a gift for @averykentx, location: lowest level of the necromanteion note: just small talk while we're readjusting limbs and sinew
The Advocate had watched Rome's witches churn and adapt as time commanded them. She was older than her magically retained visage could lend to and she'd watched Coven members come and go, she'd seen some die, consumed by magic or the natural ascension of age. She sat high up within the sanctity of the Narcissus home, her eyes drinking in Rome, picking apart other witches and species for their weaknesses, their advantages. It's why the faint recognition comes to her as her eyes glance up occasionally at the other witch, small talk scant between melding sinew and restoring corroded limbs. "You were of the Dahlia," a statement but it proposed a question considering the Dahlia were always on this holier than thou brigade and yet here this one stood, alongside her in the belly of the Asphodel's home. Efigenia silently flicks her wrist as a bent and broken wrist is realigned into place on the corpse of Cthonius.
