A sweeping loop. A confident dash. An aggressive, stabbing dotted mark. Óeiður tunes out the sound and the noise of the day, letting it all fade for the feeling of the quill between their fingertips. The ink spreads smoothly onto the page into the fractal set of runes and symbols that make up their own strange code: A code only they know. Darren, their familiar, does too, certainly, but not in any way that could be communicated to anyone else. Darren’s understanding of it is like a heart beating: It’s in his nature to know it. To try to explain it, translate it, even, would be like her attempting to “explain” her own blood.

She writes, in the language that many would look at and think held strange, unintelligible secrets, the sequence of their day. It isn’t as if they can speak to anyone about it. Even themselves. If they felt more introspective, they’d muse on the fact that even the words they write to try to process their own day have to be obfuscated from their own eyes. Sussurune. Elven. Sylvan. Common. An experimental dash of Infernal, though that’s been more trial and error. Symbols tangled and twined together, the code changing every second or third sentence, making half-words and broken sentences that jump between lingual understanding:

I’m not dead.

Back home, everyone always spoke of war and its atrocities in abstract ways. They spoke of the horror of death. Of the way it will leave its marks on you, of the way the cries to go into battle will echo in your head.

They never told her about the smell.

The battle has lasted long past when it should. Each side has fallen back and mounted new attacks multiple times. Rhystrata feels the exhaustion deep in her bones. But the worst is the way that the heat has beaten down on those who have already fallen, polluting the air with the smell of sweat, blood, and death.

But there's no showing the way the sight of the field in front of her only deepens the ache in her hands, her feet. She has a company to lead. She looks to her right. Ianfyr, she can tell, feels the same as her. He will cry later tonight, as he always does in the privacy of the tent. But now, he offers her a smile. She offers it back. "Ready?" She asks him.

"Ready," he confirms.

She holds up her hand to signal the remainder of her company. They stand at attention. Then, with a deadly silence they've grown accustomed to, she brings her arm sweeping downwards— the signal to attack. They move forward, screaming out a battle cry, with herself and Ianfyr at the helm, the other companies under the command of Domraec flanking them. And they drown themselves once again in the fray.

Moving in combat with Ianfyr feels as if she and he are two pieces in a magnificently tuned clock. They each notch into one another in perfect time, defending, parrying, striking out in a symmetry she has not achieved with anyone else— Not even when training with Domraec. Rarely do they break that symmetry.

There is no exception in that today. But they both quickly notice that this fight is... different. Rhystrata swings her blade down on the enemy in front of her, cleaving him in two with an expert blow. In the briefest moment of peace, she sees a member of her company, Haldig, knocked out by one of the Tyrant's men. But then, in lieu of a killing blow, the man reaches down and slings Haldig over his shoulder. The warriors of the Tyrant are not known for... compassion. Captives, she realizes. They are taking captives. She glances back. Ianfyr has seen, as well. "Stay together," she advises him, and he nods. They rally the remainder of their company into formation once more and mount a defensive strike.

But the Tyrant's companies seem to continue to emerge out of nowhere. Dozens of fighters, continually added to the fray. Mages. Archers. Rhystrata becomes so occupied with handling the slew of attacks leveled at her that she does not immediately notice the company being rallied away from her and Ianfyr. Until they are surrounded. They know she and Ianfyr are the leaders. It is an expert move, and one that could only be accomplished by numbers far greater than her company. It appears that, today, they have just that.

In the face of many, she reaches within herself. Willing strength into her body that was not there before. "Hold fast," she calls back to Ianfyr. But as they are overwhelmed with five, seven, ten on each side, they are forced to give ground. Until they feel the shadow of the city wall press down upon them.

"I'm sorry."

The words left Mari's lips easily, like bitter honey spilling from her mouth.

"I'm sorry."

The words rose up and choked her, filling her throat with sand.

"I'm sorry."

The words ripped through her lungs, leaving her gasping for breath. Incapable of saying more.

How many times had she said those words? How many desperate apologies had she made? She'd lost count. It didn't matter. The seed of Davian's presence in her upbringing sprouted and grew in front of her, twisted limb notching into twisted limb until the tree was a mass of angry roots, each fighting to choke out the other.

"Are you sure you aren't Davian's daughter? Because you sure seem to take after him."

The words seeped, black and poisonous, into every crevice of her mind. Whispering behind every decision. Grasping with greedy fingers at every move. No, she wasn't Davian's daughter. But the time she had spent in that house. Thinking she was. And even when she knew she wasn't. There was no outlet for the rage that coiled itself tightly inside her at all moments, waiting patiently. And it felt like his rage. It felt like him.

Davian was to blame for the mess that was her family. Was her life. Now she was separated from him. But she felt his anger inside her from the moment she woke up to the moment she slept. So how could she not be the one to blame now? It was easier to see things that way. Easier to accept fault. Because then, in some terrible, twisted way, she'd never have to face the possibility that sometimes— just sometimes— the world and the people in it decided to take and hurt and destroy around her in a way she could never hope to control. And so.

"I'm sorry." The words sounded like the sweetest salvation.

"I'm sorry." The words damned her to hell.

She was back.

She always thought she could sneak up on him. Not in any kind of way where she wanted to startle him, he knew that. And, admittedly, she was very quiet and light on her feet. But you didn't live for as long as he did, doing the things he did, by being reckless or unobservant.

But he supposed this was reckless. Because despite knowing that she was creeping up on him, he continued to pretend he didn't notice. He didn't know when he'd started playing games like this. But he waited patiently, feigning that he was totally absorbed in the work in his book. Until he heard a voice behind him, about two feet back.

"Ah, sir Teric."

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He ran a hand over his mouth to wipe it away and turned. "Rhedyn." He closed his book. "I've told you before. I don't have a title."

She was leaning against the door frame with her arms crossed and an uneven grin, her eyes sparkling. Teric found himself staring a moment too long and looked away. She shrugged carelessly. "I just think you sound good with one. It's a good thing to aspire towards, right?"

Not this again. "Rhedyn." He couldn't help saying her name. It felt like the beginning of some old magic, undiscovered until he spoke it. "I doubt the rulers of this or any land would have any interest in enlisting my help, much less honor me for it."

"Mmm. You never know." She was doing that thing again. The one where her eyes pierced further than any, human or otherwise, ever should. He always wondered if that was an effect of her magic. They said those who studied in the ways of whispers could delve into your deepest thoughts and secrets. He'd always thought that a rumor until he met her.