war, beloved -- Riii Bluebook Session 75

Her name was spoken with an exhale — an exhilaration — breathless, giddy with excitement, and yet hushed with awe. Portending doom, or fortune. Who can say? But her?

One day, it’ll be your name that evokes such emotion, my love.

The Witch of Fates.

She remembers sitting atop one of the tallest trees in the Feywild, gazing out across the expanse of land they would march on at dawn. Bright, who was always skulking behind the party, not eager to participate in any conversation or discussion — standing tall beside her, watching the swirling purple clouds gather above the city. He was sure.

They were all so sure.

You will win the battle, but lose the war.

She shudders, hard, attempting to blink away the phantom sensation of Vecna’s sticky, bloody fingers on her face, stroking her eyebrow —

The pain, the violation, and she had not even any time or breath to show her anger before her life was —

Was.

I died. I actually know what dying feels like.

She’s not sure awe is what she should be feeling right now.

All of a sudden, everything feels too much.

I doubt you ever fully processed that trauma, given your haste to find the flower angel afterwards, he murmurs in her ear.

What new fate would she prescribe for us this time?

She is not eager to find out.

It’s been… such a long day, she sighs, thunking her head against the door after the Prince of Hearts leaves her room.

Please, she begs, and hates herself for it. She strips, without a care, and crawls beneath the covers, warm and heavy. It smothers her, and Moreth is like a cocoon of flame around her. She shudders again, and again, and again.

Help me forget.

war, beloved -- Riii Bluebook Session 75

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