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.
 
Helena sipped her tea. Let's her own mind linger in the swirl of the steam. How it kisses her nose. Dew drops about her lips, as an easy drink passes from her cup. The wolf.

"Are you interested in proving yourself correct, Syr Osytha, or helping the girl, Lilia?" she puts forth. Calm. She thinks. The cracked laughter. The leaking rage at the mere possibility of another route presented outside her finger pointed trail.

Helena wonders, "You've turned in your report. You are so clearly wracked from the fatigue of a long road. Are you adding anything more to this moment? Lives are on the line. Your own. Innis', Faramund's, Lilia's and all the rest there marked by the Strigoi."

Faramund for all his faults, at least found it within his wells to comfort Syr Osytha. Helena was thankful for that much.

"If you wish to help Lilia, then I would suggest you calm thyself. Barring your inability to do so, you will see yourself to your quarters to get rest while we plan our next move," there laid out was the only binary so far. There was no, right or wrong. Simply the choices one made, and what came after.

A beat. Regardless of Osytha's choice, Helena would go on.

"Despite Syr Osytha's self doubt as to her own work, it is thorough and thought out. That much is clear. We can check it against what records we have at our disposal, and ready a team of knights to fan wide about the known trails leading to and from this northern village of Ezeret closer to home. Once Syr Osytha is rested properly, we will reconvene, choose the most likely route, and move northward toward this place of the pink hurtsickles."
 
Anger is met with anger. Innis startles up like she's been slapped, reels on Osytha, frayed edge against frayed edge. Hands at her sides still but just barely, the rim of the cup clutched in her fingers.

"Did I say it was useless—" she begins, all steel in her voice, every word as sharp as a cut.

But she stops herself, bites her tongue before it can actually come to blows, verbal or otherwise. There is a sacredness to this place, and she is not in her own sanctum. Disputes between Dusk could wait until they were in their own dorms. Innis lifts the cup to mouth and downs the rest of the cooling tea, so it can be set aside without making a mess. The action doesn't stop her from sulking with her arms crossed, however, as Captain Helena and Faramund speak their peace. Kinder words prevail. They unravel whatever knot is in Innis' chest.

Arms unhook themselves from elbows as she shakes the last of the indignation from her bones. Is there more tea in the pot? Innis lifts the heavy stoneware up and feels a decent slosh still in it. Rest was the healthy choice, but Innis wasn't known to make healthy choices. Sometimes, caffeine was what a Dusker needed to get through the long night. Dapple-scarred hand bracing the stoneware's belly, she points at Osytha's cup with the spout.

"Want a refill?"
 
Osytha glances down into her mug, where some barest hint of her reflection stares right back from the low umber tide. ‘Want’? She doesn’t even know what she wants. Nor what she needs. Everything’s far too jumbled already, mind frantic, getting in the way of herself… maybe she doesn’t need to make her jitters any worse than they already are.

The raven finds herself saying something very, very unusual for her. “Um, nay.” Osytha sets the near-finished mug of tea down on the desk. “Thanks…”

A comforting hand on her shoulder. Sternness from the Knight-Captain’s chair. The incensed response from her own sanctum, even if it was cut short. “Are you interested in proving yourself correct, Syr Osytha, or helping the girl, Lilia?” She steps backward, falling quiet and still; drained of that restless, fearful energy in a flash. Not calmness. If anything, it’s just one more display of her volatility. But Syr Helena has the right of it — who is Osytha helping, like this?

Snowbirds, life shapes undeath. Sounds like the others are already running with what she’s provided. Let them. Osytha can’t even make sense of her own work any more, all she’s doing now is getting in the way. Gods above, she’s so tired. And to that, some of Helena’s words, drowned and bloated, rise up through the sluggish waters of her memory; “Once syr Osytha is rested properly.” They make the woman in question blanch as she recalls them…

… wait. After that. What had the Knight-Captain said?

“Syr?” Osytha blinks, and gives Helena a dull, uncomprehending look. “When you say ‘we’, er, who… who do mean to go north…?”
 
Helena's eyes, their color of dark earth, gleamed as her lip curled up. "Who else, Syr Osytha of Dusk?" she bowed her head just so, to all who gathered there before her. "If not this wyld band of knights, who've so supped this bitter brew?"
 
Set aside of his own volition, the Dawnling listened close as Helena cut to the quick, excising the hurt rather than compounding it. From an outside perspective, Osytha had the look of a woman worn thin, beleaguered, physically and mentally, by the trials undertaken on someone else's behalf.

Faramund didn't doubt for a moment whether the price was worth it, nor that Osytha did.

''Tweren't that bitter, Captain,' he replied, reinserting himself into the conversation, porcelain cup drained to its dregs. 'The tea, meanin'. Coulda done with some sugar,' he shrugged, paused, before returning the stag to its bed. 'With your leave, I'd like to see Syr Osytha to her quarters, bring her up to speed.' Hopefully, he'd do a better job now then he had earlier.

They had some catching up to do.

Besides, a little rest would do them all the world of good, though the wicked knew none. Neither had he, as of late. Suppose I'm not the only one, he mused, watching Helena watch them, the windows to her soul guarded, though they remained open to those who cared to look. Some hearts were only as cold as they needed to be. And you couldn't draw blood from a stone.

'Assumin' there ain't aught else needs discussing?' He asked. 'Still some tea left in the pot. Be a sin not t' finish it.'
 
Helena said nothing. Feint smile on her lips. Taking into account the three of them before her. "You are free to go as you please, Syr Faramund," set her eyes to the report there scattered upon her desk. "And as Syr Osytha Allows," The hand drawn maps. The well bundled paper, made to survive all its travels and adventure. "The reports will be processed by the Sworn Scribes at the Sanctum of Operations, and the tea..." she smiled. "Will not be wasted," She looked to Osytha once more. "Again, Syr Osytha, it needs be said, if only to ensure it sticks," she let the breath between them linger in that room. Poured herself another cup. "You did good work," nod. "Work to be proud of," angled toward the papers, the hand drawn maps. "No matter how the branch breaks,"

She motioned to the work. "Now, if you'd allow myself, and Syr Innis to gather up your works," stood up and set to the task. "We will see them transported, and begin preparations for the coming dawn." A clip of the work against her desk. Magick ink on the map still moving, unfazed by all the to do about or on top it. "You are free to do as you see fit, Syrs."
 
A second’s delay from the stupefied-looking Osytha, after which she nods. Takes her another second to follow with a weak “Um.” She looks down at her materials, “They’re all yours, syrs.”

Osytha stoops over to retrieve the saddlebags. Words all buzzing through her skull, blurred edges like something out of focus. Ever since Helena’s who else had put its sting in her. She straightens up, feeling the venom sloshing around, drowning out everything else. Even Faramund’s comment about the sugar.

“Knight-Captain,” Osytha glances at her fellow dusker next, “Syr Innis; thank you.”

That… should do it. It’s a bit stiff, a bit of an awkward way to take her leave. Better than the maniacal cackling, at least. Osytha catches Faramund’s eye, turns on her heel, and goes and props the door open, waiting to follow him out into the hall.

For the first few steps after him, her view is mostly of that towering, burly back. So she doesn’t see Esota leaning against the wall until they’re almost on top of her.

“What happened in there?” Esota jumps right into it, levelling her direct, fiery gaze at both the Sworn. “You said you found something, Os. What’s going on?”

“I,” Osytha turns her pallid face from the girl, and keeps striding onward, “… not now, Sotie. Faramund, tha wert goin’ to—?”

“Hey!” Esota sinks her fingers around Osytha’s arm. “Don’t ignore me—”

“Fuck off!” The badger wrenches her arm free with enough force to send the slighter woman stumbling. “Just fuck off, already—!”

Her outburst dies the moment she sees the change over Esota’s face.

Through all the stubbornness, and the backtalk, and the dyed-in-the-wool contrariness which the lass seems to reserve specially for her, Osytha has never before lost her temper with Esota. And that shows, now.

The girl looks shocked. Like, out of nowhere, she’s just been mauled by the well-loved family dog.

And that only makes Osytha even angrier. For a second there, Esota and Faramund are able to see the colour rising quickly back up in her face, and how she purses her mouth closed into a thin, bloodless line. Then the fuming syr whips around, and continues stalking off in the direction of her quarters.
 
'Thanks for the tea.' The Mund bid farewell with an offhand salute, sharing a glance and a nod with Innis, before heading out the door ahead of Syr Osytha. Dusker. Lone rider. Sole bearer of burdens she refuses to share. Faramund understands. He's been where she's been, once or thrice. Too many times for his own good, some might argue.

At least Squire Esota had the sense to wait until the door to the Captain's office was firmly closed before confronting them.

“What happened in there?” A demand rather than a query. Not the best way to start a conversation, granted. “You said you found something, Os. What’s going on?” Silence, followed by a dismissal. The Dawnling sensed the brewing storm, though by then it was too late to warn Esota off, her slim, callused fingers seizing on Osytha's arm for less than a heartbeat before the knight wrenched it free. Violently.

"FUCK OFF!"

It's enough to halt Esota in her tracks. Even Faramund's shocked, and he's not the one being sworn at. For a change. "Just fuck off, already!" Anger paints Osytha's voice red. Whatever surprise he felt at the initial outburst quickly passes. In its place stands concern. And confusion. 'You get used to it,' the Dawnling told Esota as Osytha turned heel, retreating towards the dormitories before her fury could lead her into saying- or rather doing something she might later regret.

Shaking slightly, the squire blinked, once, twice.

"Being told t' fuck off?" Hurt bled into her words. She didn't start crying, much to Faramund's relief, though the quiver in her voice betrayed her. 'That, too,' he nodded, watching Osytha stride away. 'I was mostly talking about the fear.'

Fear of failure, and of letting those you loved down. The fear that, despite your best efforts, the little girl in the hospital ward was going to die, regardless of deeds carried out to the contrary. That evil would triumph over good out of pure spite.

'Difficult to keep in check with your doubts feeding them,' he shrugged, turning to face the squire fully. 'Try not to hold what just happened against her. We all have our moments.' Some more than others, he mused, scritching his chin, working up to a shrug that would see him on his way.

There was a time and place for questions - here and now wasn't it.

'See ya later, kid.' Footsteps filled the hallway as he made after the Dusker. "I'm not a kid!" Esota yelled, some of that familiar spark igniting the air around her, bruised feelings momentarily set aside. Better than being told to fuck off! Faramund smiled faintly. Waved.

Osytha had calmed down a touch by the time he caught up to her.

'So.' He let the word hang between them. Empty space. Kind of like a void until someone chose to fill it. Probably why he talked so much. 'Wanna tell me what all that was about?'
 
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There’s barely any daylight left outside. Just a muddy smudge against the west horizon, while stars, moons, and rings creep out from the deepening black veil. A warm and grassy fug has been steamed into the air after another long summer day, with the first perfumed hints of night-blooming flowers.

Somewhere, everywhere around them, the cricket sings his lullaby.

Osytha feels like she’s drowning in it. So she powers on ahead. Just has to reach the dorms, and then… well, she’ll figure the rest out once she gets there. Just has to keep moving.

Her industrious legs have almost carried her to the building’s threshold before Faramund catches up.

“So.”​

The next step falters mid-swing. Osytha finds herself reflexively slowing down, when she feels Faramund’s presence by her side.

“Wanna tell me what all that was about?”​

A splash of pale loch-light emerging from out the rampant overgrowth ahead is the first sign of one of the dormitory’s arched entryways.

“Ah can’t…” Osytha gulps. “… Ah don’t know. Ah’m ne thinkin’ straight. All this— noise, Ah jus’ need, need to…”

That light has her squinting painfully when she steps into its stark little cut-out. Her fingers brushing to the weathered masonry as she rounds it, through to the hall beyond, whereupon the sounds all change. Those chirping insects fade. Distant laughter and the rumble of booming voices come from far across the building; freshly boisterous from a day’s hard training, perhaps. A door thumps closed. People speaking quieter, so she only catches it walking right past their room. A sharp giggle — and another, shushing.

Osytha reaches her own door. Practically staggers through, like she’s coming back from the Knoll at three in the morning, and slaps clumsily at a well-remembered spot on the wall. Light flares up.

“My boudoir,” Osytha says, in a flat voice. “Mek thissen comfy.”

Standard Sworn economy-class single bedroom: cot, clothes trunk, nightstand, and cramped. A place to file away a body while it catches some z’s, rather than somewhere to actually live. But she’s tried to add some touches, despite all that. More colourful bedding than is standard military issue. Two hartskin rugs protecting vulnerable toes from the touch of chilly flagstones. A shallow, plain bureau plus chair, artfully arranged in the limited space. One thick slab of slate atop it, on which rests her own magitech heating coil and small kettle, teapot and cups beside — not quite as nice as the Knight-Captain’s teamaking facilities, but adequate enough. Some raised shelves on the wall over the desk, with collections of curios; strange fossils and colourful seashells from the coast, figurines and jewellery from the south (or at least purported to be), an array of feathers ranging from a lorikeet’s brilliant emerald to the raven’s sombre black, and also, looking slightly out of place amidst the other treasures, a rather wonky-looking horseshoe. All of it in a warm, mildly rosy glow, courtesy of the shield of tinted glass that Osytha has used to cover the loch-light filament in this room.

One more thing here — the big, rolled-up bundle she’d wanted to have retrieved, has been set on top of the chest at the foot of her bed. Underneath the protective tarp wrap is what appears to be a very thick, and soft, quilt.

Her eyes linger on it a moment while she crosses to the washstand. Goes to take the big old pitcher to fill up, but realises as soon as she goes to lift it, that someone has beaten her to the punch. And there’s fresh, scented water in the basin too, along with newly laundered towels for her.

Osytha splashes that cool and welcome water across her face. Mildred must have gotten the room ready after she she dropped off the quilt. Out of niceness, or duty? Or maybe fear? Osytha mulls that one over as she stares down at her rippling reflection.

Gods, she really is the worst.

While she ruffles herself dry with one of those towels, Osytha turns around, although the face which emerges from those fluffy folds does not really look any better for its ablutions. There’s a dullness in the drab blue eyes which stare back at Faramund.

“Ah’m losin’ et, syr.” Her gaze falls leadenly toward her bed, blank-faced, like she doesn’t comprehend the thing’s purpose. “Ah haven’t slept in…” she blinks, frowning, and twitches her lips with laborious thought, “… um. What day is et?”
 
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Noise? Faramund's gaze fixed itself to the Dusker a moment, then took a walk around. Aside from the monastery's usual ambience, there was naught else going on; no festivities or welcome home celebrations for wayward knights. Nothing to drive a mind towards its breaking point. If anything, the silences were the worst. It meant confronting your thoughts - more oft than not they outpaced him by a good stretch.

There's a slight hitch to Osytha's gait, like an old wound making itself known. Faramund pretended not to notice.

The boudoir was cosier than the she gave it credit for. Hartskin rugs and furnishings that had probably been assembled inside the room. Personal relics collected over the span of a lifetime yet to end. With any luck, she'd fill a few more shelves yet before the inevitable came a-calling.

Closing the door, the Dawnling took up the chair on offer, lifting it so it didn't grate on the exposed flagstones.

The younger squires had a habit of doing that, which would have really ground his gears, if he wasn't prone to being something an asshole himself, half the time. Water cascaded from betwixt Osytha's cupped fingers in drips and drabs as she freshened herself up. Faramund watched. Waited. Felt wrong to snoop around; the memories weren't his to take.

“Ah’m losin’ et, syr.”
'Ain't we all.'
"Ah haven't slept in... um. What day is it?"

Osytha turned to him, though her attention lingered on the bed. A good kip, that's what she needed most. Time to synchronise. Recover. '3rd of Griham,' he answered, slouching in his seat, arms folded against his chest. 'Shame y'weren't here for your nameday. I gotcha a present, but Guffers ate the fuckin' thing,' he smiled, eyes on Osytha, the memory enough to inject some modicum of feeling into the moment.

'Little fellah's missed you somethin' fierce,' he blinked. 'Ain't the only one.'
 
“Shame y’ weren’t here for your nameday. I gotcha a present, but Guffers ate the fuckin’ thing.”​

“Oh.” The dark caterpillars of Osytha’s brow crease downward a touch. “… my nameday?”

Is still three months off — barring that her grasp of time has slipped rather more drastically than she’s realised. But, no, this stifled evening air is definitely in the throes of summer. So why is she still in this damnable gambeson? Osytha starts to remedy that, loosening the thick leather ties holding her black vestment snug and suffocating to her torso, starting at the collar. Heat immediately wells out of the breach, freed of her and her of it, and leaving the woman feeling better able to breathe.

She wonders what it was. The present.

“Thank’ee,” says Osytha, slipping free of her bulky black coat. “That was mighty thoughtful, regardless. Ah just hope ’is tummy din’t give ye lot too much trouble afterwards.”

Boyo must still be with Syr Kenneth; his bedding, dishes, and other doggy paraphernalia are yet absent from this room. Osytha slings her gambeson over one of the bedposts, such that it splays the raiment open to air its lining out. The room definitely feels kind of empty without her wee lad, Faramund or no Faramund. But maybe… maybe Guffers can stay with Ken for one more night. He might have a better time of it over there, given the state Osytha finds herself in.

The saddlebags are next. She hangs them up upon a hook set in the wall, unpacking a few of her effects from the other pocket than that which had held the intelligence she’d gathered. Some toiletries to go atop the washstand; green hazel twigs, a small tin of cold cream, precious Neroli-scented white soap, her comb and flaxseed oil.

“Little fellah’s missed you somethin’ fierce. Ain’t the only one.”​

Osytha glances over her shoulder at Faramund. For a mayfly second, there’s a smile struggling to lift the corners of her mouth.

“Missed thee an’ all, Faramund.” She looks away, back to laying out the items before her. “Ah ought’ve axed thee to come with.”

It hadn’t even really occurred to Osytha that she might want a dawnling with her on the road. Hadn’t seemed so different from her usual sojourns out in search of worldly news, fresh Shroudcraft or technological developments, additions for the monastery’s historical records, et cetera. Simple intelligence-gathering. Not a true mission requiring a sword along with the palm, as their oath demands. And it’s easier to move around when she’s alone. Easier to pass herself off as something other than a Knight of Anathaeum, which helps avoid trouble. Going around in pairs is a bit of a giveaway on that front.

Only, she’s clearly become poor company for herself. Probably could’ve used someone like Faramund out there to keep her grounded. To reel her back in when her mind started to spin away from her.

… Osytha freezes in place for a second, there with her back to him. Then, avoiding Faramund’s eyes, she meekly pivots around and returns to the saddlebags for one more thing. Pulls out a small figurine: a hand-carved wooden knight, armed and armoured, though featureless beneath their raised visor. Some of its rough edges are looking rather more smooth-worn beneath her thumb than when it first emerged from the knife.

“Come to think of et… Ah nivver saw thee do much sleepin’. When we was with t’ caravan?” The badger stands beside Faramund, reaching up to her shelves of odds and ends. That tiny syr has a space waiting for them amidst Osytha’s other statuettes and suchlike, into which they are gently tucked. “Lots of whittlin’. Lots of rounds, checkin’ on t’ camp. Lots of times tha wert still up whilst Ah were noddin’ off, an’ yet Ah’d also find thee awake afore missen next morn, takin’ on extra picquet duty.”

A note of horror bleeds into Osytha’s countenance as she returns the faceless, wooden stare in front of her.

“Is this what et’s like for thee all t’ time, Faramund? How dost tha endure et?”
 
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The sight of that small wooden knight is enough to stir something within Faramund. 'No,' he lied, voice thick with poorly-suppressed emotion, 'not all the time.' Some days were better than others; sometimes he even managed to forget it. The Umbral Mont. The Shaper. The Sightless Cult, and his part in it.

Watcher. Parasite. A leech bleeding the Order slow. An ignorant fool chasing his own destruction.

He wasn't ignorant anymore, but he was still a fool. It was all too easy to be deceived when you fell for your own lies. Sometimes, the truth was too much to bear. 'It helps t' keep busy,' the Dawnling blinked slowly, before glancing up at Osytha, mask doffed and discarded, like every flaw he had tried to excise in the past. With varying success. 'On the same hand, don't go wearin' yerself ragged,' he blinked again, swallowing the lump in his throat. 'Otherwise, ye'll end up like me.'

Worn out. Paranoid. Prone to making mistakes.

'What happened to Lutz... What's happenin' to Lilia, well, that's on me.' It took more effort rising from the chair than it did falling into it. 'Shoulda been me on watch tha' night,' he grimaced, reaching past Osytha to the shelf upon which the faceless knight stood, tall and armoured and altogether too emotionless. Smug bastard. 'When I close my eyes to sleep, I'm afraid that when they open again I'll no longer be the same person,' he smiled, realising how silly it sounded.

But then some truths were too difficult to bear. And Osytha needn't fear him any more than he did himself.

'Doesn't matter.' The figurine settled back onto the shelf with a soft tap. Faceless, still. Watching over the room, guarding Osytha's dreams, as if they were his own. Now, there was a much more pleasant thought. 'Don't know about you but I've a full evening of fuck all to get back to,' he grinned, donning his fool's mask, an outflung arm drawing Osytha into a brief hug, a better "welcome home" than his shared doubts.

'Get some sleep, lass. I'll make sure the world don't move on without you.'
 
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