The greatest miracle of her recovery was that she missed it completely. The Hermetics assured her that every trace of foreign material had been excised, purged, or reborn from her. All the workings of her of her body had been set right, would she care for a scar to remember it by? Standard practice was to assume no, but the work was fresh enough that it could be altered if it suited her sensibilities.

Her arm is bare. Unmarred. No proof exists of the precise spot where goddess stopped her arm. Her hand goes to it at once. Beneath her fingers, it throbs. She is conscious, at once, of the musket settling against her back. The space on her belt where a glaive grows. A second holster, unfamiliar, awaiting its first draw. 

Another hand closes over hers; warm, gentle, and smelling of fireplaces. Hestia shakes her head. [i]Not this time. Not if you want to live.

You will have to find another way.[/i]

"Ahhhh, you know, after a certain number of times it really stops being an ambush doesn't it? If they truly wanted to destroy us by surprise, they ought to try not attacking us." This is the part where polite laughter goes. Thist, you [i]will[/i] politely laugh won't you? You won't leave your dear friend Vasilia hanging all alone, would you? "Ah. Yes. Do we at least have time to review some of the basic terminology? The players? Any information at all would be a substantial improvement over last time."

The card is gone. Dolce lays it out on a open countertop. She missed its passing. She missed him. Now he reaches into his coat and pulls out a second card. An invitation. Marbles and black. Bearing a name in fine calligraphy: TUNGUSKA. Winnings from the god of the Dead. He studies the two closely, comparing color schemes, iconography, all the marks of signature and authority.

When the Chef became Captain, he was permitted to keep his nose. He has not forgotten the scent of Hades’ priest, who hurt his wife so terribly. 

He must know why Thist carries that smell too.