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Atzi felt the heat before she felt the touch, the warmth that exuded from the demon’s body so out-of-place in the frigid chill of Azral Suralng’s wake that it couldn’t have been anyone but Vamessa. Her presence had been important to Dawn’s survival, and her gift with flames had saw households through cold nights once the firewood ran out. For all the disdain that came with the demon’s origins, Atzi herself held no great grudge against her.

And honestly, it wasn’t as if Dawn was a sanctuary of prudes to begin with. So long as Vammy figured the time and place for her groping, she’d fit in just fine. Akala, after all, didn’t have any bad blood with her, and that priestess was the holiest individual present.
[b]“That’s good,”[/b] she responded with a firm nod in her direction. [b]“Thanks.”[/b]

Akando’s concern was also appreciated, though with a boy and a childhood friend at that, Atzi couldn’t help but put up a stronger front. Forcing a grin, she wrapped her hand around the back of his head and pulled him in, bumping foreheads. [b]“Not like you could, anyhow. Last time we wrestled, you couldn’t toss me even when I stood straight up, remember?”[/b] Her teeth flashed. Happier days, warmer days. She released him, then smacked him on the back with a vigor that wasn’t completely fake. [b]“Show that elf up, Akando.”[/b]

And with Achel looking like she was finally going to take a break, Atzi decided to get to work too now. For all the emotional labour, her body remained thrumming with energy, and she struck her bicep with the palm of her opposing hand. It was a meaty thwack that carried well throughout the echoing chambers of the church. [b]“A moment then!”[/b]

Without anything else holding her back, Atzi ran off, her heart speeding up as her lungs pumped cold air through her burning blood. Crusted snow scattered as her mocassins smashed against the ground, and within moments, she reached Bolcha’s workshop and home. Though they were ostensibly family, a desire for independence had come with a desire for privacy, and Atzi had built her own little hut a couple meters away from the craftsman’s abode, where she could entertain her [i]personal[/i] guests without bothering her foster family, as well as where she could experiment with her craft without disturbance.

This time, however, she was here only because she had a habit of keeping a warm oven, and to pick up her equipment. Pushing open the slab of wood that served as the door to her mudbrick hut, Atzi pulled an extra cloak that laid in a heap, rescued a loaf of bread from her stove, empty out her waterskin and replaced the contents with some wine, and finally strapped her wooden club to the loop in her belt. Maira’s own home wasn’t even a day’s walk away; if she kept a good pace, she should reach it expediently. Wouldn’t even take half a day if she tried. All she had to do was stay in motion.

Atzi stared at the embers and the ashes, breathed in the oils and fats, the acrid but tantalizing stench of scrambled brains and unscented soap. Her bed had been lonely for too long. She would invite Maira over tonight.

Right. That's a certainty.

Because she’s still alive.

…

Atzi returned, the sweat beading over her body already wicked away by the breath of winter. She placed the round loaf of bread, kept warm during her return by being wrapped up in a cloth and held beneath her armpit, firmly into the Chiralta gravekeeper’s hands, then swivelled about to locate Vamessa again. It looked as if the demon was nursing a bump on her head, but if it was just a bump, then it was fundamentally nothing.

[b]“Let’s go. Can you run?”[/b]

If she couldn’t, that was no problem either. Atzi was just going to [i]carry[/i] her there.