Do you have a moment to speak?” 

With: @zelihatheflight

Where: Aventia

Tw flashing light

Ingrid had been unwilling dragged to this doomed city thanks to Akanis and his grand idea of being some kind of hero. She had hope guarding the Queen would have sated this desire of his. But no, one cry for help and he was there. She had no choice in the matter that much was evident by how she was hacking away at a piece of timber.

If anyone asked she was ‘training’ but honestly she was imagining it was her other half’s face. There was little form just power, power that was oddly deceiving. She might have a pretty face but she has hacked a man to pieces before. She must have been making a racket because someone was watching “care to join? It’s far more fun than it looks.”

The women had enjoyed an almost total victory only a few days before when they had fought side by side with the alpha queen. The land had been cleansed of the Blight, the temple and its sylvan guardian restored, and each of them had been rewarded for their efforts. However, three of the women were forced to pay a steep price. It wasn’t whether or not Althea, Aradia, and Thora could survive the joining that plagued Freydis’ every thought–but the weight of the reality that they had not had a true choice in the matter of their fate of becoming a Legionnaire. Each of the women was stronger than that last, and Freydis thought often of the bubble Zeliha had trapped her in and then the immediate banishment to the safety of a liminal space Althea had cast Freydis and the two other women into. The idea of contracting the Blight again and forfeiting her body to Nintra Siotta in death or her fey magic in becoming a Legionnaire horrified the woman. Freydis had not seen Althea again since all that had happened, but even if she had she was not sure words existed to express her gratitude for Althea’s forcing of the decision and her bravery. 

Now, appearing in front of her, was the other hand that had intervened in that critical moment. Freydis caught sight of the long tendrils of dark hair that she recognized as the healer’s back in the chaotic setting of Aventia. Eager to express her gratitude and aware that all of the women likely had questions all at once, Freydis approached the woman. “Zeliha,” she called softly, holding out an arm toward Zeliha’s back as if that might help her garner the faiman’s attention. She waited until Zeliha was close, her arms twitching slightly as she forced the urge to hug the woman at bay. “How are the others? Did you bring them to Caer Glas safely?” She paused for a moment before adding, “I’m glad to see you’ve returned to us as well."

It was too quiet and too loud in the medical tent all at once. Juneau, who usually had a short fuse to begin with, found this particularly vexing. Thanks to her accelerated healing, she had woken up earlier than many others. In Alder’s company, she had watched the battered faces of a few Hestia’s Cove residents be brought in on stretchers and quickly patched together on stiff, uncomfortable cots. Each face, whether she knew them or not, was a reminder of their dismal failure in their investigation and battle. Outwardly, Juneau talked a big game and postured herself as a loner, and she had come to slowly begin to accept the truth of Ivar. But he had still conditioned her into who she was today, in many terrible, toxic ways, but in one enduring way as well: if you’re the only one who makes it out safely, or alive, you’re doing it wrong. 

Alder, after taking the time to comfort Juneau and ensure she was truly as alright as she could be in the moment, had separated from her to speak with someone from the guild or Lothar or Prospero. Her head pounded too badly to really remember–but she was alone. The dull buzz around her of hushed tones, pained whimpers, and scared voices thrummed inside her head until she felt too overwhelmed to sit quietly on her cot alone. Her mind, desparate for distraction, wandered instead to how Alder had recounted the strange beasts that had appeared after the great estate had crumbled. He had described how they had found Juneau in the rubble and taken little interest in her–though with the bruising on her face and the split of her lip and left brow she had wished they had taken some care in how they discarded the rock they’d apparently bludgened her with as they abandoned her–and how they had seemed much more curious about Zeliha.

But they hadn’t taken her. 

Juneau, stiff and sore, lifted from her assigned cot and craned her neck to ensure none of the medical volunteers were looking her way before she snuck between one canvas privacy curtain and the next to find Zeliha. The vuldak knew she was lucky–her pain was real, but some of her exhaustion and malaise was a symptom of her body working overtime to heal her at an accelerated rate. Many around her would be permanently maimed and in pain for days–she hated her demonic form, but she tried to remind herself to be grateful. 

Zeliha, when Juneau found her, did not look much better than Juneau. Bruises littered Zeliha’s face just as they did Juneau’s. She knew there were more injuries–hidden internally and under clothing–that both of them shared. Her rage spoiled her stomach as she stood over Zeliha’s sleeping form for a second, but it was quickly superseded by a sense of relief that Zeliha was even there to observe, in a pitiful state or otherwise, when she had been so nearly disappeared away in the hands (or hooves?) of the Kossith. It was a strange sensation to allow herself to care about someone as much as she did those who were tasked with the investigation with her, and foreign when she found her sense of relief that Zeliha was safe to be so profound that it moved her to tears. Quietly, and as gently as she could, she wedged herself into the little extra room on Zeliha’s cot. Juneau was careful not to wake the faiman prematurely or to disturb any of her injuries as she laid close to her, her heightened senses allowing her to listen to Zeliha’s heart and track the sleep-slowed rise and fall of her chest. She would be able to tell when Zeliha was waking.

A kaleidoscope of a book if there ever  was one.

Grievances galore. Characters and cultures all and sundry.

I don't like them. I think they are irresponsible, immature. You overthink. You know null about your past. Oh really? You can't seem to let go of it. Everything must be meaningful. Random wedges of nihilism. Why anyway, huh? I need a nose piercing. Curse you! Who should i turn to? Why is everyone my guardian? International friendship and collaboration and fleeing your heritage. Revenge and Mr. Bitter and Mrs. Sweet on each shoulder. Who is he, who indeed? I am mortified. This should not have happened. You should not have come into existence. But it was God's will that i scream before they even laid a finger on me.

What amount of apathy do you want to be brewed into your order of cafe intellectualis? A dash of Kundera's debut work perhaps? Or the dust and sweat and shame and blood that strew the ancient paths of Constantinople? Be modest. Or contract the latest version of amnesia. You can pour some lead for me now. The dynasty of cats bears testimony to the wrongs that have been inflicted on me, on us, throughout history. The ruby brooch too, it could have told you if it had eyes, and a tongue. Hold your tongue, and your breath. I am going to come. I will die soon. That dish is very similar, hey, i even know its name! Please whip up some ashure. The baron is admirable.