[Main Chapter] Revelations

[Raksha]

25th Dentis, 2719
THE HOW | LATE NIGHT

Following on from hereShow

viewtopic.php?f=15&t=1648

The way to the How was lantern lit, tonight, as it always was. The blue lanterns were the pathway, Ginny herself had picked it. It was her favorite blue, and something about the cooler lighting made the underground tunnels seem far less dank and depressing.

A hard achievement given the heaviness of all hearts at this time.

If asked, any who came to the Book and Bell looking for Alyssa would be guided through the complex lantern lit catacombs till they broke into the How. A different landscape would greet them however, to the one usually filled with people preparing to hear the words of their leader. Tables were set up, some with munitions and others with guns. Or more precisely, parts of guns. Since meeting with Aodh and agreeing to build an army under the noses of the galdori, Alyssa had worked to get her hands on as many guns or gun-parts as she could. They had a man on the inside who owned a forge, and he had been quietly hammering out parts to be smuggled into the How under the guise of the Book and Bell’s weekly brewing shipment.

Of course, having guns and gun parts was only one part of the plan. The other part was teaching people how to make the guns, and of course, how to use them. The first part of that was learning how to care for them of course, because a dirty gun was an unsafe gun.

“We need to create a spark to light the gunpowder, which we put in the barrel of the gun. This spark comes the same way that we light a fire with iron and flint. So the basic needs of shooting are, flint, iron, gunpowder and space.” Alyssa said as she stood at the head of a table, with a group of men and women watching her carefully, pieces of a flintlock before her. Gesturing, blue eyes hard and brow drawn, commanding their attention.

“You can see the four parts that make this happen here. Hammer. Mainspring. Frizzen. Pan.” Gesturing to each piece as she said the name, the Wisp moved to pick up a complete pistol, pointing at the pieces again where they were connected together.

“Of course these pieces don’t move on their own, so they are connected via the tumbler, sear and sear spring, frizzen spring and mainspring. The mainspring presses here see, against the tumbler and is able to rotate the hammer. The sear engages the tumbler when the gun is cocked and holds the force of the mainspring.” She cocked the pistol slowly, with a satisfying click.

“When you pull the trigger, it pushes the sear enough to release the tumbler and allows the hammer to drive the flint forward.” She cocked the pistol slowly, with a satisfying click, lifting it to point at the ground and pull the trigger. A loud snap sounded in the high roofed room, as the unloaded pistol false fired.

“There you have it.” Alyssa said simply, putting the pistol down on the table and pushing it towards the students.

“I’ve been told each of you have some sort of engineering or smithing background. I want to see you build this,” She pointed to the gun.

“From these.” Gesturing at the parts, the assassin nodded, before turning her back on the class.

“Wisp, can you look over the plans for the eastern tunnels? We’re proposing cots to sleep some of the folks that came in from Brayde and Muffey.” An older man with burns across his chin and cheek approached her with pages of parchment, handing them to the brunette for her review. The woman took the papers, her frown permanently set on her face. Not in anger, but in constant thought. Ever since they’d started this endevour it felt like every clocking face across Anaxas had come knocking, looking to lend skills or services. And honestly, Alyssa couldn’t say no. They were all so passionate, hearing of Jon’s death—

Her heart skipped a beat at the memory, still not able to truly accept it.

But she had to, because they were depending on her.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the How

late night on the 25th of Dentis, 2719

It'd been a long year, an' if anyone'd asked Emiel if he thought he'd be back in Vienda in the same month he'd watched his brother hang as a scapegoat for riots everyone an' their second cousin knew weren't even part of the Resistance's plans, he'd 've laughed in their faces and probably called them a moony ersehole. But, well, here he was.

The same day Ro died, somethin' hot and bright sparked to life in Em's chest an' he didn't know how to put it out. There hadn't been enough to drink. There hadn't been enough work to do. There hadn't been enough pretty faces to distract him. Naggin' there, somewhere inside where he couldn't reach, was a discomfort he'd always felt but never knew how to deal with, never knew quite how to name.

Dissatisfaction. Discontent. Disillusionment.

Success as a tsat tasted like too much hops in the brew, honestly—so very bitter.

Takin' Ro's place hadn't really been a decision that required as much thought as it had convincin'—turned out the Resistance didn't jus' take anyone with a grudge against the status quo. Who knew, really? Sure, Em 'd done plenty of information exchange from the outside, always keeping clear of any real commitment to the so-called cause all while his eldest sibling 'd made the choice ages ago, only to pay for it with his life. That, perhaps, should've been enough to convince Emiel to duck his head down and get on with less dangerous livin' as it were instead of stick his neck out an' risk the same, but, after that hangin'? After hearin' that Serro'd died? Well, he didn't think he had anythin' else to lose. He'd lost enough—

He just had himself left to give, really, an' it only took a bit of conversation to volunteer more than just his popular, listening ear. Runnin' a pub in Brunnhold had its advantages, both socially and logistically, and while it were easy to pick up on gossip, Em thought to see what kind of other goods an' services he could become an in-between for. Admittedly, he'd not expected it to be firearms.

Having all the legal paperwork, all the writs and permissions, all the brewery contacts, and at least one regular supplier in Vienda helped grease the wheels, in the end, and while it hadn't always been his responsibility to travel back and forth (he still didn't want to be away from the Badger more than necessary, but there were other cadets for the footwork). He'd made the trip this time because he'd been asked, personally, an' one just couldn't refuse such things no matter how loath the purple-haired wick was to find himself driving a kenser-led cart laden with beer kegs and bourbon barrels and various crates that would've held alcohol had they not all been empty through the streets of the Dives on a Dentis evening.

The lights were helpful, even if he pulled the cart 'round back as if he was makin' a delivery and began to unpack empty barrels that other hands took not into the cellar but lower still, leading Emiel with them. He weren't an engineer, and he admittedly had no idea how to make everything work. It wasn't his qalqa to come up with the specifics, though, so much as to provide the cover.

Fair 'nough.

Everyone was so quiet and focused, which was strange for the barkeep used to the noise and chatter of a bar, and by the time they'd made it through all the catacombs with barrels, boxes, and crates, it was almost a relief to hear voices. Strangely feelin' out of place among a bunch of bodies so hard at work, his amber eyes took in the faces of folks he didn't know and firearms he'd never seen up close, hefting the wooden crate marked with the hot-iron brand of a Bastian winery, false-bottomed and currently just full of hay. He'd picked it all up from a carpenter in the Stacks an' asked no questions. The Seventen'd seen his papers an' not even bothered to open a single cask—though not all of 'em were false, of course.

Emiel all but dropped the thing at the gunfire, even if it wasn't even close to the real thing, the two young wicks who'd helped him with some of the example containers in his cart smirking and chuckling at him as if they'd never been afraid of anything in their life. He rolled his amber eyes and let them lead him toward the folks gathered around weaponry in order to let Alyssa know Wren'd arrived—

Godsdamn Rohan, pickin' the poetic names. Em, who'd taken on the same secretive codename after his brother'd been buried still hadn't figured out the most likely obscure, literary reference, but he would! Hopefully. Eventually.

For now, the purple-haired wick put on his most serious face and waited his turn.

[Ava Weaver]

Late Night, 25 Dentis, 2719
The How

Ava came.

Now, more than ever, she told herself, caution mattered. They bundled the fabric back into place, hidden openly amidst all the rest. She had bid farewell to Tobias with an easy smile crinkling her face, as if he were the errand boy whose part he played so well, the childish look on his face undaunted.

She had moved through the day as if watching herself; she smiled and laughed, sold cloth and counted coins, and made no effort to chide Grais along out of the shop, even when it was only the two of them. They worked until every last bit of it was done, and Ava saw Grais off with a smile and a wave of her hand, watched the girl make her way down the open street.

Even then she did not rush. She knew better, though she could not sustain the smile, though her heart beat in her chest and with every pump the news flowed through her, beat in her veins.

Jon alive. Azmus knows.

Ava waited. Not in the window, not pacing, not where she might be seen, but sitting still and utterly silent on the edge of her bed. In time she lifted a hand to stroke the head of the small gray cat, when he came and nestled himself behind her. He purred.

Ava smiled, slowly, then, and it was not Ava’s smile at all.

When it was dark - not so dark that to be seen leaving would invite controversy, but dark enough that she was ulikely to be seen, Ava changed her dress to something dark, a plainer serviceable wool, which would not attract much in the way of attention. She wrapped a headband around her wrist, and painted smooth her eyeliner and lipstick.

She drew up the hood of her cloak, and she went - out the front door, silent-slippered down the streets beyond, prepared to smile if need be. She was lucky, tonight; she saw no one.Not too distant she pulled the hood off, and tucked her hair back with the headband, settling it in place as she never wore it during the day, letting her long curls be tamed down her back.

Still Ava did not walk quickly. She walked as she had seen so many women walk - as she herself had walked so many times - on feet such ached from standing, with shoulders bowed, slightly, under the weight of the day.

Even in the Book and the Bell she did not let the posture slip, not until Ginny had beckoned her down, and she followed the blue lanterns down into the How.

Ava shook her hood back, and eased the band down, once more; her eyes were black-limned still, her lips painted red, and her hair fell free over her shoulders again. She slowed her walk at the sound of gunfire; the choice of their audience was the Wisp’s, and not hers. She did not let her hurry be seen; she knew better.

Ava came into the chamber, making her way around the tables loaded with parts, around the men and the handful of women passing parts between tired, calluses hands, life and purpose bright in their eyes.

There were others waiting, among them a purple haired wick; Ava smiled at them, and at Tinder, who stood with papers in hand before them, an easy, friendly sort of smile, and did not wait.

Jon alive. Azmus knows.

It beat through her with every pounding of her heart; it chased in her every breath, and poured itself, furious and hot, into the fire which burned at her core.

“Wisp,” Ava said, quietly, her voice low and urgent. She let a little pressure linger in it, an intensity which shone in her dark eyes as she looked at the other woman. She had never known what passed between her and Jon; she had never known the truth of their mission to the Rose, until Jon told them all, and she still did not know what about it had struck Alyssa so. She would never ask.

“I need to speak with you,” Ava said, her tone light and even, her face smiling, and her eyes had as rocks, glinting like diamonds. “If you have a moment?” She let her voice lift up, gently, even as one hand settled on the Wisp’s arm and pressed, the slightest squeeze before she withdrew it.

[Raksha]

25th Dentis, 2719
THE HOW | LATE NIGHT

Tobias saw the woman when she entered the How. He couldn’t not see her, he’d been watching all night, one leg bouncing and thumb nail in between his teeth. It was the only nail he had left, all others bitten down to the skin. His codebook felt like it was burning a hole in his jacket, as he sat in his little corner of the How with his notes, pencils and a small desk and cot.

He saw her, and almost leapt to his feet, walking as fast as he could through the people. He moved between wicks and humans to stand at the table, peering over the top past the pieces of guns to Silk as she approached Alyssa. His ears strained, so hard, to hear.

“Wisp,”

The brunette assassin looked up from her papers, brow drawn as her gaze met Ava’s. She remembered her, from the Harbor, the whirlwind rescue of the young woman that Jon had been so hellbent on finding. Emelia. Her niece. The only people who knew, were those who bothered to pay enough attention to Jon’s tale. Frances Pierre, her twin sister. Only a few of the old folk remembered her.

And Emelia knew her not at all.

“I need to speak with you, if you have a moment?”

Alyssa felt the hand on her arm, though she didn’t look at it, reading Silk's face carefully as they stood there with all the casualness of two co-workers going about their evening. Blinking, the Wisp looked back at the papers, before handing them to Tinder with a nod.

“This seems fair, though you’ll need to brace the roof before you put people in. The cave in that occurred in the north sector could have been deadly if we’d had people in there. Let’s not allow that to be a possible risk. Talk to the laborers that came in from Fennecky last night. Their man, the big fellow with the mutton chops, he’s worked in the Northern Tor mines before. He knows how to brace the roof.” The scarred man nodded curtly, before turning on his heel to leave the two women to their business. Alyssa watched him go, before glancing at the purple haired wick who was approaching, one finger beckoning him over.

“Purple. One of my favorite colors. Look, sorry to do this to you without actually meeting you yet, but consider it a test mission. I urgently need to speak with a young man here in the How, but I don’t want to yell for him. That would just be a beacon for everyone in this place, and our discussion will be a bit sensitive. Young boys, I’m sure you know what that’s like.” She smiled, as though implying every single thing every young teenage boy—including Emiel—has ever done in what they thought was private.

“He’s just over there by the table, short fellow. Name is Tobias. Could you possibly grab him for me whilst I speak with Silk here? Bring him over, and we’ll do a proper introduction.” Waiting till the wick moved, Alyssa turned her blue gaze firmly on Ava.

“We have seconds before they come back. Quickly now, what is it?” It was clear that the young man hadn’t spoken to her, as promised, and Alyssa hadn’t asked. She had however, noticed him watching her all the time he was back, like he half expected her to shiv him. There was curiosity, but Alyssa bide her time. The job had been specific, asking for the best, but it didn’t mean it was relevant to her. She’d expected that if it was important, one of them would tell her eventually.

And now seemed to be that eventuality.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the How

late night on the 25th of Dentis, 2719

His turn were clearly last, an' Em weren't sure if he was alright with bein' second-rate barley from outside Dorhaven instead of Brayde County where the proper spitch were grown or if somethin' about bein' shoved aside by clearly more important folk left too much sour on his tongue. This whole thing were supposed to be about equality an' opportunity, after all, an' here he was luggin' barrels, watchin' strangers weave their way past him like he were back in the Stacks in the way of some golly students on the godsbedamned street. The feelin' were similar an' he didn't like it—bitin' his lip where his gold ring would've been had he not taken it out along with the rest of his piercin's like he always did, dressin' down as Wren instead of dressin' up to tend his bar back home.

He set his crate down an' leaned on it when someone else brushed passed him like she had a priority he didn't understand, ne so cautious to cover his foe'd hair here in Vienda, far 'nough from home that he didn't feel he needed to. He weren't known here; students might've known his name back home, but here? Here he weren't nobody important, which were jus' as it should be. Wicks came an' went here, ne quite like in the smaller, less nomad-filled ol' fortress city of Brunnhold. His amber eyes took in all the weapons, all the busy bodies, readin' the room, learnin' the crowd like he would in the Singing Badger.

But the woman—Wisp, he'd gathered over the past few months—looked up at him anyway and he blinked. Wren didn't pick up his crate again, leaning away from it at the beckoning of her finger. Test mission—young boys—she grasped at humor for his sake and his face didn't twitch into even the hint of a smile,

"Who? Oes. I can do that." Wren followed her glance to spot the young creature in question—Tobias—and nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets as if he needed something to do with them, missing the familiar weight of rings he was otherwise used to. The purple-haired wick made his way past other strangers, trying not to commit their faces to memory like he would at the bar, and paused across the table from the boy.

A bright glance skated over the guns and gun parts spread out as if they were on some kind of museum display. One hand slipped from his pocket and he thumbed his nose, offering Tobias a smirk, "I'm Wren an' I'm the ne so lil' bird sent to let you know some folks over there want you for conversation."

It seemed easy enough, and he hooked a thumb over his shoulder just briefly for emphasis before he tossed his violet hair and turned to lead the way back, quite sure the young thing would follow.

[Ava Weaver]

Late Night, 25 Dentis, 2719
The How

Ava smiled at Tinder, apologetically; she didn’t know the man well, but she schooled her face to politeness, and let her smile say how sorry she was. The wick hadn’t acknowledged her smile; she looked at him and smiled again, when the Wisp sent him away, politely and apologetically. He didn’t look at her this time either, his curious eyes lingering on Alyssa.

Tobias had been straining ever since she walked in; Ava had seen his gaze on her. He was at the table now, staring intently at the cluster of them. She had cautioned him to silence; this was Alyssa’s news, and it was her choice whether to keep it to her chest or shout it out. Ava didn’t dare make it public; her job was to pass it along. Nothing, Ava knew, might come of it; the information might be wrong, although with the care and secrecy and the cost of its sending, she didn’t believe so. It might be too late, already; there might be nothing they could do with the knowing.

But they knew, now: she and Tobias knew. Alyssa would too, so long as Ava could keep it all contained inside herself just a moment longer. One moment, and then the next.

Ava breathed evenly, in and out. She let nothing show on her face; her eyes had been soft and friendly once more when she turned away from Wisp, and it took all her control to keep them that way. Fire was racing through her, burning in her veins, all the grief and rage of the last weeks boiling up once more. The wick with the purple hair agreed to Alyssa’s request and turned away.

“It’s just about the shipment,” Ava said, smiling, her face still public smooth. A moment, she thought, only a moment. They had privacy enough not to be overhead, but they could be seen, and Ava knew resistance members enough who could read lips.

Ava shifted towards the Wisp, as if fidgeting a little in her heeled boots; she turned her head, too, ever so slightly, so the fall of her black curls tumbled between her face and the room, enough to hide the set of her lips. “The message read: Jon alive. Azmus knows.” Ava said, meeting Alyssa’s gaze and holding it. Seven words; just seven words. She could count them back in her head.

For a moment, it could have been only the two of them. Would that she could have done this in private, Ava thought, but she didn’t think Alyssa had much privacy, these days, and what little she had she would sorely need. She had never asked – never would asked – what had passed between them, towards the end.

Perhaps, Ava thought, the faintest flicker of hope beginning to alight inside her: perhaps it hadn’t been the end, after all.

[Raksha]

25th Dentis, 2719
THE HOW | LATE NIGHT

As the purple haired wick moved to collect Tobias before the boy stared a hole in them, Alyssa crossed her arms and leaned a little closer. The seamstress was so good at her job, the secrecy in her movements, the tilt of her head to allow a curl of hair across her face. The Wisp couldn’t help but let one brow jump in approval.
​​
​​Jon alive. Azmus knows.
​​
​​Alyssa felt her heart stop in her chest, her breath catch in her throat. Her brow was drawn into a deep frown, blue eyes fixated on Ava as though she had just announced the Gods were walking the streets of Vienda. It took too long to find her voice, the assassin searching the other woman's face for a sign of confusion or of unsurity. Instead, she saw the smallest flicker of something else.
​​
​​Hope.
​​
​​As Emeil introduced himself, Tobias stared up at him with the wide eyes of the cat caught in the cream, fingers gripping the table tightly.
​​
​​ “M-me? Me. Of course me. Them. Okay. Finally!” The teenager sighed with relief, moving quickly to catch up with the wick and speaking in a low hiss.
​​
​​ “Jon alive, I couldn't believe my eyes! I’ve been quiet, like I were told, but it’s been eatin’ me up Mister Wren. I’m just a code breaker, not a soldier. Look at me!” He laughed, gesturing to himself, as they reached the two women. His eyes shifted to Ava with a smile, then to Alyssa as the brunette ran a hand over her mouth and looked at Tobias. Only then, did he realise that the only people that had known up to now were still himself and Ava.
​​
​​Oh bollocks.
​​
​​Wide eyes brimmed with tears, and he stared at Ava.
​​
​​ “I thought Mister Wren knew!” Was all he managed to squeak, before Alyssa moved rapidly to kneel before the young man, grasping his shoulders firmly.
​​
​​ “Is it true Tobias? You’re sure it’s not a mistake?” She hissed, holding his gaze with an icy stare. The short statutured human nodded slowly, blinking to clear his eyes. The woman stood again, rubbing her forehead hard, other hand on her hip. She couldn’t think straight. They stood there in silence for a moment, the world around them unaware of these private moments. Tobias looked at Ava with a shake of his head, a silent apology of a terrified teenager.
​​
​​ “Silk. Thankyou. You've done more than you could know. Thankyou for your discretion.” Her voice was uncharacteristically shaky, and it seemed to frustrate her. Inhaling deeply, the current leader of the Resistance lifted her head and pinned Emeil with a look, offer him a frown.
​​
​​ “Wren? Forgive me, but you aren't The Wren I knew, so let’s get some introductions underway before we continue this discussion, given you’re now privy to this whole situation.” Her hand are her hip twitched, as though Emeil’s next words would need to be very clear on why he was sporting the code name of a deceased Freedom Fighter.
​​
​​ “Alyssa Pierre.” She said by way of her own introduction, clear she was not interested in code at this particular moment in time.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the How

late night on the 25th of Dentis, 2719

Emiel stopped walkin'. He stared for several awkward heartbeats, watchin' the youth gesture wildly, lettin' his words sink in the Grenadine sank to the very bottom of any mixed drink, red an' thick an' full 'f sugary sweetness that surely had to be too clockin' good to be true.

"He—whatnow?" There weren't a ring through his lip, ne while he wore his Wren cap, ne when he put on this sorta persona he weren't sure he knew quite what to do with, but he bit where the hole was, flashes of amber bright an' wide.

Were he s'posed to be excited? Happy? Terrified? All three?

"Tobias, I—"

Gazes shifted an' the atmosphere of this dank tunnel space seemed to thicken jus' like a golly's sigiled field. His glamour might've dampened a lil' in response, drawin' close as his heart dropped all heavy-like into his stomach, plonk like a clockin' stone.

"Shit." He inhaled, notin' that more'n one set of eyes were on them both now, an' when Wisp moved so quick towards the two of them, Em tensed, calloused fingers curlin' into his palms, waitin' for somethin' terrible to happen. Instead, she turned to the boy, leanin' close, an' the tsat couldn't bring himself to feel any relief in the motion, especially when the dark-haired woman fixed him with a frown—

He risked a glance toward the other woman, toward Silk, expectin' the same look, before he fixed Wisp with his nervous attention entirely, "The Wren you knew, uh, he hung in Dentis." Emiel couldn't bring himself to talk too loud, somethin' 'bout the tone of the assassin's voice sharp an' painful where memories were still sore, "He were my brunno—my actual brother. Like pickin' up a torch, ye chen. I jus'—I'm only good with comin' up with the names 'f new drinks."

Jaw clenched, the wick looked away from the intensity of the woman in front of him, feelin' even heavier for talkin' 'bout death after hearin' words of life, unable to feel the same excitement as he was sure he were supposed to feel over such news 'bout Jon Serro.

"That were Rohan. Ro Emmerson. Who died for fuckin' noth—things that weren't his fault." He thought folks weren't s'posed to share their real names here, an' he shoved his hands in his pockets, feelin' that fluttery want to run away grow restlessly, dangerously close to that fluttery want to hit somethin' instead. He had a hard time makin' good choices between those two feelin's, after all, "I'm jus' Emiel. I thought it best to borrow what he had, seein' as we were fami, Miss Pierre."

[Ava Weaver]

Late Night, 25 Dentis, 2719
The How

For that moment, after she had spoken, it was like the room had narrowed to the two of them. Alyssa had lost whatever nonchalance she had brought to the conversation with her, let it fray from the edge of her composure, shredded. Ava didn’t move or speak; some part of her knew better than to linger too long, for fear of what their silence in the midst of so much noise might reveal.

And yet – she could not, quite, bring herself to any other words. It was easy enough to keep a smooth, warm smile on her face, soft with fondness and professional all at once; there was something else, she knew, in her eyes, but they were on Alyssa only, and she did not look away. She might have said something idle – just audible – about the latest gossip in the Painted Ladies, about the preparations for the safe room, about her next fabric shipment the following month. She said nothing, instead.

Ava turned, and smiled, and it did not – quite – drop off of her face at the realization of what Tobias had said. She – they all – had other priorities just then, and Ava watched, her hands clasped lightly together in front of her, as Alyssa knelt to ask Tobias if he was sure.

Alyssa rose, and Ava shifted, just a little; with anyone else, perhaps, she would have reached out a comforting hand. It was news, yes, but it was as much overwhelming as good. She thought that this wasn’t a place where Alyssa could accept comfort, even if she would have wanted it from Ava. Alyssa turned next to Wren; his gaze darted, a little, back and forth, and settled on her for a moment.

Tobias, too, looked wretched; Ava gave him a fond smile. As mature as he was, she thought, he was only a boy; it was a heavy load she has asked to bear, and in her estimation he had born it.

Ava took a different tack; she smiled, warm and friendly, and let it reach her eyes. It was an encouraging smile, the sort of smile that said he was among friends, and he could speak, here, freely. She could see enough of Alyssa’s expression out of the corner of her gaze to know the contrast; she thought it might jar something loose, if he hadn’t already planned to speak.

Ava listened, quietly, to the story; she, like most of the Resistance, knew something of the deaths that had occurred little more than a year before. Those deaths, too, she laid at the feet of the galdori; those deaths, too, burned in the center of her, more kindling for the flame which already had so much more than a lifetime’s worth. She felt it, now, washing through her; there was nothing in the news of Jon’s living that quenched it. If anything, the truth burned all the brighter, in the heart of the fire inside her.

“I’m Silk,” She said, politely, into the silence which followed Wren’s introduction, making it clear what she thought of his words – that she found them sufficient. “Also known as Ava Weaver.” She inclined her head gently to Emiel. “Welcome, Wren.”

Her gaze turned back to Alyssa, her lips soft. “What now?” She asked, quietly.