[CENTER][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/220530/c652bfb8a32eb76955c765ae54ae633e.png[/img] [/CENTER] The map that Tharos offered immediately proved a worthy distraction. Thessi excitedly pulled it from her brother’s hands. Her wide eyes poured over every note and mark, drinking in every scrap of information. A slender finger moved along a path as she imagined it, already calculating what supplies and which beast to bear them based on the terrain, the distance, the weather patterns. Their porter had a busy evening ahead, that was certain. Tharos was, unsurprisingly, thinking of money first and foremost, while she was eager as ever for a prize she thought infinitely more valuable: Answers. Any piece of the archaeological puzzle, however minute, could lead her to a deeper understanding of their enigmatic predecessors, and that was the most worthwhile endeavor of all. Her bright smile reappeared, beaming as she looked up from the ink-scrawled parchment held tight in her grasp. [color=a187be][b]“Let us ready ourselves for the desert, then.” [/b][/color] - In her temporary bedchamber, Thessi began to undress. She sat at her vanity and started removing her jewelry, unfastening the heirlooms one by one. Dangling from her long ears or encircling her throat, her arms, and all of her fingers, each priceless stone carried the heritage of a dynasty that had spanned epochs. Each came to rest in its own ancient cradle of carved wood and cushioned silk. She closed the last box and moved her slender fingers over the runes. The markings came alight with the passing of her touch, sealing the tiny chamber, and locking the ancestral treasures within. The mightiest strike from the heaviest dwarven hammer could never break them, and only the magic of her blood could ever open them again. A circlet remained upon her brow that she made no motion to remove. Instead, she crossed the room to a chest at the end of her bed. Even on its hinges, the lid was still heavy in her thin hands as she lifted it. Neatly folded within, her desert garb waited. She inspected each garment thoroughly as she removed them from the trunk. Satisfied that there were no holes, nor tears, nor even a patch thinned by wear, she turned and opened the nearby wardrobe. Behind its carved doors, a mess of finery laid crumpled together in heaps of wrinkled silk and tangled ribbons. A velvet slipper fell to the floor and she huffed as she kicked it under the wardrobe while tugging at the lacing down the front of her bodice. It began to fall, only to catch on a thin chain around her waist. The silver chatelaine chimed delicately as she undid its clasp, letting the freed bodice slide down her narrow hips onto the floor. Thessi absently brushed it aside to join the forsaken slipper, looking instead at one of the tiny instruments, a small magnifying lens. She held it between her slender fingers and twirled it contemplatively. How very comfortable her life could’ve been, while she remained ever eager to risk it in pursuit of something so intangible as ‘truth.’ A life of lace cuffs and plump couches, tea parties and soft cakes, awaited her every day, while she yearned only for the freedom of the open desert. Better to spend all of her many, many years staring down sandstorms, or cursing the merciless sun itself to just try and take her, than to spend just one more evening trapped in parlors and private libraries with- Remembering Bartholomew, she shuddered. [color=8882be][i]…that scheming little puke…[/i][/color] Thessi scoffed aloud as she continued to undress, reaching behind her back to pull the tight knot of her corset. Once loose, she sucked in a full breath for the first time in hours. While she wriggled free of the corset, she pondered her verbage for a formal request to strike the young lord from her roster. Even as she toyed with the most polite way to communicate her utter disgust, revulsion turned to pity. The lives of humans were as simple as they were short. Insidiously audacious as his move had been, how could she expect anything more of something with so little life to call his own? After all, the tortoise she’d kept as a childhood pet had lived longer than Bartholomew could ever hope to live, even though he would one day sit amongst the merchant-princes and decide the fate of civilization, however briefly. He was also, though she loathed the very thought, much like her: more of a pawn than a person to his own progenitors. [color=8882be][i]…if Tharos is correct, though, I shan’t be tethered to those wretched tutorships anymore… [/i][/color] Once she’d escaped the corset, everything else came off easily by comparison. Overskirt, petticoat, stockings, and the rest of the lot were all hastily stashed in a new clump stuffed into the wardrobe with one hand while her other hand quickly closed the doors. A breeze drifted lazily through the windows’ decorated screens and she enjoyed the cool night air on her skin before wrapping herself in the desert kit. These garments were all made from the same heavy, tight-weave fabric that kept the dust out. The neutral color repelled heat in the day, and melded with the open dunes in the violet night. With the hem of her trousers tucked slip-fashion into her boots and the ample legs sufficiently bloused over top, she went to the trunk again. From it, she retrieved two heavy canvas bags, the contents of which clattered when she dropped them on the bed. Thessi opened the smaller of the pair. Out came half a dozen sheathed knives. None of them were matching in size nor fashion. With her unique magic poorly suited to close combat, and not enough physical prowess to wield a larger weapon effectively, she’d become thoroughly adept with lighter blades. The smallest knives slid easily into the top of each boot and secured around her calves with leather ties. While not completely hidden, the folds of her trouser-legs thoroughly obscured the hilts. The largest had their sheaths fitted to two belts that she buckled around her waist so that they hung to either side. The last pair were tucked beneath each arm, strapped close against her ribs with a shoulder harness. At last, she turned to the mirror again to survey her transformation. She tested the range of motion in her upper body and adjusted the strap across her chest accordingly. Then, she was busy working her hair into a single, long braid. Her fingers paused, her body frozen instantly as she spotted a little tear in the space above her head. It swirled, rending itself open wide enough for pale hands to reach out, grasping the circlet and pulling it back into the tear from whence they’d come. [color=a187be][b]“No!”[/b][/color] She cried out as she attempted to snatch the circlet before it was spirited away. Her reaching hands clenched into fists as the circlet disappeared. [color=a187be][b]“Rat-bastard god of bullshit-”[/b][/color] Thessi began a tirade aimed at the empty air until she could think of no more curses to hurl. This did not result in the returning of the circlet. Robbed of the circlet’s glamor, Thessi was forced to look into her own eyes. That false indigo, bright and beautiful, bled out and grew darker until, if not for the flickering reflections of lamplight, her sockets would’ve seemed altogether empty. She closed her eyes for a long moment, as she had a thousand times before, and simply hoped. [color=8882be][i]…an exercise in futility, as always… [/i][/color] Exasperated to her core, Thessi sat again at the vanity, fists resting on her thighs. She fought the urge to put her knuckles through the mirror, inhaling sharply and huffing out the breath again, over and over until she could unfurl her fingers. She stood stiffly, determined to just grab her gear-bag and go, to meet Tharos in the foyer and- Before she could turn, she felt a touch as cold as stone against her temples. Tiny fingers, chubby and child-like, held her gaze towards the mirror with black-veined hands. Another pair of hands, terribly aged with the same marble skin, emerged from the open void at her back. The gnarled fingers with their protruding knuckles wrapped over each of her shoulders. A third pair of hands, perfectly youthful and strong, followed. They gripped her arms and crushed the knife-sheaths against her ribs, and her ribs against her panic-stricken lungs. They held her upright as her knees began to buckle and her vision spun. Losing grip on the edge of consciousness, she felt the words breathed along her cheek: [color=black][b]“Take pride in these eyes, Vessel-Mine. There is glory yet to come.”[/b][/color] The tangled voices said, speaking over and through each other again. Then, the six hands slunk back into the swirling ether from which they’d sprung and the portal collapsed, leaving Thessi leaning on the vanity. She slumped into her chair rather than fall to the floor as a primordial fear washed over her. Her heart thundered, quickening until she clawed at her pulsing chest. Desperate for breath, she pulled at the scarf around her neck as if that would do anything to assuage the fit that was overtaking her. Cold sweat dripped from her brow and she clumsily wiped it away, dragging wetted hair across her face. She stared, unfocused, at her own trembling hands. Her vision narrowed, recovered, and repeated. She thought her heart would surely seize itself to lasting stillness in any of the agonizing seconds that ached onward. Each shallow breath renewed the crushing pain within her, pushing her pulse to new and terrible heights. Her legs were numb, useless as her distant, forgotten feet and her posture slumped so that she might’ve seemed dead already, if not for her bulging black eyes and her clawing hands, moving with a frantic yet mindless fervor. All she could do was wait, and hope.