SUBJECT // avon averline // valkan ambassador //

THEORY POTENTIAL // clouded //

I'll get her to crack a smile one of these days, just see if I don't. Not that I don't relish a dour girl. Far from it. I am nothing if not a connoisseur, and as such appreciate—nay, demand!—variety.

"May I raise a small point?" I ask, slowing my pace a touch—dear Gillian's camp isn't far and I'd hate for this conversation to be cut short by anything so dull as communal safety. "Because although it's certainly true that nothing imagined has ever removed your lovely head from your admirably sturdy shoulders, Briya, it's also true that nothing real has succeeded in doing so. My conclusion being that whether real or imagined—"

"What was that!" the boy Finn yelps. "Shush! Something!"

For goodness sake, I was building to a rather fun little climax there.

"We're close to the others," Tro mutters, can't help but note the knife he's of a sudden holding. "Could be something's stalking us."

I look to Briya, because given the alternatives on offer, well. She's doing her swamp hen impression, head twitching about, thick shaggy rather oily hair moving in an interesting way, bits of it sort of clump together while certain strands fly counter to the main, fascinating really. What colour would we call that, would we be so unimaginative as to call it brown? Do you know, given a wash and a brush and another wash and the right sort of light I think you might very well be able to call Briya Thorn's hair 'sable'. I'd be excited to confirm that suspicion.

"No," she mutters, familiar annoyance in her tone. Too familiar, perhaps? Have we grown weary of her constant low grade peevishness? Not quite yet, I would say. Not quite yet.

"No? Nothing out there?" Tro sounding worried, as well he might. "Finny boy, think your ears are playing tricks?"

"I, I thought, I really thought ... well maybe not," Finn says, poor lad, how awful to be both correct and disregarded. Confidence, my boy! That's all you need! "I think the camp's close anyway. Uh, camp? I don't know the right word. Not like we've got shelter or, or even a fire or anything, too wet—"

"Shut!" Briya snaps, shut up? I know these are desperate times but live a little, Miss Thorn, indulge in that extra syllable. She's glaring at the boy now, why does HE get a glare? I haven't received so much as a scowl. Lucky little bastard, or perhaps it's more that he's her type. Younger. Vulnerable. In need of her protection and grateful for her aid, relying upon her more and more until one night that reliance becomes something intimate—curse me for a fool, I've been playing this all wrong.

Strangled yelp from lucky young Finn as something leaps upon him, a straggle of brown and darker brown and other brown, Briya's there to deal with it of course but what about me? Not so much as a glance to assay my condition.

"STOP IT'S A KID IT'S A FUCKING KID," Tro overexcites as usual. I realise that's an assumption given that I've only known the man seven minutes but he seems the type to consistently overreact. Enough of him, Briya's being interesting. She tore the child from Finn and has it upon the ground, knife not an inch from its throat. Might she complete the murder act? Even knowing that this is a child?

But no. She's not so cold as all that. Still a woman, beneath all that black cloth and rank leather and patinaed copper and filth and blood. Mmm.

The child's sobbing, as children do. Hideous sound. Soiled too, squelchier by far than any of us and I'm veritably coated in muck. Already beginning to wish Miss Thorn hadn't spared the screeching thing—oh? What's this, young Finn joining the tear brigade? Cunning little sod!

"Marigold," he's sobbing, for what earthly reason I couldn't begin to guess. Except ... no, it couldn't be—all of us, we came here alone, did we not? But the child's mouth is open, either in preparation to feast on Finn's jugular or in a kind of wailing smile just what the unholy fuck is going on here—

"Shut it, both of you," Briya says. Shut it, yes, that was bothering me, she doesn't seem the 'shut up' type. Shut it. Far more Briya-ish.

"This, this is my sister, my little sister—"

"Nah, what?" Tro says. "So you got grabbed together? But that don't—"

Finn's shaking his head, all snotty and teary and repulsive. "Haven't seen her, two years gone she was, but here ... it's a miracle. It's a miracle!"

And now Briya spares me that glance. As well she might. I've never heard of a curse that allows the mimicry of another. Never once in all my travels have I heard so much as a whisper of that manner of power.

Even so.

My gaze flicks down to Briya's knife, then back to those sleepy dull enticing eyes. She works her jaw then gives a single sharp shake of her head. Not for my benefit. Shaking out an impulse, a foul demon of a thought.

"Up," she grunts, I do adore her grunting. "Move."

The child has said nothing, clings close to Finn, huddled into him and giving the very impression of a small scared child reunited with her big brother.

Another glance from Briya, all for me. My response is a shrug and a smile. 'Whatever I do, follow'. Those were her words and I have taken them to heart. She has my faith, does Briya Thorn. I shall trust her judgement and follow her lead.

Wherever that path may take us.