[center][h1][b][color=DAF6C7]Ríoghnach "Riona"[/color][/b][/h1][color=DAF6C7]Time/Date:[/color] Nighttime, Sola 25th
[color=DAF6C7]Location:[/color] Pinebrook Camping Site 
[color=DAF6C7]Interaction(s)/Mention(s):[/color] [@princess][@ReusableSword][@Tpartywithzombi][@Helo][/center]
Thoughts warred within Riona like angry cats in a sack, clawing and hissing for dominance. The man who couldn’t be Darryn—who absolutely shouldn’t be Darryn—addressed the crowd as if the past few days hadn’t happened. 

As if he hadn’t been murdered. 
Darryn. Alive. Breathing. Talking.

She should feel something. Relief that it had all been some horrible mistake. Anger that he’d let her believe him dead. Joy at seeing him alive and whole. She should be running to embrace him or slap him or demand answers.

Instead, her skin crawled with a wrongness she couldn’t name.

Even after the crowd dispersed, Riona’s eyes remained fixed on “Quinn.” Not that any amount of staring would reveal answers.

It took Lady Ariella’s [color=slateblue]“CAL!”[/color] to break the spell. Training took over. Her spine straightened, hands clasped, eyes lowered, expression smoothed into careful neutrality. A perfect servant’s bow, neither too deep nor too shallow. The maid became another part of the background.

Present but unseen. There, but not there.

Just like her mind.

Roman’s words from their last conversation rattled in her skull. [i]Necromancy.[/i]

If Darryn hadn’t faked his death... if this wasn’t some cruel coincidence... Then what in the hells was walking around wearing his face?