Shades of Blue

Getting through the night was tough. There was a moment where Shalia had awoken with panicked mumbling and tears in her eyes, another where she cried out and had to be reassured not to go into a minor freak out.
Rather than dismissing them both for the night, one of the servant girls suggested she sleep in the room to keep an eye on the witch in her state. She grabbed a pillow and found a spot on the floor after assuring that Shalia was comfortable.

A cup of chamomile tea had been promptly made for her after one of the terrors startled the woman, and she was told that a ground vegetable root powder had been sprinkled in to help relax her body. After finishing this drink, Shalia slept well into the morning and reached toward noon. It soothed her for a few hours and in her sound sleep she felt weightless in the midst of the world holding her down.

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Shortly before lunch, the ice witch was kneeling on the floor with the three bags in front of her. Slowly, she began to remove and briefly examine the contents of each one. All she really needed at this time was the map. If she could present that to the Seer, surely the immortal woman and the Brotherhood would be greatly appreciative.

From the first bag she selected the comb she barely recalled picking up that night. It was dropped into one of the bags for safety when reaching her chambers. Its smoothness and craftsmanship reminded her of her ring and she was positive it had the qualities of Mizaran jade. Looking upon it now, she smiled at the fact that it had a few dark strands still wrapped around the teeth. She knew nothing of its history, but she could tell such a thing was loved. Why else bring it on your person, especially when coming out to the desert and right into danger? Maybe now it could find someone new to serve and be cherished by.
Her eyes flickered to her finger where she had put the ring on when she woke up that morning. The pale knuckles were busted once but now remained heavily bruised and aching from the punches.

Knowing a little piece of Jiyn was still with her was like a hug from someone dearly long lost--the only contact she would have wanted now. She could hardly believe she left it off for so long. But knowing him, he wouldn’t even have been upset. Just plant a kiss on her forehead and pull her into a hug, telling her it was no big deal like he had once before…her bottom lip quivered and Shalia made herself put the comb down.

The witch could wear it in her hair later with her own prized accessories perhaps, or simply replace the wooden comb with it. Already it was something special.

Next, Shalia pulled out a wide vial of some sandy substance and a few more vials of what seemed to move like an oil when she tilted it side to side. Her brow furrowed in curiosity at them but she set the items aside. Definitely not what she needed. She reached in one last time and felt a faintly cool sensation at her fingertips. Pulling forth metal shackles with a soft clink of chains, Shalia’s interest swelled, but so did the menacing feeling that they radiated when she held them. They were a dark metallic color with odd symbols decorating the cuffs where she imagined her wrists sitting within. Why lug these around? If that feeling told her anything along with her experience the night before, it did not bode well for a witch. Made sense for the Inquisition, but those runes were curious. It was out of her hands in a blink; she did not wish to interpret those negative feelings she associated with last night. 'Not going to unpack that now,' she thought while putting everything back into the respective bag.

Closer inspection could come later. Onto the next.

This one had a strange weight to it. When she peered in, she let out a short, surprised laugh. What appeared to be an egg sat alone in the pack, larger than Shalia's hand. What could have laid that out here? A vorpa or some other bird, perhaps? It didn't look avian as she picked it up gingerly. Looked more oblong like that of a reptile. She recalled sketches done in books she studied some years ago, and that one time she stumbled upon nesting lizards with her mother in a dense bush, proceeding to have quite an exciting dinner with the eggs included.

A large egg, unknown substances, and shackles? What in all the hells were these people aiming at? She'd figure out what to do with it some other time, pleading that it was not fertilized and housing some unknown creature.

Then came the last bundle of items. This had to be the one.

Three leathery books were pulled out first. She could almost smell the Library of Orb just by looking at them all before her, and that would have brought forth memories of her visits there if not for the letter embossing immediately distracting her: Noctua Inquisition Combat Codex. She was not versed in materials of the Inquisition, and neither of her parents were directly involved with it from what she knew. She always kept distance from the exceedingly religious figures out of pure intimidation, and when she grew older, fear of them sniffing out her wickedness. Maybe some of their secrets were hidden within this codex, but for now she was not interested.

Then came a journal with some parchment poking out. She pulled the wrinkled corners up and was presented with a few poems. She paid little mind to them then, though the pressed flowers she found upon going through the pages quickly halted her. Her index finger inched toward one flat, purple blossom and touched the dry petals lightly. They did not suffer under her hand. Dead but their beauty well-preserved. It brought a smirk to her lips to touch a flower and not make it wilt, but she quickly carried on.
The book seemed to be the diary of that woman she fought. Looking at some of its entries, she let out a defeated puff of air at seeing it was entirely in Mizaran. Guess it was time to brush up on the language of her youth. As if things weren't challenging enough right now. She ignored the unique card deck that had slipped onto the floor as it was certainly not the map in question.

Lastly, a book with an incredibly worn, muddy-red cover and long-aged pages, some tattered at the edge. Shalia turned it over to the back after taking note of the front, gentle-handed with books as she always was. Her lips parted in awe at the faint symbol etched into the backside. Her fingertips pressed to it slowly as if waiting for godly lightning to strike her down. Was that…the Sword of Vastad? She had read about the Inquisition and holy symbols in countless books, and most of her childhood was spent with her nose shoved in historical collections. And yet, nothing prepared her to see something so official and intimidating bearing the mark.

“Damn…” she sighed, voice still low and gravelly. This book was ancient in comparison to the rest, and its current owner was likely more of a problem than she had initially thought. Was this woman and her holy blade the current Sword of Vastad? Is that why she had this book, all of these odd things? Would her journal reveal the truth? More than just any agent of the foreign zealots, that was clear now. And she was still alive. Would probably crawl back to Ostiarium one way or another and Shalia would never see her face again until war broke out. Never see any of the many figures that emerged together and fled. She could only tell herself some would die from the wounds, because if not this remained a very difficult obstacle.
But Shalia would not stop to really process that evening yet. The time would come, but she needed a rest before the period of reflection and, hopefully, healing came about. She still felt so exhausted and numbed, and it was clear in how she moved and emoted.

Thumbing through pages for anything tucked within, she read a few passages in a skimming manner.

The Road to Salvation, the first page read, and she saw mentions of names that were familiar and others not as she continued. It was dated far back and definitely historical recountings from someone important. Another journal belonging to a warrior of Vastad or some important scholar who managed to get their hands on such a rare book? Anything was possible, but she had a feeling it was a respected, holy warrior at the time.
Both the present and past personal journals would provide interesting reading. She did miss curling up with a good book, and now she had multiple.

She peeked in the bag again and her heart skipped a beat when she saw a folded paper. Her hand rushed to grab and unfold it, but then her shoulders sank. As she looked over the map, it was not in fact the layout of Ostiarium. Instead, hand-drawn there before her eyes was a map of Arcadia. She cursed.
So the map was not in here. Meaning, either it got burned away in the building the Ebony Hand set alight, or the two Helians that escaped the house brought it with them, though judging their appearances by the end of the confrontation, they had lost almost everything on their persons. That could not mean well. If they hadn’t set the damn place on fire, they might have their map! This was a low blow to the effort. Now they had no clear layout of the city and its weakest points.

Which meant…it was pointless. All of it. Shalia did not get either of the kills she wished nor did anyone return with the map. She could have died for nothing. All that show of skill by her and the shadowy figures for what? The woman threw it to her side frustrated and placed her hands on her knees, gripping them. She could have been wrapped in her silky sheets or Tamazzalt’s arms or wildly drunk with a full belly instead of hunting enemies that slipped away like mice into the walls. No pain or loss of self, no fire or sweat, or blood and oil. None of whatever the fuck that man had done to her…the memories started to flood back violently.

A firm knock sounded at her door.

“What?” She exclaimed aggressively. Shalia sat there watching her fingers move slowly and generate some twinkling frost around her knees. How good of a feeling it was to know she still cradled magik so closely to her body.

“Your audience with Sister Locust is this afternoon," Tamazzalt said, muffled slightly by the door. "You will be escorted there when the time comes.”

She stopped herself before responding, tone softening into a simple. “Alright.”
She wondered momentarily if he had heard of her being involved in the fight, of her wounds and disoriented behavior from being caught up in it. If he cared much beyond diplomatic responsibility or the prospect of a fling.

Some time before she would leave, Shalia gazed at her reflection in the mirror and her mouth’s corners fell into a frown. Her jawline where the elbow had hit had a deep purple bruise, other smaller spots of discoloration around her lips and nose. Both sides of her eye area had been darkened into different shades of blue. A deep mark on her throat from Voah’s firm hand. Her fingers cautiously reached up to her collarbone as she stretched her neck with a wince. It was sore and her voice had not recovered from the sudden trauma to the fragile area.

What a way to show up to a formal meeting, shaken and beaten to shit. But she must have looked much worse leaving the fight, though she did not have the stomach or mind to look at herself in that state.