#b ; winterfromtevinter

[oneiricspun]

[ @winterfromtevinter // continued ]

Rook can feel it. The soft and silent pull of winter. Neve was here. Had been, or still was. She isn't too certain, but is determined going to find out one way or another. A trail of carnage and frozen corpses has been left in the halls. Blood congealed and iced over. It's like a trail of the worst bread crumbs ever imagined.

That's my girl.

She keeps her steps as quiet as possible, though it's evident now that there is no longer any Venatori presence. Especially not now. She'd dropped in on two live ones. Previously live ones. They'd REEKED of the foulest, cheapest wine she'd had this displeasure of smelling. She thinks to herself, "A chantry wouldn't be caught dead..." A bold thought, coming from one who occasionally indulges in sickly sweet meads.

The trail of dead cultists leads her further on, and down a set of rickety stairs. The source of their putrid libations. A wine cellar? She certainly has questions for the detective, and not all of them are serious. Is there a cheese board somewhere?

The warden reaches the end of the long cellar. To her right, she can see another hall, leading to a room of what looks to be closets of some kind. Perhaps they're using them as holding cells? They're obviously holding cells—as she inches closer, she can see one door with a chair shoved under the shimmering doorknob, alongside a broom and a brick.

"Neve?" She calls out, unsure and hesitant. If there is anyone else in there, she might be tempted to just leave. There is a mage, no doubt, however. The rippling in the Veil is too abstract to suggest otherwise.

A mumble on the other side. A woman's voice. The detective.

"Neve, are you in there? How—actually don't answer that yet." She's got her eyes trained on the doorknob, observing how visibly thrummed with a caustic ward. "How much room do you have in there? This might involve a little boom crash bang."

[oneiricspun]

card of stars OR card of dust

card of dust. sender finds the receiver asleep over a book and wakes them.

She looks up, and only recognizes Neve by the color of her cravat, the thick, wet of sleep blurring her vision. Andrea had felt the touch of fingertips on her shoulder in her sleep, but assumed it was a spirit growing too bold. It was the deep reverb of the detective's voice that had finally roused her from the Dream.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I...guess I dozed off."

The elf rubs her eyes HARD as she straightens herself at the desk, sight clearing, allowing her to stare up at Neve with a look of worry. No, perhaps a skittish kind of confusion. She doesn't know how long it'd been. It felt like weeks, though it'd likely not been more than an hour. A great explanation as to why she's as groggy as she is, though it's far more complicated.

"I thought I saw...felt your wisp..." she trails off, shaking her head. It hurts, just slightly, like she'd had something dropped on her. She glances back to the book she'd spread before her: The History of the Nakiri. One she'd blatantly stolen from the Cauldron's archives.

"The Fade is thicker where the Veil is thin," she sighs, trying to pinpoint where she'd left off reading. "It's so easy to get pulled in."