#ok we're gonna try for longer pieces going forward now im caught up

[uroborae]

v. barbarous

For every measure of familiarity found within the wasteland of Garlemald, there, at her heels, would follow an aspect of dread. Sheer apprehension for a history believed buried beneath sands of time as each moment spent within this everwinter would threaten to unearth itself further to bear its tarnished past. Yet, for all that she would worry, Astraia had chosen silence. Not to grasp its own destiny, to turn to and confide, but to pray that all that it once was would remain as it were, dead and forgotten.

Fate would not see it be so.

Aglaeca viator Amadeus. It sounds like a ghost, some haunting spectre that lingers beneath her skin, though the contempt ​​Quintus bore as he scorned their aid had made “Astraia Lí” seem like a delusion. A lie. Where he had exposed all that it sought to hide, the twins had seemed horrified, vindicating the Legatus’ contempt: “You would bid us to trust of your intent when your hero cannot trust you enough to tell you of her past.”

Viator.

Traitor.

She can barely hear the camp now, not with how the wind howls, the clamour of Garlean soldiers acclimatising to the Alliance’s good will as distant as the past once felt. Are they — it wonders — as unused to their warmth and cheer as it had been? How quickly would their unease and disdain fade? Would she have any right to bear witness?

Heavy comes her sigh, though the vapour that frosts upon the wind seems as weightless as ever, whilst a gaze comes to fall onto the twisted perversion of its homeland. Perhaps it should not find this apropos of the Garlean legacy: the vice of their hunger, the curse of their greed, that the tempered would grovel beneath the ‘glory’ whilst she, unlike the unfortunate tempered of other nations past, had found little in way of sympathy. Perhaps it is this same odium which has found itself thusly returned tenfold, straining the twins' adoration into deserved tension, as they fell into silence where usually they knew no end to chatter.

It is why Astraia could not think to stay, to tarnish achievements with an ever present reminder of its pervasive omission. Crime enough to linger in their graces where it is so ill deserving when the frigid snowscapes of Garlemald offer better welcome. Surely, as ever, she is alone and all are better for it.

“There you are, Aglaeca.”

Or not.

Where the legatus had named it with scorn, a feeling of shame unravelled within its breast, the voice behind stirs fear, a potent dread by which the ever open expanse of this December desert offers no respite to hide. Here, where its past unfurls and its demons return to roost, stands a horror ten years neglected and every bit as vile, in every measure diabolic.

“Go away.” Astraia intends to sound calm, firm and unshaken, but her voice hitches, trembles where it shouldn’t: for all that it has faced, for all it has almost died and yet triumphed, that it would be a lone hyur of no physical might or practical strength who would best break Her vaulted chosen.

Choice would not be hers in this land, it would seem.

“Come now. Is that any way to speak to your mother?” Daphne het Amadeus’ voice, by contrast, is measured and kind, dripping saccharine and with a warmth Astraia had once craved. Now it only serves to make her shudder.

She treds nearer, almost tentatively, it would think, if the confidence in her eyes didn’t speak of another story. No. This is not fear, but calm patience, as a predator stalks prey, assured her hold remains.

Astraia does not dare give voice to its thoughts.

“It … it is not safe out here. Return to camp … please.” Pathetic. It sounds pathetic, scared, hesitant to strike when it would be so easy, so very, very easy. Aine buzzes at the thought, stirs vindictive beneath the skin —— it is all she can do to calm it.

Forgiveness. A chance.

“Nonsense. What is there to fear when you are here. Now, come here and let me look at you. It’s been so very long. You made me so worried when you left like that.”

It doesn’t move. It barely breathes.

“Aglaeca.” Sterner now. Harsher. Frigid where her voice had seemed kind. Memories of a dark room and cruel punishment stir and flicker and it obeys before it can dare think otherwise, hardly meeting lilac hues. The woman sighs —  Disappointment? Frustration? Its heart cannot help but sink. “I trust you are doing well?”

No answer.

Daphne, as ever, is unshaken, unperturbed, and carries on. “You’ll introduce me to your friends, I hope. Those leaders of your little Alliance? And your Scions.”

Astraia’s mouth runs dry. Further into her skin it feels the talons sink “...Why?”

A second, a half beat — if the hyur is surprised to hear its question, she does not show it. Perhaps she expects it, given the time apart, that the weapon would learn to speak for itself. “I’d think it’s only right as your mother. And as the mother of their famed Champion, should I not be granted first sanctuary from this hell?”

Perhaps she sees the Warrior as no different from her weapon.

“No.” It recoils. Steps back as though shot. Echoes of a past witnessed in visions draw rapid to the forefront, of betrayal in ash and smoke and blood.

For all the time that has passed, for all her sins, Daphne has barely changed.

”No?” Incredulous comes her repetition, as though she cannot believe what she hears, to push as though to force Astraia to bend.  “After all I’ve done —”

“Go back, Daphne. Return to camp and forget that you saw me. I’ll not say it again.” 

It tries forgiveness, and tries to forget, and tries to let go. Where it had seen first hand the turmoil of revenge, the pain and sorrow and suffering incurred, and near wishes to beg Daphne to move on

But it does not

and her greed remains.

Anger flickers, sparks violent in her eyes. Where indignation and entitlement in face of Astraia’s last warning would rise in sharp vitriol. She takes a step, ire as she yells: "You worthless child, I sh —"

and then, a gargled scream.

Aine bursts forth from its shade before she can rescind its command, ambushing the blonde in a flurry of wings and ravenous hunger, supping off her aether without consideration for her life. Red, bright against the white, howls and rips at her hair, tears at her clothes, shredding her skin. Where the auspice does not consider mercy and thus neither does the voidsent. She flails in its grasp, futile in her struggle, siphoned of her aether.

When Aine returns, all that remains of Daphne het Amadeus is a shriveled husk of a person. Small, powerless, pathetic.

And Astraia cannot help to note how empty it feels.

There’s no remorse nor satisfaction. No relief. No contempt. No pity.

Nothing.

She stares for a beat longer, and turns in the next — then pauses, frozen as its gaze falls upon a group too familiar. 

and the dread sets in once more. 

Where she cannot hope to explain what has just occurred. Why its voidsent lingers while a woman lies dead, white hair blurring with white snow. Where it cannot help but think it has betrayed every portion of their trust.

And when she finds something like fear, something like horror, in Alisaie’s eyes, choosing then to turn and disappear into the gradually forming storm where it will not have to face them ——

It knows it has.

BARBAROUS (adj). extremely brutal