β° βββ β§ βΈ» ⧽ a starter for @assectations
ββββββββββββββββββββΉβ±βΌβ½β°βΉβββββββββββββββββββ
Eluvian-travel is always disconcerting, no matter how frequently Neve finds herself stepping through one these last few months. Though the sensation of displacement only lasts for but a moment, the wrongness afterwards lingers. Her stomach seems to drop fast and low, left somewhere behind. Her vision dances with the false light of the Fade. The precious seconds it takes to orient herself again can be fatal if taken advantage of.
The Venatori had already tried that once. The surprise of the assassin combined with the horrors of the former sanctum turned massacre site had seen them almost succeeding in eliminating their biggest obstacle right then and there. It's not a mistake they can afford again.
Emmrich had been the one to suggest that they move the eluvian from the Shadow Dragon hideout. In that blessedly delicate way of his, glancing at Neve the entire time as if she was soon to burst in to tears. As if Neve had any of those left.
It had been Neve who had been first to volunteer to go. She'd ignored Emmrich's increasingly concerned look, Bellara's fluttering noise of surprise. Burying her head in the sand wouldn't change what had happened. It needed to be done.
The group had come to an agreement that clearing the passages back down to the catacomb tunnels would be the easiest way to move an object of the eluvian's size. The streets outside the shop were too watched.
What Neve's doing now - subjecting herself to - had not been part of the agreed upon plan.
Sentimental, Neve Gallus. That's what you are. It'll get you killed one day. An unassuming scrap of cloth held within her hand, so darkened by blood that the stitches are hard to make out from the rest of the fabric. Only touch tells her what she had feared. It had belonged to one of Odessa's dresses. Sweet, gentle, Odessa who hardly said a word but made the most beautiful clothes Neve had ever touched. If a Dragon ever found themselves with a torn sleeve or pant, Odessa was on the job. A few of Neve's own shirts boast Odessa's butterflies crawling up the sleeve, her swallows darting about the collar.
Similar relics of lives lost are scattered around her. Until now, Neve's done a magnificent job of only allowing herself to agonize over them in the privacy of her rooms. Move on, move fast, it won't help the job to be bogged down by what's not important.
Yet right now their very purpose is here. There is no destination to hurry off to, no ritual to stop for the night. Only the quiet of what was once a place of hope now tarnished. Ruined by magic and hatred and blood.
"I think," she clears her throat and looks to Rook. Starts again, more sure of what to say. "I know we have a job to do here, and I don't mean to delay us. But this isn't who the Shadow Dragons were. Are. The Venatori haven't beaten us, not by a long shot. They don't get to win this. And they certainly don't get to leave their mark here; or as much as I can help. I can't leave it like this," Neve steels herself. She folds the fabric carefully into her pocket. "There's a lot left here they didn't take or left behind. It would benefit us and the Dragons to salvage what we can. Send back to families anything of their loved ones. I'd like your help, Rook. If...if you'd want to."
