How annoying, that Syr Osytha takes her favorite cup. The one with the laughing raven, its beak tilted proudly up towards the sky. And all because Innis had to remove her coat and hat and put them on the knobby oak coat rack beside the door. Fine, she would take the boar instead. Stubborn thing that it is. Yellowish stains mar Innis' white shirt under the armpits, and beads of sweat wet the curls at her temples. She expects the steaming black tea to heat her even more, but it does not.

The liquid brings her back to equilibrium, and the dark herb returns some spirit to her eyes.

It is genuine interest that has Innis scooting closer to Osytha and her papers, looking down at the patterns traced on the map from that imagined bird's eye view. This sort of thing normally captivates her, no matter the topic. The passion of study poured out onto the page. Hours and hours distilled into the manic precision of someone who could answer every question about one or two things. Syrs Sabinian and Edelbert were the best at it, but Osytha was getting close with her talk of flowers and migratory seasons.

The report peeters out into an apology. Innis notices only the stopped flow of information, not the nerves of the woman who has clamped up. One palm pushes against the edge of the table, propping Innis up as she sips her tea and absorbs every scribble on the maps and papers. She would have stayed like that for a long time, if Captain Helena had not prompted her.

"Kinda looks like," Dark eyes following the paths from Edjer to the lowlands. "Our strigoi's a snowbird."

Nope, too high of stakes for a joke. Innis pushes off the table to attention, standing straighter.

"I mean it," she explains before she gets scolded. "Lots of people come down to the lowlands for winter work. Then they go back up in the summer to be with their families in Edjer. Might be our strigoi is following the same roads she did in life."

Leaning forward again, she splays her hand on the map, framing that little speck with thumb and forefinger. "But it doesn't matter. She won't return if Lilia's here, she won't give up her prey mid-haunt."
 
Something about the single-mindedness with which Innis pores through those notes makes Osytha’s chest tighten up even more. She’d normally be glad for such a dedicated second pair of eyes to catch out anything she herself might have missed, and for Lilia’s sake, they do need that kind of scrutiny. But here, it only makes Osytha herself feel all the more under the microscope. One by one, she’s running out of places to hide.

“Et’s rare for strigòi to move on from a victim prematurely,” Osytha replies, “but et does ’appen.”

She frowns down at her map, at her papers. All that time running around the country, all those dead ends, all that questioning. All that desperation. A dark and heavy lump of dread congeals in her stomach as she wonders, what if? Surely, no. It can’t be. But… what if?

“Ah mean, et’s been ommust three month.” She gulps a little more tea, hoping it’ll take with it the shake she’s feeling in her voice. “An’ t’ countermeasures on Lilia’s room mean she’s hidden from t’ strigoiacă as long as she’s in there. If et knew where to find ’er, et would’ve made ets move by now, or at least be stuck loiterin’ nearby t’ monastery. But we’d ’ave noticed in either case. Surely…”

If it were so easy, they wouldn’t have needed to send Osytha out to try and anticipate its movements. Chasing it hasn’t worked. It’s cunning, leaves few traces, and for every reported sighting or possible encounter, the trail’s already long been cold by the time the knights arrive. That’s why she’s been out there. Figuring out how they can already be lying in wait ahead of it by the time their strigoiacă arrives. This has to be the opportunity they’ve been looking for. This has to be it.

Osytha reaches out a hand to her chart, and her tokens, and her scribbles. “… et’s got just as much reason to believe Lilia’s at Ezereț as anywhere else. Maybe even more — maybe whativver urge ’as et goin’ back each year, et’ll tek that as a sign Lilia’s waitin’ there.” Her fingers drag a line from the northern highlands down to Astenvale Monastery, as though feeling it will make it real. “Ah mean, what other lead do we ’ave?”

Someone’s laughing. At those ‘maybe’s, at how pathetically weak they sound. Osytha realises then it’s she who’s making that vile sound. The shakiness in her voice, all bubbling and bitter, and—

—angry.

“Why?” Fingernails curl, gouging into paper. Tea sloshes precariously in her hand; a tempest in a teacup. While she can’t help but laugh. “I-if this is, is— useless, then what the fuck have Ah even been doing all this time—?!”
 
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The Captain's office. Old haunt. Not a place Faramund felt he had any right being in, and yet here they were. Sipping tea. Listening as Osytha shared her findings with the group. 'You're too harsh on yourself,' the Dawn-Thing replied, kettle to pot, but honest in his spontaneity. 'That's good intel right there. Enough for us to work with.' It seemed foolish, saying it out loud, like stating the obvious wasn't a specialty of his.

The Dusker had been proactive in her quest to uncover the strigòi's whereabouts. It was up to them to put the information to good use.

'When I said not to let anyone tell you otherwise, I meant you,' he smiled gently, guilt twisting his gut into knots, the attempt at humour coming off flat. To his own ears, at the very least. 'The girl's alive,' he continued, head bowed slightly, 'and we have a heading. This ends when the strigòi does. All that remains now 's to come up with a plan of action.' He looked to the Captain then, read the doubt written in her gaze. About him, he expected. He was selfish like that.

The stag in his hands dug its tines in, and Faramund's mind returned to the hunt.

Displacing from the wall he had leant himself against, the big dawnling poured over Osytha's report, the steam wafting from his cup easing the ache from his sinuses, and working the furrows from his brow. The handdrawn map matched the one in his mind's eye, though the latter was blotched with ink. Dark spots. Yet to be restored.

'Doesn't look useless t' me,' the Knight commented, sipping at his tea. 'Could be Innis here has the right of it. Life shapes death- or in this case, undeath.' Shrugging, Faramund laid a hand on Osytha's shoulder, felt the tension there.

She needed rest. To view her findings through fresh eyes. To see as they did.

To hope as I do, he thought, letting go.
 
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