Home is Where the Truth is

The seasons' shift is certainly felt this day with the clouded sky limiting the sun's warmth and the chill near-winter winds sapping further heat from the surroundings. Upon the ridge, this is felt even moreso than in the city below. That said, all can still be comfortable, if not outright cozy within The Residence.

A fire burns merrily in the hearth and has received the Hunter stamp of approval (indicated by his form flopped nearby, belly oriented towards to absorb as much radiant energy as possible). Verna is seated nearby in her usual chair, a fresh cup of tea on the small table beside and a book in hand. Her simple housedress attire implies she has not ventured out of doors recently, perhaps not at all this day. There is much to be said for warm fires, hot tea, and pleasant company.

Auranar is outfitted more comfortably in a sweater and pant combination that might be seen with some disapproving eyes by those that still think that women ought not wear pants, but Auranar has never listened to that sort of talk for long. She loves her occasionally risky fashion statements anyway. Pants being one of them. Not that pants are all that risky really.

She's cozily planted in her chair with a blanket and a cup of tea, when she finally says it. The thing she's avoided saying for weeks now. "I did do it. I took the years from you. I'm not sorry." The words are soft. "I'd take a hundred more if I had to."

Verna is not one to judge fashion, and certainly not in regards to her wife. Not only is her minimal appreciation of style derived from Auranar's example, she is utterly biased: Verna would find Auranar lovely whether in pants, dress, a flour sack, or naught at all.

Similarly, she has neither judged Auranar, nor pressed for confirmation of her suspicions. She accepted that it was a topic for another time and had not broached it further. When that another time has come, she is momentarily surprised by its sudden arrival. Her head and eyes shift to Auranar and the book is set aside blindly by reflex. "I know..." she begins, yet her mind takes a moment to catch up and re-verify. "I know that you would, love. I would not have you regret it, either." If judgment, reprimand, or argument was expected, one may not be forthcoming.

The elvish woman looks at her wife with a touch of surprise then. "Do you think that it is possible in this life for me to regret it? They are years well spent to see you hale again Verna. It hurt my heart to see you so close to the end of your life. I do not know what I am going to do with myself when that is the truth of our lives rather than merely magic malfeasance." Auranar looks at her tea cup sadly.

A topic -a truth- that has weighed heavily upon both their minds for some time. Verna's hand reaches to rest upon Auranar's arm, if she might pull her focus from the tea (no disparagement implied upon the tea). "Love," the word is soft. "I can only strive to fill your every day as best I may, from now until that time. While I cannot aid you in that mourning," by definition, sadly, " I know that you will, in time, heal as with any other wound."

She gives Auranar's arm a light squeeze, "Yet such is not a worry for decades to come. I would fail in filling your days if I left you to ponder such somber thoughts for too long."

Auranar smiles a small smile. "It's surprisingly easier to bear now than when I was younger. It hurts, but... It will *always* hurt." She lays her hand on Verna's hand. At least it is becoming a pain she can almost bear now. One she can almost envision surviving. Perhaps given another hundred years... No, now is not the time for such thoughts, as Verna said. "I have some interesting news, though I'm... not sure how to tell you. I'm not sure at all that I'm sure what I saw actually."

To little surprise, that smile is mirrored by Verna reflexively. The hurt mentioned gets a small nod in acknowledgement, but then the mention of news as brows lifting. "Oh? Please, do tell, however you might. I do enjoy your recounting of your adventures and discoveries."

Auranar tries to think of how to describe the evening in question and begins where one does most oft; the beginning. "Magpie invited us out to a restaurant, I thought for a nice meal as companions and boon friends, but in fact because she was being tailed by a reporter. One that as it turned out was host to a the fiend Koz'gon himself."

Here Auranar shakes her head and sets her tea aside. "Unsurprisingly this led to confrontation, though you'll note that I am quite alright an being not upset everyone else is also fine. Though one was aged somewhat Koz'gon made the grave error of becoming an insect to escape detection and was set upon by a small golden dragon who... ate him."

Verna listens with genuine curiosity and interest. Her smile even grows at the pleasant beginning. Mention of the fiend, however much the current situation affirms all is well, yet provokes a sudden stiffness in her. One that does not quickly retreat, yet diminishes some with her blink at the end. "Tanithariairisixchel...?" It is one part inquiry and one part presumption. Afterall, how many small golden dragons are flying about the region?

Several other inquiries follow. "Who was aged? Excessively? The fiend..." she does not repeat the name "... was removed from our realm, then?" Verna knows far too well that they are not so easy to destroy utterly.

"Simony was aged somewhat by the fiend. Not as egregiously as you were. Only a few years." Auranar explains in more detail. "I hit the fiend with a dimensional anchor, to tie him to this realm, and I am fairly certain that he was affected by it so he may have been unable to return to his realm the way he preferred. I am uncertain if the dragon eating him killed him, or if he remains digesting in her stomach at length, or... if there is some other outcome."

"Oh my," is Verna's assessment, with some point clarified. "That was ... quite the eventful dinner, all told." Her tension finally drains and her smile broadens. "Yet another fiend thwarted at your hand, dearest."

After a moment of beaming, she admits, "It is assuring to know he is not currently skulking about in the guise of another, yet I would not dare presume him to be fully removed." Her curiosity piques once more. "I do not suppose that he revealed anything further of his intentions or schemes?"

"Nothing useful." The elvish woman grouses unhappily. "Though I do wonder why he would take the time to possess a reporter. It seems that he has a veritable deck of people at his disposal to utilize. If you'll excuse the phrase. He shuffles through them and plays the one that he thinks will be most useful at a given time. I dislike it greatly. We have no way of knowing who he'll use next." Auranar looks at her wife.

Verna nods lightly, smile compressing to pursed lips. "I except he would be able to collect information as easily, if not moreso, by using many forms rather than one with some familiarity or professional access." Her brows furrow with some thought. "Unless he sought to use the reporter in the other direction: to spread lies or other misinformation that hold more validity?"

Auranar's eyes brighten. "He did spread a rumor that Magpie had blown up her own room. That might have been to force her to move... Albus." She bites her lip then and grows deadly quite. Nodding to herself. "Yes, that might be it indeed. You're right Verna. Magpie, Corey and I should talk to Telamon right away."

Verna's brows furrow further and her lips purse more with Auranar's postulate. "That book is dangerous enough, infinitely moreso in the hands of a fiend. If his goal was to bring it out into the open so he could obtain it... That would explain his choice of form and his following Magpie. She and Albus may yet be in danger and should be warned." She does not quite state that Auranar should be the one to do so: that is Auranar's choice (even if it may already be made).

-End