EVENT #1: THE EMPTY THRONE

[aionmods]

The Empty Throne

DESCENT

Nearly two weeks after being dragged from shrine caverns, you hear along the grapevine that the "the throne room is complete." It doesn't take long to figure out what that means; the ritual grounds that you have been hearing mention of are finally prepared, and it's only a short while before you are once again being gathered together for travel. As a small mercy, at least this time the journey is short.

Through a passage that has been blocked by a gathering of soldiers for the entire length of your stay, a stairway is revealed to you. It leads deep into the ruins, through unfamiliar structures and into the bowels of the earth. Though your feel your are mostly going downward, the walk is still long on account of how many stairs their are, and the soldiers escorting you are restless. They are now being led by the stray, mask wearing Achamites that have been accompanying the group till now, silently observing. Whatever place this is, it seems that they now hold court.

Funneled into the chambers below, you are greeted by a massive, domed enclosure of stone. Positioned around its circular radius are twelve thrones in various states of disrepair, sized as if meant to seat giants. The backs of these thrones all differ slightly in design, though most have great cleaves of stone broken loose from their architecture, as if subjected to some great cataclysm. Each is engraved with a sigil, though some have been obscured by the destruction wrought. The throne closest to the entrance has been almost entirely demolished, making it impossible to glean much about.

The dome's ceiling appears to be hundreds of feet tall at its apex, its smooth surface disrupted by stalactites that puncture through its form like teeth. As a result, many chunks of the original structure seem to have cracked and collapsed in to the floor below. When examined closely, these fragments of the domed ceiling seem to be made of a material strangely reflective in quality, though caked in many years of dirt and grime. If large enough sections are cleaned, patterns may emerge, revealing designs that look almost like star maps. The floor beneath your feet as a similar, but subtly different quality, covered in wreckage and ruin but can be cleaned to reveal complex patterns of intersecting lines.

A careful eye will indicate that these lines all lead towards the center of the room - the one space that has been cleared and scrubbed prior to your arrival. Here, the lines converge, with carefully preserved marking in the stone that bely increasing levels of runic complexity the closer you look. This is where the ritual will be held, you are told.

THE RITUAL

There is not much time to regain your bearings before you are being shuffled forth towards the ritual space; no, all the waiting has already been done. Under the command of the smaller group of Achamites, the Hylicians will make heavy use of the whips in leading everyone to their places along the rune-inscribed circle. Before that, however, small cuts will be made to each prisoner with an athame, either on their hand or arm. With a sharp, burning sensation in the afflicted skin, these cuts will spread into wounds reflecting the image of one of the eleven sigils displayed on the thrones encircling the group, and matching the shrine they were originally pulled from.

With this accomplished, they can finally be taken into the circle. With a design comprised of four triangles overlapping, the design of an open eye carved at its center, all prisoners will be led to separates points on its design where the lines cross. Seemingly arranged by their shrine sigil to be closest to whatever throne represents them, they will be brought to their designated positions one by one. Any attempts to flee or disrupt the process will be dealt with swiftly and harshly, exacerbated by the increasing levels of paranoia and fear in the soldiers themselves. Whatever is being done here, they don't seem happy to involved with it either.

When everyone is in place, the seeming master of ceremonies will finally emerge. A dark haired woman will appear from the shadows, motes of golden light fluttering about her otherwise darkness-clad visage. Moving towards the center of the circle, she will stand over the marking of the eye and begin working her magicks. As if on cue, the soldiers will withdraw any remaining whips and scurry to the outside of the circle, only for new bonds of ethereal energy to lash out of the ritual circle itself, binding each and every prisoner and dragging them down to their knees. Among the soldiers, you can hear mutterings identifying this woman as "the Aion."

"Come," she says to the coterie of robed Achamites, who will approach the circle with an assortment of vials collected into cases. There is enough for each prisoner to be given a drink, and so they will; a vial of abyssal liquid will be forced into each one of your throats, no matter how uncomfortably it must be done. While no less ruthless, the Achamites have a different way about them as they work, forcing themselves upon you with a strange familiarity that feels more akin to a mother forcing their child to take medicine than the suspicious hostility of the soldiers. As the foul liquid touches your tongue, it takes on a consistency almost like a living thing, crawling down your throat even if you refuse to swallow, all while the Achamites stroke your hair and make saccharine assurances.

Once all the prisoners have been fed their vial, the Achamamites too will retreat from the circle - all except for one. Joining 'the Aion' at the center, the two of them will begin enacting a planned ceremony of sorts, that culminates in the following scene:

The Achamite kneels before the Aion, lifting their masked face to meet their dark gaze. They speak, in practiced tones.

"To the Kenoma my body, to the Kenoma my soul."

In response, the Aion holds the Achamite's face between their hands in almost a loving gesture. She speaks softly:

"By the blood of the Martyr, I accept your sacrifice."

From the Aion's hands a darkness spreads across the Achamite's body, as if they are melting and dissolving on a cellular level. She kneels along with them, cradling them as their body breaks down, pooling in a void-black liquid around their knees. It drains into the lines of the ritual circle, surging out towards the prisoners.

Within moments, the ritual is complete.

KENOMA SICKNESS

As this dark power surges throughout the ritual circle, you will find yourself almost consumed by the tide. Whatever foul creation you were forced to swallow wakes within your chest, and you can feel it move within your veins, inside you lungs, behind your eyes. As quickly as it begins, the flood of darkness washes over you, but not without leaving you stained.

Something has changed in its wake. As you return to your senses, you will notice the magical bonds of the circle have fallen away, leaving you free to move; for once, the soldiers will not move to lead or restrain you. Instead, the Hylicians warily back away from the ritual space, retreating towards the only path upwards, where they form a defensive line. The Achamites that linger make a series of ritual gestures, praying in voices too soft to hear. The Aion woman stands in the center, her hands blackened with residue from the person you just watched fall to pieces in her arms.

"You will be given time to find your truth," she says. "Use it well."

As you recover from the experience enough to stand, she and her Achamite entourage are already retreating to join the Hylician guard. Gradually, your situation will become clear: they intend to keep your trapped down here. However, it will not be the same as when you waited before. Instead, the soldiers simply intend to block your only exit out, and otherwise leave you free to roam the full diameter of the throne room, seemingly free to do whatever you want as long as it isn't trying to break free of the cavern's confines. Each day, they will offer to their prisoners a limit supply of food, water, and firewood, but nothing more. Beyond that, you only have your increasingly dirty white robes and the same bedrolls as before.

❖ COMMUNION
The first change you will experience is an itching darkness in your mind, like a psychic wound that is becoming infected. The sort of thoughts you would normally try to force down become increasingly hard to resist; despair, hatred, and fear will plague you, and requiring great feats of will to silence even temporarily. Phantoms of the things you'd rather forget will become a constant companion, all while a presence seems to whisper: when you accept your fate, the pain will stop.

Worse than this, the darkness of your mind may not remain private. As if awakened by the ritual, your empathetic sense has become impossibly strong, to the point that you feel the broadcasted emotions and thoughts of others, and in turn, your darkest thoughts will be psychically projected to others with a volume proportional to the intensity with which you feel them. This effect is most potent between those sharing Legacy, with the capacity for their identities to become momentarily confused. In all cases, this connection may bleed into your dreams, or manifest as hallucinations.

❖ TRANSFORMATION
Yet, your mind is not the only thing that ails. In proportion to the strength of your emotions, your body may begin changing to match your state of mind. Physical transformations akin to those mentioned here will begin to manifest, themed to your inner suffering and the most negative aspects of your self conception. These alterations may shift from moment to moment, depending on the turbulence of your emotional state. They may or may not be painful.

❖ AFFLICTION
Along with the above effects, characters may also experience various more mundane ailments; essentially anything traditionally associated with illness could fit. Weakness, nausea, body aches, and chills are all common options. Along with this, void-black ooze may start to trickle from virtually any orifice. While it may stain clothing and skin, the material itself will dissipate after a few minutes in a manner reminiscent of ectoplasm. This effect may also appear around your Shard, as if the stone itself has begun to bleed.

RESISTANCE

Even as the Kenoma threatens to overwhelm you, you still have the power to fight. Though it may be a grueling war of attrition, you can force back its advances with sufficient will to survive and resist the darkness. Of course, your captors are not going to make this easy for you. Those that fight hard enough to expel the Kenoma from their bodies and spirits will take at least a week to do so, and for that duration they will be trapped within this chilly cavern, haunted by their worst thoughts and emotions.

The bedrolls barely strand up against the cold, your clothing doesn't at all, and to be comfortable you'll require fire. Yet, there is a limited amount provided to you, along with food and water, and the soldiers do not seem to be making any effort to distribute it evenly. Achieving basic warmth and sustenance may become a battle against your fellow inmates, all while you struggle against the enemy infecting your body. Cracks in the dome of the cavern lead into some smaller caverns and crevasses in the stone that can offer some privacy or protection, but the more splintered the group becomes the less the supplies will hold up. Fortunately for you, neither the cold nor starvation will kill you, but it will make you suffer.

Yet, you may still persevere. As you fight back the Kenoma, something else will be cultivated in its place. Bit by bit, a comforting and warm presence will grow within you, gradually disrupting the maladies afflicting your body and mind. Your faith and perseverance has been rewarded with an attunement to the Pleroma, the Kenoma's cosmological opposite; given enough time, the Kenoma will be forced from your being entirely, in the form of void-black sludge. Only then will your power begin to shine through, the abilities of your past life slowly returning.

You must keep your guard. With or without otherworldly power, escape will be a struggle.

ACCEPTANCE

Or, you may choose the easy option. Maybe the Kenoma resonates with your history and emotions in a way that makes it seem like it isn't the enemy. Maybe the depths of your despair are too deep to escape. Maybe your simply lack the strength to fight. Whatever the reason, sooner or later, the Kenoma claims you. The more you let it in, the less it feels like a poison and the more it feels like strength. The darkness settles comfortably into the cracks and holes of your spirit, and you awaken to its power. You feel the change viscerally.

This world is not good enough, a voice seems to speak through the Kenoma. This suffering you feel, the cruelty that has birthed this darkness in you... it is simply the rot that is consuming this existence. A better universe awaits, one forged by your own hand, and all you need do is first bring about this broken reality's end.

Whatever effects you were suffering from the Kenoma's presence will fade away, and in its place, you will feel your endurance bolstered. The clarity is stark in comparison to the mire you were trapped in before. As the other prisoners suffer around you, the Aion woman from before and an accompaniment of a couple Hylician soldiers will approach you among the ruins, as if summoned straight to your location. She looks you over, her dark eyes impassive, and then asks:

"Did you feel it?"

She doesn't actually wait for an answer, your expression alone enough to assure her. She'll tell the soldiers that you are free to go, and that you are to be given a share of their food and a change of clothes. She'll escort you out of cavern and towards the upper ruins, where the soldiers and Achamites have set up camp. This feels natural to you, somehow, like you and her are on the same wavelength in a way that is hard to comprehend. She is like you, you sense. That dark power is within her as well.

She doesn't linger with you for long, but she will see that you are on your way before heading back to the caverns. She'll say that the voice you heard, that promise, was the Regent, the ruler of this land. They spoke of a power that could birth a new, better universe, and they weren't misleading you. It's within their reach, closer than ever, and if you help them achieve it you will be rewarded lavishly. For now, you are free to regain your strength while the others make their choices. She only asks that you stay in the area and be ready to join the Regent in Achamoth when all is prepared.

If you're prone to boredom, though, she will mention that you'd really be doing the prisoners a favor by convincing them to accept the Kenoma like you did. You could convince them with words, or by making their situations so unbearable they won't have a choice but to break. However you'd like. It won't be worse than what's coming for them if they carry on this way.

When she parts ways with you, you are left to your own devices. Somehow, you feel inclined to cooperate. After all, the Regent did have a point.

QUESTIONS

Are the involuntary transformations during the Kenoma sickness period temporary afflictions or permanent ones?
By default they are temporary, but characters can also keep a couple keepsake changes if you'd like! An Aion's physical appearance is something that is generally in flux, and so even if you keep something from this event, you can always alter it later.

What kind of supplies are going to be distributed to those who accept Kenoma and leave the caverns?
They'll be given food, water, and clothing. They'll be given more/better rations than they were as prisoners, but it's still the sort of food that is limited by the fact that they are out here on a mission. The soldiers will have some fresh meat from prey they've been hunting in the forest, and will generally be having a lot of stew-based food going. There are actual spices in it, though, so that's cool. This is all set up where the Hylicians are camping.

As for clothes, they will get a fresh set (including boots or shoes) and some soap to clean themselves up in the nearby creeks and ponds. Hylici has an aesthetic that leans towards ancient Greek/Roman, so while they won't have anything fancy with them, you are free to assume they are able to acquire anything in that general ballpark. They do also have pants, though. While it is now spring and Horos has a generally temperate climate, it can be chilly at night.

Will Pleroma attuned be able to escape once they've regained their powers?
Yes, they will be allowed to escape at that point, and a second log will be going up to cover that part of the event. This log should generally cover up until shortly after Pleroma start ejecting the Kenoma's influence. Characters are permitted to escape by their own power if they somehow devise a plan to do so, but as we know the Pleromas are at a significant disadvantage in this situation, some characters who have fought against the Kenoma particularly valiantly will be given some magical assistance to help the survivors escape.

Will the Kenomas be able to try to stop them?
Yes! The second log will be set up to contain some PVP, though given the Pleromas do need to escape, we ask that you play nice. There will be a battle, but it will be structured in the context of the Pleromas having to hold off the Kenomas long enough to escape, so it will be relatively brief.

Can we speak to "the Aion"?
Yes, she will be around for the full length of the event. All characters will have the chance to find her watching over the group whether they are Kenomas or soon to be Pleromas. She will not be that talkative, though, so anyone tagging her will have to lead the conversation. She will not make small talk. Martyrs will recognize her as one of them.

Comments

permadepressed 😔 martyr 🙏 gang 🤝

[expiera]

[It's truly a sickness in every sense of the word, isn't it? The way he seems to almost struggle with the shallow breaths he takes, the glistening of sweat at his brow visible even by the low lights of the cavern. His forehead felt hot when she briefly brushed her fingers against it to lay out the cloth, and she doesn't need to touch his hand to chance a guess that they must be ice cold.

Beyond that, beneath that, is a needle keen awareness of how they differ like night and day, despite how familiar and truly personal his pain felt. It goes beyond instinct, this inexplicable certainty that whatever that's ailing him now, whatever he's struggling so terribly hard against, it's inside her too; it's already been made part of her, unlike him who's still fighting on his own. She's accepted it without thought, the averse effects barely even had a chance to take hold. She has her own reasons.

...]

Please. Don't strain yourself.

[The voice is soft, female. She doesn't say more. So much for staying quiet. She dips her head slightly, and the hood falls lower. He's not going to see her face like this.

...]

Do you want water?

[If he may be cognizant enough to understand her...]

😩 gang gang gang 😩

[salvageable]

[ Another hallucination? His heart is pained by the thought. If only they were real and could actually do as they wanted. He'd barely been able to go through the motions when he'd become aware that the reason for the suffering of every single person he's ever loved had all been his fault, but to be constantly reminded of it now swallows him deeper and deeper into a darkness that he doesn't think he can draw himself out of.

I have to.

But he has to. It's like a different voice this time, and Dokja's eyes slip back shut. He's at war with himself and it drains him of his energy, has him feeling every single ache and sore that threatens to pull his body apart if he so much as moves.

... Water, she had said. And it reminds him of how dry his mouth feels, how heavy his tongue sits.

All he can do is manage a small nod in response. ]

[expiera]

[His self-blame washes over her like a muddy wave. She doesn't need to visually confirm a certain matching mark on his skin to get the impression that this sort of link is unusual, intensely so. Why...? What a silly question. 'They' deserve every chastisement, every stoning, every accusation. It's simply another piece to carry on, like all the rest before it. But right here, right now, in this dimly lit corner of a cavern in a world so far separate from their own, there's only him, and only her. So whether the reason is selfish or altruistic, whether the justification is righteous or dishonest, whether one has chosen shadow or light...

None of that matters, for someone to simply do what they can.

Nothing more is asked of him. Gingerly and with utmost care, something comes to support the back of his head, then slowly tilts him upward until he's elevated enough to accept a drink. A wooden cup is brought to his lips once he's sufficiently steadied, all he needs to do is open his mouth a little. The hooded figure is right by him, now; what's behind his head cushioning him up, anyway? Definitely not hard enough to be rocks, but maybe he should just not bother with trifling details and focus on the pool of cold liquid beneath the dry cracks of his upper lip instead. Tasteless and fluid, it's really just water, nothing less and nothing more.

He'll have as much help as he may need to gulp it down at his pace, just as he's already helped in being propped up enough to make that possible. The damp and cool pressure at his forehead isn't slipping either, despite the elevation. Just... take it slow, okay? He was politely asked to not strain himself.]

[salvageable]

[ When was the last time he had been treated like a helpless child? Maybe when... he had been an actual child, and even then he had been a child for only a short time before the world had forced him to grow up too quickly. After that, he'd had to do everything on his own. Alone, as always. The way his father had intended for him to be.

And then it had just become ingrained in him to never accept any help.

It's a different story now as he feels the cup against his lips. He can barely move, can't even think with how much pain he's in as the sickness tears through him and infects every part of him. If he had the energy to be self-loathing about his current position, it would simply end up lost in the great pile of his many other issues, but as it stands, he's in too delirious of a state to do much more than complacently part his lips to let the water trickle through. It feels like relief as it wets the inside of his dry mouth and he tries to ignore how much effort it takes for him to swallow that first gulp.

He struggles as he takes another, and then turns his head away, refusing any more. That simple action of just drinking water has sapped more from him than he'd thought possible, though when next he opens his eyes, there's a hint of clarity there. ]

... Thanks, [ he croaks out the word, remembering, at the very least, to be polite. ]

[expiera]

[Geez. Sick people shouldn't be thinking, period. Not that there was any protocol in how to act when you feel like absolute lower-than-gutter garbage, but what he would otherwise drown himself in doesn't have to be distinct for her to feel it radiating off him like a viral wave. Is it because she can empathize? Or is it because she's already accepted "that" in herself? Suppose it's a small blessing, that they weren't under strict orders to convert through any means necessary. It was presented to them as a suggestion, to pass the time, if they will.

Yet without the intention of even trying, she finds herself down here again in this den of misery. A bit masochistic, perhaps. Offering water isn't much, but she's not advertising herself openly. She's also using water she drew from the nearby creek personally, so it's not like she's misusing the resources that the soldiers have been compiling. Excuse after excuse, is it...

He didn't manage to get down much, but a few gulps is a start. Withdrawing the cup once he shifts his head, it's put aside to rest on the ground with a soft thud.]

Mm.

[A soft hum of acknowledgement, and nothing more. The damp cloth is slightly readjusted on his forehead, and his head is laid back down to rest on something far too soft to be the stone floor, but also too firm to be...

... (?)

The cloaked figure is right beside him, maybe peering down at him from the cover of their hood that's more or less effectively hidden their face entirely. Just focus on himself; he's in no shape to exert himself, no need to think too hard about his surroundings, hm?]

[salvageable]

[ Incredible how such a small bit of relief weakens his morale so considerably. He desperately wants to chase after the rest of what's being dangled in front of him, convictions be damned, and the voices seem to grow louder and heavier the more he wavers. They pull at him from all sides, overlapping one another as they push and shove for their turn.

He's going crazy. He's going to lose his mind. There's no familiar wall to protect his fragile mind here, and his heart trembles with fear. Would it be so bad? He wonders as the fog returns over his eyes, though he fixes them now on the stranger beside him.

The hood shadows and obscures their features, but Dokja remains steadfast as he stares and stares. The voices nag and yank at him, bury themselves into his skin, but even so, he searches.

It's suspicion now that causes his breathing to grow harsh, and he clings to the shred of clarity he'd been given to try and drive the voices back. ]

You're... [ His voice fades for a moment, loses its strength as he draws his conclusions. ] You're one of them.

[ Is it anger now that lights his words? His expression certainly darkens once he makes his accusation, but the low simmering fury does more for him than he realizes. ]

[expiera]

[He can make out strands of deep ultramarine blue swaying slightly out of the hood's frame, but just barely; whoever it is has short bangs, it would seem.

His accusation draws no reactions. The figure vying for his attention against his own demons remains still, perhaps too calm even, in sheer contrast to the cacophonous mess inside his own head.]

What I am doesn't matter. Focus on who you are.

[The good, the bad, and everything in-between. He's still hanging on despite how weak and feverish this affliction has rendered him, and for what? Not nothing, surely? If he can distinguish himself from within that black and chaotic sea of wailing ghosts, then perhaps... Perhaps, he will be one step closer to what he truly wishes for, who he wants to be.]

[salvageable]

[ It's questions that now push back the debilitating voices in his head. Who is this stranger? Why is she doing this? He can't come up with any reason other than an attempt to speed up the process of the sickness.

He's never been good at reading people, even more so with the current state of his mind. ]

I know who I am, [ he rasps weakly, though a new steadiness comes over him. ] So you can tell your friends I won't be joining them.

[ Faced with an adversary he can now see in front of him, Dokja grows bolder. He's reminded of what his struggles have been for, what struggles he has yet to come across. It's the promise of returning to what he loves most, not for himself, but for the sake of making sure it exists.

He doesn't have the luxury of giving up here when he has thousands upon thousands of years left to still atone for. ]

[expiera]

[He knows who he is, he says. All she can do is take him at his word. It's not her place to question him, just as it isn't her place to make this choice for anyone else but herself.]

Can you finish the water? You should stay hydrated.

[Her tone remains impassive. It may qualify as deflection, but she truthfully has nothing to say to his retort. Friends? What friends? Having made the same choice as a good number of others may give them something in common, but that was all there was to it.]

[salvageable]

[ His suspicions grow more and more restless. It would be better if he could see her expression, but he still can't make her out just yet. All he can do is painfully draw each breath and try not to fall back into the waiting arms of despair.

He shakes his head at the offer of water, wanting to be difficult but also not trusting himself to keep it down if he takes in more.

Once again his vision swims and blurs, but he desperately holds on to consciousness. The voices that had never left grow persistent and he squeezes his eyes shut as he fights them off.

An endless battle. ]

... Leave me alone.

[expiera]

[He's slipping again, flickering, fading in and out.

...

Logically, she knows she shouldn't. There's nothing to be gained here for either of them. She may not be looking for something like that to begin with, but it wouldn't be fair to impose on a man incapable of resisting in such deplorable condition.

But life is often unfair, as they both know.

Thus he'll feel a light pressure on his wrist, almost a squeeze but not quite. The hold is warm and gentle, in contrast to his cold and clammy hand. He can pull away if he wants, if he has the strength to, but it would seem that for now, he's almost got his hand held.]

You would not be alone even if I leave. If you can tell what I am, then you may curse me over the alternatives. [Over cursing himself, over letting himself be cursed.

Until this abates, she'll stay. It's not like he has the strength to roll off her lap, anyway.]

[salvageable]

[ The disorientation that had been held at bay is quick to descend on him once more, and he loses himself to it for a moment, head briefly going back under before he sputters and breaks through the surface with a gasp.

He hates this. It feels never-ending.

But then his self-loathing stumbles at the pressure against his wrist, too light to for him to be assured of what it means. Even so, it's a sharp contrast to the pain wracking his body and...

He won't say it's a comfort. ]

Why are you doing this?

[ There's no reason to, he knows this for a certainty. His suspicion can't help but bleed away to confusion, his eyebrows drawing together as he continues staring as if the reason will show itself eventually. ]

[expiera]

[Why bother asking if there's no answer she could possibly give that he'd find satisfactory? It would be a rhetorical but valid question to ask, were the circumstances even slightly different. As they are now, however, bold as it may be of her to assume, maybe the mere sound of her voice would matter more than any word she could form in response.

Still, he did ask, and it would be impolite to stay quiet.]

I'm no good at preaching those things.

[It's a simple truth. She can say quite a lot if she puts her mind to it, but this is something for everyone to handle their own way. They just don't necessarily have to be by themselves, they can choose their own fate without being alone. ...That was all.]

[salvageable]

[ So he's not going to get a straight answer. He can't exactly say he's surprised by that, but the frown on his face is enough to relay his disappointment.

He finally turns away, no longer searching the face above his.

Whatever. She must have her justifications, and Dokja's in no state to pursue what they may be. Let her watch and see if he sinks or swims as guilt continues to consume him, as thousands upon thousands of years of solitude remind him of his loneliness.

It's only his ragged breathing that breaks the still silence between them. ]

[expiera]

[Then she will continue to maintain silent vigil, until his consciousness fades again or once he's regained enough strength to actually move for himself. The former seems far more likely, and while what nightmares await him would no doubt remain unpleasant, there's at least more than just ghosts at his side, this time.

She'll not deny to have considered it, 'forcing' sleep on him; his body does need the rest, even if his mind won't be freed whether he's asleep or awake. But considering the gulf that separates them, and recalling the brief glint in his eyes when he made an attempt to look at her...

...

She'll stay as she is, especially if he will too. Just put up with it for now, it can't be helped.

...

Once he does eventually fall asleep, the next time he wakes, the only company he'll find would be that of a small cluster of berries. Wrapped in a damp cloth the size of a handkerchief and carefully tucked to be almost hidden at his side, they do appear to be ripe and fresh, he could use the ripped cloth to wipe his face and hands too if he'd like. There's no trace of anyone else having been there at all.

"Let sleeping dogs lie", was that how the saying went?]