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In an instant, in the blink of an eye, something changed in this realm of reality. A weight had been lifted off of those who were still fortunate enough to be alive. The question is, was the healing of their clouded eyes and souls a blessing, or simply its own form of torture? After all, the one thing that had saved them from the pain had just been removed. There before Sirena's ghostly form, she saw the veil being torn from her dear friend Harlianne, ripped off like a bandage from a wound. Her own fears and pains were forgotten in the moment, and her heart constricted inside her chest as she watched the sheer horror on Harlianne's face.
Sirena started to take a step forward in what would likely would've been a vain attempt at comforting her friend. I mean, how could a mere ghost comfort the living? She stopped in her tracks when her own corpse floated into Harlianne's view. She choked up and her hands shook at her sides, not at the sight of her decapitated body but at the pain that exploded from her best friend like an erupting volcano. Her only solace was that Harlianne did not seem to remember being the cause of her best friend's untimely death. That was her only solace. Is this what the afterlife was supposed to be like, this pit of torture? Surely, this was hell.
She let out a pained cry of her own as Harlianne began to wail with anguish filled screams. She squeezed her eyes shut as if that could block out her friend's screams, as if that could stop what it was doing to her inside. A tear slipped down Sirena's cheek. She didn't dare open her eyes again until Harlianne's screams seemed to fade from view. And when she opened her eyes next, she found that she was in an entirely different place: the Misty Mire. She was surrounded by the familiar faces of those trapped back on that island. While the others began to yell and argue, Sirena just stood there in silence, tears streaming down her face. Her blue eyes that were once so filled with life were dull and lifeless.
Her head slowly turned to the side, roused by the sound of cannon fire. What other hell awaited the living and the dead? She wasn't keen on finding out. She faced forward again and soundlessly weaved through the crowds of bickering ghosts. Her eyes locked on Millicent and the flask. She stopped a few feet from Millicent and outstretched a hand. "Let me see it," Sirena stated, her demeanor practically emotionless a part for her tear stained cheeks. As far as she saw it, what else did she have to lose?
Edgard was as surly as ever, and there was little that could ever change that. He had spent the last five days in the unfortunate company of an emotionless dark-skinned woman. He didn't really even know her name, and he honestly couldn't care less. No, he was just pissed that none of his usual intimidation tactics seemed to find purchase. The woman was entirely unfazed, and it truly enraged him off. If it weren't for the fact that he needed the extra help, which was something he would never admit to, he would have killed the puny woman ages ago.
Just then though, as he glared at her in annoyance as usual, something changed in her demeanor. Pain and emotion seemed to flood into the woman from some unknown reservoir. A wicked grin came to his features. Surely he had finally brought her to the breaking point, and even if it hadn't been in fact him, he would take credit for it regardless. His head tilted slightly to the side as he watched her intently, like a predator watching its prey. Though when she finally looked at him again, he saw in her eyes a look he had quite possibly never seen directed towards him ever in his life: pity. Perhaps he should have been touched, but this is the Baron of Blood and Fire we're talking about. He wanted no one's pity. Pity indicated weakness.
Edgard's stormy blue eyes darkened dangerously. The woman's words clearly hit their mark as he let out a feral snarl at her. He was ready and able to kill her right then and there, but it seemed that fate had other plans. The sound of cannon fire garnered his immediate attention. His head snapped to the side in time to see the docked ships being lit aflame. He all but ignored the dark skinned woman at this point. Instead he looked past the now flaming ships to the source of the assualt: English and--La Fraternité du Sang.
That was an interesting twist of fate, but not entirely unpleasant. As the fiance of an heir to La Fraternité du Sang, he was assured of his own safety. And if La Fraternité du Sang was now working with the English, then surely that meant more power at the touch of his fingertips. No, today was a good day as far as he was concerned. Or was it?
