Common | Vani | Others | 8th Winter, 514 AV
It was the morning after a Gods forsaken night.
The blast had come as many would lay their heads to rest, and from what the kelvic woman heard in passing and in whispers, she was lucky she’d be out that eve, and not at the Djed Academy. Either fate or chance was with her, and unlike so many of her evening class peers, she was able to draw breath at the next light. The academy was destroyed, many were dead, and even more were injured – guilt had stricken her when she realised that her aid at the infirmary was sorely needed, with she herself too far away and preoccupied to find herself aiding where it would have proved most useful.
A knot was quickly tying itself in her gut, and a shiver that riveted her spine. She was known among those within the infirmary to lack a single squirm or discomfort at the sight of the dead, almost to a point of infamy, so she supposed it was little wonder that it was was she who was sent out as a dispatch to give an account of the dead and damaged.
She was, as well as she could understand of the muddled orders that were thrown to her, to report back to Mistress Claira so the woman could gain a better understanding of the havoc that was wrecked and the state of the bodies that remained – she herself so overworked in the infirmary only Tanroa knew when, or if, she’d have the opportunity to survey the damage herself.
‘Dira, I hope not too many have come to you before their time – I pray they’ve come to you in peace, and that I may press any who haven’t to follow quite soon enough.’
The prayer kept her mind and heart at bay, she pressed through the crumbled halls, destroyed courts and ways as she approached what little remained of the academy, mind flitting through how many peers and teachers that she’d yet heard a single word of, and another bout of prayer slipped her lips. Coercing a stranger to return to Dira was one thing, however to do so to one that you’ve drawn breath with was another account entirely. When chance was the only thing that separated the existence of one life from another, hypocrisy was quite strongly felt when Altaira attempted to press them to join Dira.
She rolled her shoulders and pressed on, catching sight and smell of smoke and burned flesh as Zulrav’s breezes turned her way, and another deep breath rushed from her lungs. Syna’s light had only just broken, and yet the day was as grim as undeath.
Without a moment’s warning, voices erupted, words and whispers, and rushes and worries. The sizzle of wetted fire cut through the brisk morning silence, and another bout of smoke rushed through the sky. A few more steps saw several stone-faced men gave her stern looks, folded arms and tired gazes hinting that perhaps they’d spent the night, their attempts at an air of authority aided naught by the shadows of torch and candlelight. “What’s your purpose here- we need not any dawdlers to hinder our efforts to recover the dead and survey damage-If you wish to volunteer aid, then please-” Altaira could hear the anger in him, though it was much overcast by weariness, and although such was understandable, she took not too kind to being spoken to in such a manner.
“Mistress Claira sent me,” her words were terse, and her expression stone itself, pressing her lips as she raised a brow. “I am to survey the dead and the damage- she’d come herself if she had the time,” The man gave her a look up and down, before shooting a look to his considerably more dazed companion, and the kelvic pressed her words to allow a greater point of urgency. “If their condition is poor,” she dropped her tone slightly, a sigh rolling from her lungs. “Then Tanroa is no friend in aiding us determine their identities. Nor will it be any goodness to health.” She considered pressing her words further, but knowing how wild her own hair was, and the bags that sat beneath her burning amber eyes, she thought it best not to pretend to be the greater party when looks told a very different, very obvious story. Everyone had gone through Hai last night.
“Very well.”
With a nod and a semblance of a smile, Altaira slid passed the men and took in the sight of the growing destruction. In some places, there was little damage – a pillar would stand tall and firm next to a pile of ashes and rubble, a hallway would progressively give way to more and more damage. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Death was in the air, and her breath came almost disturbingly easy. She felt for it- for them. She’d come with the expectation of a dozen ghosts and ethereal forms, but it was silent. Instead what rocked her was the abysmal sights before her. The semblances of charred bodies and the bellowing of smoke some bounds of rubble over, the lack of the tower and structure where the Asylum should have stood not too far away, and the stillness of the air. It'd been three seasons since she'd felt so strong a presence of death.
It was a breath of relief that then left her, and she almost hated herself for it.
Her passion was Dira's work, though she'd be outright lying if the thought of dozens of lost souls did not sadden or challenge her, refusing to allow such hopeful thought that perhaps they may have all found peace and Dira - even more so since there was one certain undeath more demanding of her attention.
The blast had come as many would lay their heads to rest, and from what the kelvic woman heard in passing and in whispers, she was lucky she’d be out that eve, and not at the Djed Academy. Either fate or chance was with her, and unlike so many of her evening class peers, she was able to draw breath at the next light. The academy was destroyed, many were dead, and even more were injured – guilt had stricken her when she realised that her aid at the infirmary was sorely needed, with she herself too far away and preoccupied to find herself aiding where it would have proved most useful.
A knot was quickly tying itself in her gut, and a shiver that riveted her spine. She was known among those within the infirmary to lack a single squirm or discomfort at the sight of the dead, almost to a point of infamy, so she supposed it was little wonder that it was was she who was sent out as a dispatch to give an account of the dead and damaged.
She was, as well as she could understand of the muddled orders that were thrown to her, to report back to Mistress Claira so the woman could gain a better understanding of the havoc that was wrecked and the state of the bodies that remained – she herself so overworked in the infirmary only Tanroa knew when, or if, she’d have the opportunity to survey the damage herself.
‘Dira, I hope not too many have come to you before their time – I pray they’ve come to you in peace, and that I may press any who haven’t to follow quite soon enough.’
The prayer kept her mind and heart at bay, she pressed through the crumbled halls, destroyed courts and ways as she approached what little remained of the academy, mind flitting through how many peers and teachers that she’d yet heard a single word of, and another bout of prayer slipped her lips. Coercing a stranger to return to Dira was one thing, however to do so to one that you’ve drawn breath with was another account entirely. When chance was the only thing that separated the existence of one life from another, hypocrisy was quite strongly felt when Altaira attempted to press them to join Dira.
She rolled her shoulders and pressed on, catching sight and smell of smoke and burned flesh as Zulrav’s breezes turned her way, and another deep breath rushed from her lungs. Syna’s light had only just broken, and yet the day was as grim as undeath.
Without a moment’s warning, voices erupted, words and whispers, and rushes and worries. The sizzle of wetted fire cut through the brisk morning silence, and another bout of smoke rushed through the sky. A few more steps saw several stone-faced men gave her stern looks, folded arms and tired gazes hinting that perhaps they’d spent the night, their attempts at an air of authority aided naught by the shadows of torch and candlelight. “What’s your purpose here- we need not any dawdlers to hinder our efforts to recover the dead and survey damage-If you wish to volunteer aid, then please-” Altaira could hear the anger in him, though it was much overcast by weariness, and although such was understandable, she took not too kind to being spoken to in such a manner.
“Mistress Claira sent me,” her words were terse, and her expression stone itself, pressing her lips as she raised a brow. “I am to survey the dead and the damage- she’d come herself if she had the time,” The man gave her a look up and down, before shooting a look to his considerably more dazed companion, and the kelvic pressed her words to allow a greater point of urgency. “If their condition is poor,” she dropped her tone slightly, a sigh rolling from her lungs. “Then Tanroa is no friend in aiding us determine their identities. Nor will it be any goodness to health.” She considered pressing her words further, but knowing how wild her own hair was, and the bags that sat beneath her burning amber eyes, she thought it best not to pretend to be the greater party when looks told a very different, very obvious story. Everyone had gone through Hai last night.
“Very well.”
With a nod and a semblance of a smile, Altaira slid passed the men and took in the sight of the growing destruction. In some places, there was little damage – a pillar would stand tall and firm next to a pile of ashes and rubble, a hallway would progressively give way to more and more damage. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Death was in the air, and her breath came almost disturbingly easy. She felt for it- for them. She’d come with the expectation of a dozen ghosts and ethereal forms, but it was silent. Instead what rocked her was the abysmal sights before her. The semblances of charred bodies and the bellowing of smoke some bounds of rubble over, the lack of the tower and structure where the Asylum should have stood not too far away, and the stillness of the air. It'd been three seasons since she'd felt so strong a presence of death.
It was a breath of relief that then left her, and she almost hated herself for it.
Her passion was Dira's work, though she'd be outright lying if the thought of dozens of lost souls did not sadden or challenge her, refusing to allow such hopeful thought that perhaps they may have all found peace and Dira - even more so since there was one certain undeath more demanding of her attention.
