[b]Sayanastia![/b]

It is dark and quiet in the bag. Dark and quiet and full of treasures.

And. Not too many treasures.

It takes her a while but she can count them all. Her claws touch every angle of each of her things (for they are her things now. Her half things - broken or incomplete - reminiscent of the ruined castles she would nest in, the desolate landscapes and broken stone. They do not stretch on and on forever, more than she can fit in her claws, more world than she can destroy, a to-do list that continues as far as her eyes can see.) 

She is asleep before she realizes it. It's embarrassing how easily it happens, how small her horizons are, how close it was all this time. 

[b]Injimo![/b]

She is going somewhere. She has a sword.

No words are needed. No explanation is needed. There is a place to go, and violence at the end. Every trap and obstacle and door is just part of the process of going; she moves through them. She is one with the going as she will be one with the future violence. Her feet are bare and feel the stone, her hands are bare and feel like knuckles, her eyes see only the moving parts of the world and filter out all of its beauty and complexities. Her mind is empty. She has a sword. There is somewhere to go. It was enough for Heron.