faderift | [PLAYER PLOT] THIS WEATHERED HEART

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[PLAYER PLOT] THIS WEATHERED HEART

WHO: A Lotta Folks
WHAT: Preventing a Venatori plot on a distant island; everything goes a-okay.
WHEN: Mid Kingsway
WHERE: Nascere, an island off the coast of Seheron
NOTES: OOC information and plotting post HERE. Ty to cass and mj's nevarra city log structure which I shamelessly ripped off.

ARRIVAL.
Accommodations are tight on the single ship which leaves Kirkwall, but spirits—of the crew, at least—are surprisingly high given what is likely to be unpleasant work ahead. In true Waking Sea fashion however, the weather turns just as the Walrus enters the straight between Ostwick and Brandel's Reach. A number of days are spent at the mercy of viciously inhospitable weather, shouting over screaming wind and struggling the length of slanting decks, as the ship beats its way East to smoother seas. On the plus side, the days which follow allow plenty of time to repair anything carried away or damaged by the storms. 'Better now than when we're trying to land,' seems to be the general opinion of the seasoned sailors aboard.

When the Walrus passes into its native latitudes, great care is taken to avoid all sight of the coast until they can skirt in under the cover of darkness. So what at last rises up from the horizon in the night is not an island but a shadow. The lightless shape rising against the canvas of the night sky consists of some mountain range rendered featureless by the dark, jungle cliff sides, and just the faintest line of foaming bio-luminescent waters against a narrow strip of beach. The landing itself is uneventful - a series of longboats run them to shore, then return to the Walrus with a skeleton crew fit to see the ship smuggled back over the horizon.

Now effectively stranded, Riftwatch (and their half a crew of pirates) make their way through the hilly jungle terrain and eventually into the valley beyond where the vegetation and twisting paths occasionally give way to signs of agricultural life—groves of macadamia trees and broad swathes of sugar cane—and the faintest flickers of light from distant plantation houses. Their destination is a small farm cut into one of the red foothills. From its overgrown state, it's clearly been abandoned for some time. The farmhouse is beginning to grow dilapidated from lack of care, and its interior has been cleared to accommodate both Riftwatch and the small force of about twenty insurgents—a strange combination of escaped enslaved and pirates-turned-revolutionaries, and evidently just one of a series of rebel cells in hiding throughout the island's interior—they meet there.

DAY.
With some expectation that it will be a few days before they mount their assault on the rift and the underground ruin, the first day on Nascere is meant to simply be an opportunity to familiarize themselves with the current conditions on the island. The bulk of Riftwatch's force is either to stay put on the farm away from prying eyes, or may accompany one or two rebel scouts to coordinate with other cells scattered across the island so long as they can move quickly, quietly, and avoid detection. Specifically, two groups have been tasked to gather information in Nascere Town proper—particularly any news relating to the whereabouts of the missing half of the insurgency which disappeared when the rebel force was successfully broken by the ruling force in residence—, and to explore as much of the network of caves leading to the ruin as is possible while avoiding detection.

LOCAL GOSSIP - Athessa, Byerly, Isaac, & Vanadi

Seemingly carved out of the living rock overlooking the harbor below, Nascere Town is a visage in relief upon a steep hill, its deep contours cast in a harsh light by the rift fixed high above it at the hill's summit. The buildings at the base are built on stilts, with stairs or ladders leading up to the entrances. As the elevation rises, the buildings fall until they are all level with the dirt road that cuts through them.

Residences and shops line the road on either side, and what seems to be otherwise shockingly normal commerce is slowed by the purposeful momentum of a few Venatori gathering supplies and taking them somewhere. The warehouse near the lowest point of town is supplying wagons with tools and rope and chains and the like, the supplies needed to imprison rather than to build. A handful of Tevene-aligned foot soldiers not at work can also be found enjoying drinks or a meal at the tavern or enjoying intimate company at the brothel across the street. The center of operations seems to be the old Chantry—built as counterpoint to the Qun fort overlooking the bay when the Imperium took control of the island, converted into a public market during the pirate possession of the island, and then reverted back to its former religious significance upon the Governor's takeover—, overlooking the town and back lit by a verdant veilfire sun. It's where the ranks sleep, and plan, and where it's rumored a few people have never returned from.

That is a story that can be from a number of different people in town. Some folks just vanish, and it's chalked up to the guerrillas in the surrounding jungle, the pirate resistance, sometimes even the Governor's men. But sometimes they're seen being led to that holy spire, and what else are they supposed to think when it's Venatori taking them there?

It's too risky to approach the Chantry itself, but it's clear enough by the commotion in the streets that there isn't any time to waste. This is confirmed by the nervous and surprisingly competent gentleman named Mr. Featherstone who meets them in the tavern's back room. He unfortunately doesn't know much about the missing half of the rebel militia; all he can offer is a few rumors that they've been smuggling people off the island, which could explain some of the fighting still happening in the jungle, or perhaps that they scarpered entirely when the resistance fell. Most on Nascere have taken to believing them dead.

The most important information Featherstone has to share is that whatever the Venatori are planning to do will be happening tonight.

UNDERGROUND EXPLORATION - Caius, Dorian, Gwenaëlle, Leander, & Madi

At first, the passages are simply dirt walls, roots and moss, but slowly, they give way to stone. It would be easy to get lost in these caverns, if no one was paying attention. The passages branch, though some open into single-roomed chambers and others have collapsed or been overgrown by plant life. But upon close inspection, it's clear which routes have seen regular foot traffic, and Madi has some knowledge of the route, enough to quell doubt upon reaching forked passages, though it's inevitable to take a few wrong turns and come across closed chambers or mark light ahead where tunnels curve back towards the surface into the jungle. The walls bear runes and other markings, some appearing to be simple directions while others are historical and instructional in design. Luckily, there are plenty of small crevasses to wedge tunnel markers, ensuring a return to this route won't require as much trial and error.

Eventually, the echo of voices prompts the dousing of torches while guiding forward travel. The tunnels give way to a large, vaulted chamber. Debris has been moved to the edges to reveal looping, intricate runes set into the floor. A single shaft of light illuminates the dark-smeared altar in the middle of the room. A number of Venatori are in attendance, clearly hard at work in preparation for something. Torches have been lit, and the glow reveals a set of cages along the far wall, ceremonial robes, a table of sharp implements reverently arranged.

Walking further into the chamber is too much of a gamble. Every time it looks as if the room will empty out entirely, a few more Venatori reappear. But it is possible to eavesdrop on the conversations as Venatori come and go through several other entryways. The discussions reveal that the Venatori have used regularly visited this chamber to perform rituals, as well as that they are confident in having finally crafted the exact sequence of events that unlocks⸺

Something? It's hard to say, because the Venatori never refer to the outcome in anything but vague, glowing excitement. But it is safe to assume that the outcome of the upcoming ritual is probably very bad. Judging by some of their conversation and the layout of the ruin's modifications, Caius (and potentially a few other nerds present) will be able to calculate that the fallout from a spell like this has the potential for some serious collateral damage if left unchecked, enough so that the town above proper might be endangered by it. Luckily, it's possible to back out of this cavern and backtrack towards the town to pass along this information without attracting any attention from the Venatori prepping the ritual space.

NIGHT.
Time being a luxury evidently in short supply, efforts to coordinate and strategize promptly take on new urgency. While the bulk of the effort is dedicated to rallying forces and preparing to move out, two teams are sent to alert select local contacts to the destructive potential of the runes under the island and to fetch a secret cache of gaatlok buried on the island.

SACRIFICIAL LAMBS - Barrow, Lukas, Ilias, & Silver

With the warning that the town could be turned into collateral damage, a more tangible threat than several years of guerrilla warfare, evacuating the town to safer ground is the only logical thing to do. John has an idea of who should be told first, which brothel, which tavern, which spaces in the town square and market they'll need to visit to make sure the alarm they're sounding carries swiftly and effectively.

However, they make it as far as the town square before it becomes clear something's amiss. More amiss than usual.

The town is crawling with Venatori. The streets are full of people trying to scramble into hiding or being dragged from their homes or from behind the market stalls. The gallows, always an ominous sight, are eclipsed by a barred cart into which people are being shoved, or thrown. Even in all the chaos and rising level of hysteria from the townspeople as they try to avoid capture, it quickly becomes obvious that the Venatori aren't rounding people up for a night in the pokey.

Knowing what's scheduled to occur at the ruins, it's safe to assume the people being thrown into carts haven't been volunteered to act as moral support so much as they're intended to provide the required blood component.

Stealth is paramount; it's crucial to keep the Venatori from realizing any opposition beyond the pirate rebellion has arrived on the island. That being said, the Venatori also can't be allowed to haul a cart full of potential blood sacrifices down to the ruins. Therefore the task becomes: either find a way to release the victims and prevent the Venatori from collecting more without being seen, or make sure no Venatori are able to raise the alarm if there's no way to proceed stealthily.

TREASURE HUNT - Edgard, Darras, Derrica, & Flint

Armed with Flint's knowledge of where the cache of gaatlok is buried, it seems an easy enough task to locate and unbury it. Or it would be, if there weren't an enemy patrol in the nearby vicinity (likely motivated by the burial site's proximity to a now abandoned rebel encampment). That discovery is brought about by one of the enemy scouts straying too far from a familiar path and snagging his boot on an old trip-wire. His impact with the trap makes enough noise to call over two others, and to cover the sounds of a retreat into cover.

The Venatori can't be allowed to discover the gaatlok, and the risk of an alarm being sounded is too high to get away with being spotted. They'll have to be scared off or eliminated. Anyone who cares to eavesdrop a little can discover that the Venatori are already spooked, thanks to the Veil being so thin on the island. There have been ever increasing reports of wraiths, shades, and even ghosts manifesting on the jungle. Some have even heard the sounds of wailing loved ones or the voice of the Maker himself whispering on the breeze.

RIFT & RUIN.
With some sense of what they're up against and a gaatlok cache shaped ace up their sleeves, Riftwatch and their allies are divided into two forces. One party is to take the foothills just north of Nascere Town where the burning rift demands closure. They've been instructed to value speed over subtlety; with the bulk of the Venatori force preparing to make their way into the underground, they'll need to draw some of their number back to the hilltop if the team handling the ruins is to have any chance at scuttling the magic being performed there. The other group is to spirit the gaatlok underground and disrupt the ritual by destroying key segments of the temple's sprawling adapted runework.

THE RIFT

When viewed by night, the rift which sits at the crest of the hill overlooking Nascere Town is naseauting in its brilliance. Likely it has grown slowly in magnitude and any change has been so gradual that the locals can hardly recall what it looked like to begin with; but to anyone familiar with what a Rift should be, the danger is indicative in the sheer span of the grim aurora spilling over the hilltop. The rift hasn't torn itself open yet, but yet seems to be the operative word.

Immediate resistance is relatively light, consisting of a few Venatori mages and shockingly ill-equipped foot soldiers. Unfortunately, reinforcements from the town below will quickly answer and it will briefly appear likely that the bid for the rift will fail. However the closer they get to the rift, the more disorienting and serpentine the jungle vegetation seems to become. What must be a path certain to lead to the glowing summit instead winds travelers in circles; forms inexplicably familiar - an old friend, a favorite childhood dog, a girl someone once loved - flicker at the periphery of vision and tempt wrong turns. The confusion makes it possible to escape being overwhelmed; unfortunately, it will be easy to become separated and Riftwatch and its allies are as prone to being scattered by their desire as the enemy is. Anyone separated from the bulk of their force may find themselves prey to rare hunger in the dark.

When they at last find their way to the rift, it is as a swollen belly being split open with pulsing heaves of nauseating light crackling across the rocky summit. What at first appears to be the guts of some great thing spills from the seam in slow motion on regrettably necessary closer inspection, is in actuality some appendage of an entity ready to push its way through the Veil which takes the form of twisting snakes. They are appealingly hypnotic, turning end over glittering scaled end, as with each pulse of light they slip further into the world where they might attempt to devour anyone who gets too close.

While at first it may seem as if Gwenaëlle and her supercharged anchor should have no trouble closing the rift herself, as whatever is happening in the ruin below progresses, Vanadi will have to aid her to counteract the effect of the ritual and successfully close the damn thing.

THE RUIN

Thanks to the earlier mapping mission, it's relatively simple to slip back in through the circuitous network of caves leading to the underground elven ruin. Even better: they have a perfect cover story. After all, the folks down in the ruin are expecting a few guests. Down in the caves, dirt floors cede to stone, and then to lovely domed rooms once laced with elaborate dalish decorative stonework sheared into shapes which grow more brutal and hard edged the closer the party gets to the central chamber. Deep furrows have been cut into the floor of these passages and brushed with some dark stain; according to the earlier survey, they form some elaborate rune all their own whose center rests in the main chamber.

Riftwatch (and their cache of gaatlok) are to secret their way along passages which run parallel to these main corridors, taking anyone they might meet by surprise. When at last they arrive at the central chamber, it is to be greeted by a ceremony already underway. A series of glyphs burn at key locations around the room, each managed by a pair of mages, and arranged around the central platform with its ugly Tevene altar lie a number of corpses (likely Nascere's missing persons) face down in the furrows which converge there.

Riftwatch's job at this point is to simply ("""simply""") fight their way to the central platform, set the gaatlok, and blow the central series of interlocking runes where the Veil has been rendered most thin. They'll be facing off with a number of Venatori mages, but the working theory is that they only have to last long enough to get the charge off. Maybe it requires an elaborate relay of passing the gaatlok from behind one series of barriers to another to avoid being blown up by stray magic; maybe stray magic does trigger the explosion. What is guaranteed is that when the explosion rocks the chamber, it decimates the central platform, sends stony shrapnel spitting in every direction, and knocks anyone left on their feet to the ground.

And as the central series of conduit runes in the subterranean ruin is split, power lances free. It courses lightning like along the channels—twisting rune forms—which spiral outward along the floors of various arms of the underground cavern from its main chamber, strippign the life out of anything unlucky enough to be standing (or stumbling or lying) in any of the carved furrows as the arcane burst surges down it.

In its wake, the ruin splits.

ESCAPE.
If anyone wasn't already moving to escape before the ceilings of the ruin's ornate underground rooms begin to fall in, and as walls and floors begin to crumble away into widening fissures, they should be now. A collapsed wall exposes a previously unmapped series of passages leading up and away from the ruin's chambers. As the network of caves tumbles in on itself and Riftwatch's forces underground flee through the rough hewn tunnels to emerge in the chaos of the disintegrating Qun-era fort which once guarded Nascere Town and the harbor beyond, an otherworldly fog rises ravenously after them.

Meanwhile, the team responsible for closing the rift has their own problems. While the disorienting effects of the jungle have evaporated with the rift's closure, the moment the bedrock fractures and the caverns below begin to fragment so too does the hilltop. The rift closure team will have to outpace the foothill's collapse to join their fellows struggling out of the ruin. By the time both groups converge in Nascere Town, there will be little doubt that the destructive force meant to shred open the Veil—power derived from years worth of a guerrilla war, from decades of bloodshed produced by both the island's internal turmoil and its embittered exchange of ownership between pirates and the Imperium, the Qun, and whoever came before—is perfectly capable of doing the same to the island when left unchecked.

At this stage, there's little to be done to control it. The best Riftwatch can hope for as the port town and the mountainous region surrounding it break into pieces is to get to something that floats and out of dodge before the harbor and its contents can be sucked into whatever cavity opens as the entire landmass breaks apart. In the bitter pre-dawn aftermath, the place they came to has been reduced to irregular jagged teeth plunged under a fog so unnaturally dense that it refuses to burn away even as the sun rises and the Walrus creeps in to rescue them from whatever irregular fleet of longboats and little sailing vessels they managed to escape on.

The ruin is gone. The Veil is intact. Technically speaking, Riftwatch accomplished exactly what they came here to do.

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She can feel the tension in Isaac's arm where she's supporting him (as much as she's able) amid the sway and slosh of the ship, and some minor shift that could be precursor to round two.

His hand slipped a couple times? He can't help himself? Grow the fuck up.

"Isaac," she warns. "Don't."

He can't help himself,

Fingers curl. One knuckled scab cracks free, peels from clean skin and flakes into the dark. This has been — much as it's anything — a show of control. To not reach for anything more deadly than a fist, dire than a tongue. A bottle. But Leander knows that, he never did apologize.

His veins have scorched this hot before. His chest has clenched about spinier realities. But wounds once split will seal.

(There are mages, he'd told Silver, and might have abbreviated, Who don't last.)

He strains himself upright — or what will pass for that in dim light. A hand to Athessa's shoulder: He's well. A nod to Derrica: He's done. And past her face,

"If you hurt him," It would be a fine thing, if his voice were deep and rich and deadly. It isn't. "We won't be."

Leander sways with the ship's motion, watches the templar's retreating shape. The place where Barrow had grasped his shoulder is a heavy spot in his awareness, different than the lingering ache between his legs but no less offensive. He'd like to break both his wrists, he decides, in a way that cannot be undone—

Isaac's voice calls him back. Were this some other fight, Leander would laugh—some echo of that even appears, a momentary twitch of his mouth—but the warning's content lands too close for that. His eyebrows hint at some vulnerable shape before he catches it, forces himself impassive, redirects his gaze to some neutral point and wipes at the blood near his mouth.

As Isaac speaks, Derrica's gaze flicks to him. Her gratitude is obvious, more so because of how she'd come upon them, about her suspicions as to what instigated the scuffle in the first place. He didn't have to say anything at all on Leander's behalf.

"Both of you should sit down. I can try to ease some of this before it starts bruising."

And because Derrica doesn't think it's wise to leave the pair of them together without supervision. Her eyes lock on Athessa's, hopefully to communicate that much.

She's missing something, here. Something between Isaac and Leander, and somebody else—

Athessa nods to Derrica, that look coupled with Isaac's readiness to fight communicating plenty.

"There's fresh water in the galley," she offers. She can either go get it herself and leave Derrica to babysit these two grown-ass men, or she can drag Isaac along to put enough distance between him and Leander to sever whatever plucked chord is humming between them.

"I've got it."

Dismissive. The first steps — arm stretching cautiously from Athessa — are unsteady. He really should sit down. But it's a universal habit among Riftwatch's healers to quite ignore each other's advice.

And he didn't miss that look.

"We'll be back," By which he means Athessa will, he's not sleeping down here tonight. Perhaps unwise to leave Leander and Derrica alone with the story, but there's no preventing it, and no purpose to delaying. "You know where my bag is."

Herbs, salves. (If she doesn't, Leander certainly fucking will. )

Leander has decided there won't be a story, nor will he be sitting down—if he's to be counted among the healers now, he has a reputation to uphold—and he asserts these decisions by making his way back to his designated hammock. Carefully. Warmth in his face, and elsewhere, gathering where he was struck—one clarity exchanged for another.

"Leave it," he says, probably regarding the bag, and makes this difficult to confirm by not looking at anyone in particular. Not sulking, only asserting, "I'll manage."

In any other circumstances, Derrica probably would have pressed Leander to let her do something for him, at the very least. But in the face of Isaac's denial and Leander's echo, she just sighs heavily.

Protesting is going to be counterproductive, and it feels too much like needling at something raw for her to resort to it.

"You can ask me if you change your mind," is all she says, relenting. "I only meant to come down here for a moment."

Leander seems on the way to sit down, and as long as Isaac isn't going to do anything ambitious above deck that's likely enough space between them to prevent a second round.

"I'll let whoever we're relieving know not to wake up my watch partner, since you just volunteered to take his shift," Athessa says to Isaac, walking alongside and clearly ready to at least try to catch him should his unsteadiness come to a head.

When she looks back at Derrica, it's with an eye-roll that might as well say men, am I right?

continued for anyone who wants 2 & is going back up

Contented with Athessa's presence at Isaac's side (Athessa won't let him fall into the sea, and will do more to brighten his mood than anything Derrica might have tried) and satisfied with Barrow's retreat, Derrica fetches her own satchel on the way to Leander's hammock.

"Lea," again, quieter as the ship creaks around them. "Let me see?"

"I said I'll manage." Not technically a refusal.

He's climbing back into his hammock, anyway, with no intent to leave it again barring some urgency or other, so she'll be able to see him easily. It isn't too bad—some swelling along the cheek, the eyebrow, a small split there letting a quantity of blood that looks more shocking than it is serious, streaking his face, settling in the creases of his eye. A few shallow abrasions from the scuffle, mostly bloodless and mostly hidden by his clothes (and those still wet). Minor afflictions.

"Just need to rest a moment."

"I know," Derrica says, in the same breath as she draws a cloth from her sack. There's a gentle clink as she spills a little elfroot tincture before reaching to dab at the cut over his eye.

"Will you tell me what happened?"

"You saw what happened."

He'll be appeased by the attention soon enough, given time to settle into both that and the hammock—in the meantime, Derrica will have to content herself with being tolerated. He closes his eyes against the touch of medicine, finds this agreeable and so keeps them shut. Keeps the little frown line above them, too.

"You were already hitting each other when I came down the stairs," Derrica says softly.

With no objection, her free hand goes to his hair, smoothing back curls as she sponges the streaks of blood. She soon discovers it's a superficial injury, not even needing a stitch to mend, and that eases some of her concerns.

"I taught you how to throw punches better than that."

A little bit of a joke; she'd envisioned her lessons being put to use on someone other than Isaac.

He doesn't laugh, but he does answer, "That occurred to me."

Scrapping on the floor like idiot boys, one perfect instant of seeing himself acting a mess, and thinking very clearly, You do know how to do this. It's not a question of why he didn't try harder, the reason is simple—but he ought not to have kept that reason at all.

Their promises lie in ash—all of them. You don't get to cherry-pick a clean slate.

"He threw a book at my head, is what happened."

The cloth draws down Leander's cheek. Derrica bites her tongue around the words: That's all?

All her concentration goes into clearing the blood from his face for a moment. She can see the places where bruises are rising, but holds her magic in reserve. Once his face is clear, she'll have a better idea of what needs to be done.

"Was this worth it?" she asks instead.

That's all. He isn't any happier about it.

"What a dull question." His version of grumbling is terribly low-key, hardly any real grumble to it. Eyes open to the planks above, "I can't remember the last time I lost my temper. That isn't worth anything. It's nothing."

He knows how this works, the order of things, and plans to lift a stalling hand should it seem like she's ready to cast. The split could take a stitch, or it couldn't—he plans to let it do whatever it will. Another memento for the collection.

Her hand tightens in his hair, gives a tiny shake, but she lets the grumble pass.

She wants to protest. It isn't like him to lose his temper, never mind over something as small as a thrown book. Doesn't there have to be something more to this than a small slight?

One hand settles against his cheek as she draws away the rag, and she draws a breath, pulling at the Fade to gather enough energy to do—

"—Don't." With his hand he covers the rag, Derrica's fingers, his wood-scuffed knuckles and all. The touch to his cheek is left alone. "I'll manage."

That she's kept a little of his language—the admonishing tug, the tolerance without coddling—is something of a balm, itself, but it can't ease his mood. (What can?)

"This isn't the place to discuss it." Too many ears, and he's never been one to share.

Her expression turns stubborn for a moment, but she lets it pass. They're minor scuffs and scrapes, easier to let him keep than if he had been in worse condition. There's a sigh as her fingers loosen in his hair.

"We'll have to wait until we're all the way back in Kirkwall," Derrica murmurs. "There's hardly any privacy on a ship."

Which had been so pleasantly nostalgic right up until now.

"He was ready to defend you after," she says, even quieter. She doesn't ask about Ilias. That much she has an understanding of, enough to guess and not care to press him about it now.

If Derrica's first thought is to wait until after they've come and gone from Nascere, so much the better—he won't suggest any alternatives. After so many days gone by, it might even seem old news by then. Best to leave the raising of the dead to Nevarrans.

Her observation, though, sparks one dry cough of laughter. "My dear, Isaac is only interested in defending himself."

"A templar wasn't grabbing Isaac."

But Derrica's aware she doesn't have much of a leg to stand on. She knows Isaac only a little, only as a good healer and glib voice on the crystal. Leander knows him better, maybe, for better or for worse. And Barrow, well.

In the moment, Derrica's shock and fear had colored her response to him. She isn't sure he'd meant anything beyond just pulling Leander away, but she can't quite muster up the urge to take back her defense of him.

Her fingers rest on a rapidly forming bruise, suppressing the urge to smooth it away entirely.

Unwilling to risk becoming louder in emphasis, there's no way to go but down, into a hiss. "A templar didn't thump me in the balls and threaten me, either."

A simplification: his wanting to better know Isaac is why they ended up on the floor. It's what nearly bled him out, all those months ago. The many fine rewards of seeking to understand, finding these wide currents of fear and anger through Isaac and Ilias, both—after two years of peaceable coexistence, the same result as if he were hardly trying at all.

Barrow's interference is only situationally offensive, gone as soon as he's out of sight. The rest of this, it bubbles away at all hours, corrosive.

The fragility of other people is maddening.

With an impatient sigh, "Thank you, but I need to rest. Please go."

It had only been a matter of time until they hit this point, Derrica thinks. She considers pressing him, digging in and pushing until something gives. But after a moment, she drags her hands through his hand once more before straightening up.

"Okay," softly, the cloth lifting from where it had drifted along his jaw. "I'll check on you tomorrow."

But she can leave him alone for now, tells herself it's for the best.

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[PLAYER PLOT] THIS WEATHERED HEART

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