Dawn breaks

[Altias_Bromn]

With a curt nod, the governor sat on the bed beside Ariane. Certainy he could have chosen the chair, but it seemed like a subject better discussed as comrades than strangers.

"What would you have me say, Ariane? I know so little about her. About what she was, nevermind about what she *is*. Ashe only told me little things, and even those are mostly forgotten. You've no idea the pain I went through after he..."

Such things were rarely dsicussed in polite company, but Ariane was different than most women. She'd seen her share of horrors, and then some, he imagined.

"...cut Avel from my belly. It was strange. He tore the weapon that was Avel from me, and used it to release the thing that had grown within me. And then he, well he... just turned to ashes on the wind. And there was Avel.

I told Treadwell to kill her, right there on the spot, as I had no strength left to do it. He did not, of course, he couldn't. You know the type of man he is, he could scarcely kill a man, forget a tiny babe. By the time I was healed enough to do it myself...she...Ari, she seemed so normal. I hoped that what had been Avel had disappeared with Ashe. "

Altias looked at her now, a strange sadness, a kind of disappointment, in his eyes. Not toward her, but himself. He had allowed the girl to live, and now there were more that would face her. He had not seen the girl in a week or more, to be truthful he was afraid if he went back he would lose his nerve. She would be the same sweet child he remembered, and he would lose faith in the stories he had come to know.

"How does one defeat a myth? I can not say, but this much I do know. We have a great strength between us. You, Heldenbrand, the elf from yesterday...I know there are more. She has been defeated before, we can do it again. I have faith."

He would have continued, but he dared not risk upsetting her again. He had a bad habit of tipping his hand, and it made her uncomfortable. He did not enjoy making her uncomfortable. Instead, he stood up once more, allowing her the space which seemed so important to her. They were very different in that regard. It seemed the more upset Ariane became the less she wanted to be near people. Altias, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to be close to someone right now.

[Carnath-Emory]

She stiffens, almost imperceptibly. There are lines drawn all over the face of the world: the barcounter that says These things are mine to give, and yours to purchase; the walls of a tavern, that say This is the place where we gather; the Wall recently built around Myrken Wood, that says This is ours, and you do not share it.

She'd drawn one between he and Heldenbrand just the day before, with nothing but a touch to Bromn's shoulder. Mine, that line had said, and the desert-dweller had read it clearly.

Now it's Bromn who crosses one of those boundaries, Bromn who invades, and she will not be so gauche as to draw away and worsen things. But she remains silent as he speaks, gaze fixed on her own knees, and silent still when he's done. At some point, her lips have twisted into a crooked line, plain distaste for the subject on which he speaks.

There'd been a child, once. It had choked on the jealous silver of her blood...

Distaste, for this talk of the birthing. Distaste for Treadwell too, that ineffectual sham of a man, but surely it's wrong to hate him for this sole crime: that he hadn't slaughtered a newborn when he had the chance. It is unjust.

What isn't?

"Elil." Her voice sounds strange to her, after that long stretch of silence, but this is nothing unusual. "Heldenbrand. Thorn, were she with us still." Coran is the name left unspoken; does she dare unleash that force against this weapon of a child? "They would destroy her without hesitation, were it in their power, but Ser -- " Her head lifts at last, to fix the grey stare upon him once more.

"It was Audmathus that we fought. A man, however extraordinary. He could be made to bleed. Perhaps so can Avel. And if we cut her down, Ser, if we burn her to ash so that nothing remains, the one that made her will find new flesh for its weapon. I know nothing of this 'goddess', Ser. I know not even her name."

Her ease, when he rises once more, is as subtle as the discomfort had been, minutes before. It's possible that after all of this, after the years of their aquaintance, their mis-matched partnership, the matter is not one of invisible lines, but simple pride. When things had been at their worst, she'd not clung even to Vornheim.

[Altias_Bromn]

The subtle reds and golds that only the early morning sun can bring, filtered in through the window of his room. He'd scarcely slept the night before, and had intentionally left the curtains thrown wide to allow the sun to roust him, should he manage to find sleep.

Now he sat at the mirror, bottles of herbs scattered in a strangely orderly fashion over the dressing table, dabbing at his lip with a cloth. The scent of lavender and comfrey permeated the room, a bowl of the flowers and leaves soaking in hot water next to him.

The bleeding had stopped, that was good. The previous night he had been unsure that his nose would ever cease. Ruined a perfectly good shirt, and it had taken hours to get all the blood out from between the rings of the chainmail.

The cloth was laid flat before him, the mass of wet herbs gently pressed free of water, before he laid them on the cloth, folding it tightly around them. This compress was held to his nose as he surveyed the damage. Little spitfire had done a number on him, again. Both lips were nicely split, right down the middle. Wench had good aim, if little else. A normally angular nose was swollen in a most unbecoming fashion, making way for lovely dark circles beneath either eye. Well, it wasn’t as though anyone had delusions of him being some sort of manly man, most likely they wouldn’t even notice.

The rub of it was he didn’t really even know why she had done it. All he had done, really, was say hello. They had parted on bad terms, that much he could remember, but because of everything that had happened…he really wasn’t clear on exactly what had caused the bad blood between them. Damned if he was going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that though.

“Fah… women.â€

[Carnath-Emory]

She wakes with the dawn as always, having never troubled to curtain her room: it's not hers, not in the way the dusty attic corner had been, before Kylerryth had intruded and robbed her even of that.

But then, she hadn't known that creature's name then; still doesn't, even now. Some day, she may have cause to regret that.

For now, there's simply the peace of an early morning, of a room flooded with precious sunshine and empty of anyone but herself. A creature of routine, these hours are almost sacred to her: a time to clean, and dress, and bask in the Spring-time warmth. She's kept a basin in her room for months, to be filled with chill water each morning, and the first splash of it hits her like a slap to the face; the biting cold suits her mood far better than a scalding soak could have.

She's shivering when she's done, but this is as much a part of the routine as the inspection which follows: hunched over, she peers into her scrap of mirror to see what damage Heldenbrand had done the evening before. His meaty fist has left a bruise blooming darkly across her jaw, but the lips are beginning to scab over, and that's just as well. She'd learned to be wary of open wounds years ago. There's more of the same, scattered across her spine, hip, shoulder, lighter where it meets the burns of years ago --

Hah! It hardly matters, beyond the difficulty of explaining such things to Agnieszka. Heldenbrand had done her a favour, after all; had driven her to the necessary exhaustion, so that fury could simmer down to a cold burn.

But oh, speaking of fury and cold...

She dresses herself with particular care, vanity demanding that much compensation for the bruises: gleaming hematite and gunmetal grey, this morning, high-necked to conceal the worst of the damage to her throat. Damp hair is combed straight, arranged with some care to hide what it can, and flatter the rest; nevermind that it hangs limply, sodden. There's a grin for her reflection -- here, in solitude, she has the freedom for such expression -- and the swordbelt buckled about her hips, as she departs her room in search of another's.

That their rooms adjoin is a mixed blessing. It means, at least, that she needn't walk far to find him -- perhaps. For when she knocks her knuckles upon Bromn's door, part of her is expecting no answer at all. He'd intended to seek out Avel alone, after all, and she'd taken the man at his word.

However suicidal it had been.