Floating,cold, why was it so damn cold, and I’m falling, why am I falling… Thoughts seemed to run together, and no matter how hard she tried, Bryn couldn’t see a damn thing. She couldn’t focus on anything for too long, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything. It was all so confusing, so out of place, so oddly intoxicating. Because she didn’t have to do anything, be anything, feel anything. She could just exist, or not exist, or something in-between those things. She didn’t have to shoot things or run after things or fight things. Except something was nagging at her, something in the back of her head saying that she had things to do, and places to see, and people to (irritate) help. And, as if in tune with her thoughts, something appeared in the distance. A light, a piercing, warm light. Bryn couldn’t help but flinch at first. It was cold, so cold, so dark, and the light was so bright, so warm. It hurt, everything hurt, and suddenly she could feel again, why could she feel again? She opened her mouth to say something, do something, but nothing came out and she screamed silence as the bright white light filled her vision…
Bryn opened her eyes slowly, not daring to look at any particular object. Focusing on something took too much effort right now, and although she wanted to try to sit up or do something, everything ached. Her eyes glowed an eerie bloody red-orange, a color normally reserved for when she was beyond angry. Upon hearing the news of Burningwood’s escape, they shone with even greater vigor. And as Stalar left her alone in the room, she didn’t even bother to reign in her emotions. Not that it mattered. She was still too sore to actually do anything. But in the following days, once she was recovered, her room was left in tatters. The archery targets were torn, and many sparring dummies had dagger wounds riddling them.
Speaking wasn’t essential, that much was something Bryn found out first hand. She let her eyes and her actions do most of the talking, and when she needed words, she wrote. But usually her eyes were enough. Because she still didn’t bother to take control of the light emitting from them. There was a blood red tinge to every other shade now, a sign of her undying anger. At the situation, at Burningwood, at her family for kicking her out all those years ago. At everything. But, more often than not, at a target who was there. At Nergal. Bryn did nothing to make his life easier, always keeping at least one eye on him when he was around. She didn’t trust him. Not in the slightest. And she didn’t need to. Because the others were more than happy to do that for her apparently. Her irritation at the situation grew, and eventually she limited herself to a few areas: the market, the barracks, her room, and the library. Because there was still that damn book to translate. And as much as she wanted to do it on her own, she knew she would need Stalar’s help. Not that she’d ask. Not while she was in this mood. Instead she left him the words she had translated (in common of course. She didn’t know any of that fancy elvish script) with a note attached: translate. Not a question, but a command. Granted, one that she knew would probably be done anyway, but that didn’t change a thing. Not really. Nothing that hadn’t been changed anyway.
Thoughts continued to plague her, continued to bounce around whenever she was idle. It was unnerving. Sure, Bryn was used to thinking at all times, at analyzing or joking or doing something, but this... this was different. This was like something else had wormed its way into her brain. Something that whispered dark thoughts as she watched everyone go about their lives. Something that fed on her hatred of Nergal, that told her she had been replaced by the demon-spawn himself. And it irritated her. It pushed at her and pulled her until it was all she thought about when she wasn't already occupied. So, rather than dwell, she occupied herself with fighting, with puzzle solving, with anything to stop the damned thoughts from going again. At least in the eternal silence of death she had been at peace. And, as she sharpened her dagger for another rounds of sparring with dummies, she cursed Stalar from bringing her back, and cursed the gods for the destiny she hadn't had a chance to make for herself, the one that had been picked for her.
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