[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/FjVCFoQ.png[/img][/center]
[center][color=cyan][h2]Etoile[/h2]
[/color]

---[/center]

As Pythia turned away, Etoile sagged back against the tree trunk in adrenaline-debt exhaustion. Her eyes slid shut, almost of their own volition, and a powerful vertigo overtook her. Only the rough back biting into her back grounded her, reminded her that she was still upright, that she was still there. She allowed herself a smile, then: a small, mirthless, bitter smile.

[i][color=cyan]An injured wolf, hmm?[/color][/i]

How apropos that was. A wolf—one that, once upon a time, was a fearsome force of nature—so wounded it could no longer hunt. Could no longer fend for itself. Abandoned by the pack to wither away to nothing. It had no illusions of recovery, no impossible dreams of hunting again. It knew that, without hunting, it was useless. It knew it was doomed the moment it had failed in its task. And yet still, it snapped slavering jaws at anything that came near it; a vain, broken guise to hide its desperation from the world.

An Inquisitor—one that, once upon a time, was a fearsome force of nature—on the run from her former comrades, all support stripped away. All of that power, gone. All of that privilege, gone. Smoke on the wind, blown away with a single gust. Forced now to make a life for herself on the road, never comfortable, never safe, never stopping long enough to do more than eat and sleep for a night. Acting like she could still wield something of her old power. Anything to do away with the fear that hung over her head like the sword of Judas.

And a woman—one that, once upon a time, was a fearsome force of nature—with [i]no idea[/i] what to do anymore. Her life's work was gone. Her ideals were torn to shreds. They hung in tatters behind her as she struggled to make sense of what was happening all around her. She wanted her cool, quiet room back. Everything was happening far too quickly for her. Too much was going on. The strange sense of familiarity she'd felt behind Pythia on the barge. The mismatch of Lazulin's words and actions. Clara's cold, cautious glare after shoving her away. The slow, creeping unease that she felt every time Zestasia or Pagonia spoke of their home. The maleficarum that they'd fought. Anníbas on the barge. It was all [i]far too much.[/i] Was it too much to ask to be allowed to stop and think?

She opened her eyes, staring up at the faint sunlight filtering through the massive Ifrise trees. Then, a moment later, she looked at Zestasia. Poor kid. He didn't deserve any of what had happened to him.

"[color=cyan]...Zestasia.[/color]" Her voice carried none of its usual harshness. It was distant; quiet, soft, and sad.

"[color=cyan]I'm...sorry for what happened to you.[/color]"