There are not enough flowers.

It is a frivolous thought-- a pointless one, something that's far too late to fix at this point, but it is the very first thing that springs into Kvasir Sigurros's mind as she combs her fingertips through her hair for what must be the thirteenth time tonight, attempting to push the all-too-tenacious white strands still desperate to peek through beneath the layers of stark black, stifling edelweiss beneath ink-petaled hollyhocks. It doesn't seem to matter what she does, from carefully woven braids to a flower-haloed bun to her usual ponytail, nothing seem to bury those little alabaster warning signs the way she wants.

It's unfathomably frustrating, really; she's relented to just twisting half of her hair back until it cascades over the rest in a waterfall of waves, lilac wildflowers pleated in as tactically as possible to try and bury every trace of divine influence they are capable of burying. It is impossible to hide them all, as wild and inconsistent as they are where they manifest, but she has tried, and she prays that they will scarcely be noticeable beneath the dark of a Sol City night, beneath the dim alchemical party lights that will halo the warehouse.

Perhaps it's foolish to spend so much time on this, to fret over the minutiae of her appearance so much, but it hadn't taken Kvasir especially long to pull together the rest of her ensemble-- the application of bright pigments against her lashlines and kohl just along the edges is muscle memory to her at this point. This dress, as silken and delicate as it feels, is just one more thing to get used to, as well; she will grow accustomed to the way a flower-adorned neckline clings to the sides of her shoulders, will grow used to the softer fabric, will grow used to how strange it is to wear something meant for someone from nobler origins. She will grow used to the clink of silver against her wrists, the sheer, petal-woven scarf draped loosely through her elbows, to the finery she's putting on to pretend to be some other better woman.

She will never get used to trying and failing to bleach the remnants of a god from her body.

Kvasir lets out a quiet sigh as she combs her hair back into place for one final time, huffing at the persistence of those Solaria-damned threads of white one final time before she rises to her feet, stepping away from the chaise before the vanity so she can properly survey the mask she's pieced together for the evening. She's adorned all in green and lavender, flowers spun into the very fabric of her dress as though it is a living garden, the skirts opening like curtains at the knee with more tiny purple flowers pinning them in place. The rest is all silver-- silver bangles, little silver earrings, silver-heeled sandals that somehow wound up easier to walk in than the usual boots she goes foraging in.

She reaches for the eyepiece she's set on the vanity-- a similar, carefully-assembled set of pale purple flowers with white beadwork-- and carefully straps it in place over that unseeing left eye, not satisfied until not a trace of gold shines through. She may not be able to drown the pearl, but she can bury gold.

Not a trace of the Archivist King can remain on this night-- for that matter, neither can a trace of Kvasir Sigurros. Tonight, she is Khatmi Kazemi, and she is a Siren. [1]

...Ugh, dear Solaria, getting used to thinking that is not going to be easy.

Khatmi swivels about just so one more time, just ensuring that everything is in place, before she finally starts off toward the other door, rapping her knuckles against the wood and hissing at the sting of metal digging into skin. Oh, it has been a long damned time since she's gone anywhere without gloves, and the feeling of a ring against her finger is so very strange-- but the whole point is to step out of her comfort zone in terms of aesthetics, to step apart from her ordinary identity as much as she can, and as much as she is willing.

She is, quite honestly, not overly willing. She can smile and nod and play the part of some coquettish alchemical mastermind for the sake of one night, but not a second will pass where she will let her guard down and allow any harm to come to her dearly beloved companion on the other side of the door.

"Morrigan Moonweaver," she says, voice hushed just slightly. "Are you decent, at least? Got that dress on yet?"

---

[1] Beads of They

Let it be known to anyone who would listen that Morrigan Moonweaver bent to no man, mortal or immortal. She was a creature of whimsy, one that preferred to go where her own wishes took her. So rarely did she do what others commanded of her, and that still held true now. Just because she’d joined the hallowed halls of the Golden Consortium didn’t mean that she would blindly follow the orders of stuffy alchemists, simply because it was expected of her. In fact, she’d been fully prepared to turn down this mission… until she heard that Kvasir Sigurros would be joining her as well.

And, well, if Morrigan found herself accepting simply because there was nothing that could possibly be more exciting than breaking up an illegal ring of lady-potion makers with her favorite medic, then that was no one’s business but her own.

Really, Morrigan didn’t care one bit for what the coalition of women who fancied themselves Sirens were up to. According to the Consortium, it was dangerous to allow such potions to remain in the hands of the untrained, and perhaps it was true. After all, the Sirens, who were supposedly crafting innocuous elixirs d’amour, seemed to have mucked up somewhere along the line, because several of their potions distributed through Sol City had turned out to be bombs. Really, how did one mess up that badly? Morrigan’s own skill in potions had not been learned in a laboratory, but rather inherited from self-fought circus charlatans and hacks, but even she wasn’t foolish enough to make such an erroneous mistake.

They were meant to be creating a chemical imbalance in the hearts of men, not plain old chemical imbalance!

Whatever their folly was, the head-scratcher of exactly where the Sirens had gone wrong with their recipe had prompted the Consortium to send their two newest members on a bit of a test, as it were- break up their illegal ring and confiscate their potions for study. That, Morrigan could do. Hell, she wouldn’t mind sneaking away a few of their own for some more personal study…

Not for any nefarious reasons, of course. This was strictly guild business. Morrigan was a professional, after all.

A soft voice on the other side of the door caught Morrigan’s attention, pulling her out of her thoughts. Kvasir’s voice was soft and hesitant in a way that brought a frown to Morrigan’s lips. Despite their best efforts, getting Kvasir to truly let her guard down around Morrigan was like pulling teeth. How long had it been since their trip to Frostgale? Long enough, surely, that the incident with Kasra should have faded to obscurity. Kvasir had been stable, had even invited Morrigan to her new home for a housewarming party. And yet, there was still this barrier between them, as if Kvasir had woven light to build a wall. She had done that once before to save Morrigan from the dangers of the Ash Lands- now, it seemed she’d done it to protect Morrigan from herself.

It made Morrigan want to tear her hair out.

This trip would show Kvasir that Morrigan was not a fragile glass vial that was meant to be put on a shelf and left to gather dust. That was Kaivalya, sniveling little child who had no willpower and allowed themselves to be locked up. Kaivalya was dead. Morrigan was-

Well, today, she was Aaleahya Chandrika, a hopeful member of the Sirens and a hopeless romantic.

Aaleahya readjusted the black shawl over the lower half of her face, pleased with the reflection that stared back at her in the mirror. Her attire was the latest fashions of Zeinav- black layers of silken fabric meant fo accentuate a woman’s bosom and show off her skin to the sun. Her tattoos were on full display, black swirling designs that mimicked runes. The ink could not be covered up, but she thought it fit the character quite nicely.

“Give me a second!” She responded, grabbing her fan, a gift from Kvasir, from the dresser and making her way to the door before throwing it open-

And was nearly blinded by the sun itself.

Gods above… she’s lovely.

Aaleahya was aware that Kvasir was much like her in the sense that the shape of their mortal vessel- male or female- mattered little. Aaleahya herself cared little for how she presented, and what did it matter, when a little powder and a pinch and tuck here and there could drastically change her appearance? But Kvasir was a different story entirely. She’d blossomed, adorned in a demure floral gown in soft greens and lilacs, and looked more like she should have been dancing among the forests of Moonglade with the fae than standing in some dirty hotel in Sol City.

“Why, my dearest medic, you look positively enchanting!” Aaleahya praised, unfurling her fan and waving her face with a fluid motion. “They call me the enchanter, but I now have reason to believe that tonight, the roles will be reversed. Those Sirens will be utterly spellbound by Princess Kvasir.”

Yes, Aaleahya decided, this trip would be fun. She’d prepared a handful of special potions just for this occasion, and in addition to her fan, her invisible dagger was strapped to her thigh, ready to be used at a moment’s notice. And better yet, they’d get to steal- confiscate- bombs from a group of ametur alchemists!

So why did Kvasir look so uneasy?

Aaleahya took a step forward, bridging the gap between her and Kvasir. She got on her toes, balancing precariously on her sandals, before tucking her fan away and putting one finger on either side of Kvasir’s cheeks. Glitter and the faint traces of lavender face paint were smudged on Kvasir’s face as Aaleahya nudged her cheeks up, creating the facsimile of a smile.

“… There. You look much prettier with one of these on, Kvasir Sigurros. What have I told you about wrinkles?”

They spotted a stray white hair framing Kvasir’s face that seemingly refused to hide- an unwelcome reminder of someone who was not invited to this outing. With nimble, practiced fingers, Aaleahya tucked it away with a smile that was almost impossibly fond smile, one that was not often seen on the sleazy confidence woman’s face.

Only a few seconds-- a minute at most, really-- pass between Khatmi calling for Morrigan and the door actually opening, but even that mere moment feels far too long.

She occupies the moment by pulling at one of the bangles at her wrists, the thin ring of silver carefully caught beneath the painted nail of her index finger, the pressure of the metal against flesh and bone grounding, a reminder of all she needs to keep in mind for the night ahead. Their goal is a clear one, bright as the light catching on the silver of this very bracelet: find their way into this gathering of the Sirens, play along for as long as necessary, confiscate the necessary samples for the Consortium, and then get out. It is meant to be quick and easy, a get-in-and-get-out situation, and Khatmi has absolutely no intention of letting either of them linger too long at the heart of all of this.

She has no weapon to speak of on her person; there is no easy way to smuggle a bow into an operation like this, and she has no skill with anything smaller or bladed, so the only defense she's brought with her is the very light that buzzes at her fingertips. The thought is nerve-wracking, really-- if things go south, all she has to battle with is the few bits and pieces of offensive magic she's capable of commanding. If anything goes wrong, if anything unravels, if anything happens to Morrigan, then a healing spell won't be enough to salvage what will be lost.

Khatmi shudders, her eye squeezing shut, her mind a mess of dandelions, of weeds that toss forth possibility after possibility of all the ways this could go wrong--

But then the door swings open, and there is Morrigan Moonweaver, her fallen lilac star, still burning and burning, beautiful and passionate and vivacious in all the ways only she could ever manage to be.

There is never a time where Morrigan is not beautiful-- such a thing is not possible. She is lavender and violets and roses with eyes like forget-me-nots, a garden of radiance that no winter could veil, but she paints a particularly unforgettable portrait tonight. She is a vision all in black silks, hellebore against lilac, those spiraling tattoos on full display, every ounce of that effortless confidence and charisma pouring from her the way light pours from the sun onto the earth below. She is beautiful, and... and Khatmi feels her traitorous little heart flutter all over again.

Damn it. Damn it.

"You... truly think so?" she asks softly, tentatively, doubt creeping through the crevices of every word. It is not as though she believes Morrigan would lie to her, but to hear such praise from her feels no different from envisioning a camellia lavishing kindness upon a dandelion. "I don't believe I could ever compare to you, my dear enchanter. You look positively radiant. I... feel quite out of sorts, to tell you the truth. I'm fond of pretty things, but I... I'm not so accustomed to wearing something of this quality."

A tiny, nervous sigh falls from Khatmi's lips, one that isn't... entirely related to the quality of her clothing, or the mission ahead, or even the pounding of her heart in her ribs. No, the nervousness is born of fear-- fear over being this close to Morrigan, over the possibility that the God of Remains's golden gaze may still be watching, waiting for signs of weakness, something new to prey on, something new that he can use to carve another hole in Morrigan's body once Khatmi cannot fight him off anymore.

The events that had transpired up in Frost Gale, no matter how soft the conversations in the aftermath were, had made Khatmi realize something vital: any proximity to Morrigan inherently puts her in danger, even if Kasra cannot actively attack in the moment. Her memories are Kasra's to behold, to peruse and pick through like a carrion bird, plucking at remnants of remnants for traces of a weapon, and if Kasra should ever see Morrigan at her most vulnerable through Khatmi's eye--

...she does not want to think about it.

Her sorrow must show quite plainly on her face, because that's when Morrigan steps forward and pressing her index fingers to Khatmi's cheeks, forcing a simulated smile, leaving what must be glitter across her cheeks. It's strange, but something about it works-- a soft little laugh leaves her as soon as Morrigan's fingers withdraw to fuss over her hair instead, her whole expression softening in that way only the actions and antics of one divine, enchanter, and storyteller can make it do.

"...I suppose a smile will... work better for tonight," she murmurs, already contemplating the logistics all over again, an edge of nervousness creeping back into her voice. "...My dearest enchanter, this is quite the plan we have. Infiltrating a gathering of a gang like this... are you quite sure it will work? Do you think they'll suspect anything...? I... I don't have any kind of weapon I can bring with besides my magic, and I only know the one spell. Will it be enough...? I... should I have put together an identity from somewhere other than Zeinav...?"

“Radiant?” Aaleahya fluttered her fan, preening in a manner not unlike a bird of prey flaunting her feathers. She, of course, knew that she looked lovely, but there was something different altogether about being complimented by someone whose opinion you actually cared about. “Oh, you flatter me. I didn’t do much to dress up.” That, of course, was a lie. Aahleahya had spent a painstaking amount of time on their face and hair and every piece of jewelry they wore, making sure that everything fit the picture of a Zeinavian seductress. “Worry not, though, my dear medic. Fine things suit you.” She readjusted one of the silk flowers on Kvasir’s shoulder. “And don’t worry if it gets torn. I happen to have grown quite good at sewing as of late.”

It did not take someone skilled at reading people to know that Kvasir was still anxious from the tension set in her shoulders even as Aaleahya stepped away from her, still too scared to even let her get close. How much would Aaleahya have to do to prove herself? How much more would she have to show Kvasir that she was deserving of remaining by her side? Probably deeper than Aaleahya herself could comprehend- the roots of divine intervention ran deep, far further than a simple conversation in the quiet of a hotel room could fix.

Well, if words wouldn’t do the trick, then maybe actions would.

“Don’t you worry about weapons.” Aaleahya assured her before reaching into her top. Kvasir would probably be stunned by the sheer amount of potions that Aaleahya produced seemingly from nowhere, all housed in little glass vials. Morrigan pressed them into Kvasir’s palm, gently curling her fingers over the glass, careful not to break them. “Here. I make it a habit to carry extra glitter bombs with me, and a little bit of venom is a girl’s best friend.” They added with a wink. “Should you find yourself in danger and I am not around to protect you, simply throw one of these at your target. Of course, Solaria willing, we shouldn’t be straying too far from one another in the first place.”

It was a strange feeling to be the more experienced combatant in a case like this- Aaleahya’s battles were few and far in between, but she had grown adapt at handling herself with concealed weaponry and clever use of potions as diversions.

There were some tactics she’d learned that not even Kvasir knew about.

Keeping such secrets from Kvasir left a foreign, bitter taste in the back of Aaleahya’s mouth, but such lies were necessary, she’d learnt. If Kasra shared Kvasir’s memories, knew Morrigan’s strengths and weaknesses, then she simply had to learn to conceal certain aspects of her arsenal tucked away where even Kvasir could not learn about them. Not to mention she wasn’t quite sure what to make of the strange ability she’d discovered during her travels, the ability to nullify magic…

That in itself left her feeling hollow and empty in a way she hadn’t since she last heard the name Husk leave someone’s lips.

No, it was best not to let Kvasir know that even Aalyeahya had secrets up her sleeve, not while she didn’t fully understand them herself. She supposed that was just fine. Morrigan was nothing better than a dirty liar, after all. What was another one to the pile, even if it was for Kvasir’s own safety?

“Oh, Kvasir Sigurros, you are more than enough.” Aaleahya hummed. “Lacking a weapon does not detract from the strengths you possess. How many times have you stitched up my own injuries now? There is no one I trust more to watch my back.” They assured her. “And Zeinav is a perfectly fine place to come from. The best lies are rooted in what you know, and Zeinav is your home. There will be no questioning that Khatmi is every bit the blooming desert rose she looks. A flower with hidden thorns.”

She tapped Kvasir on the nose for emphasis. Kvasir may be content to draw away at any given opportunity, but Aaleahya was not content with that artificial distance. She got what she wanted, even if that meant being an insufferable leech. “Now, are we ready to depart? Or are there any more worries in that pretty head of yours that should be replaced with thoughts about how fun this venture is going to be?”

---

Both Smoke Flasks and a bottle of Parasite Poison have been given to Kvasir

Even in spite of the seriousness of the moment, of the fact that she knows she should not be smiling and fawning until the time to put on the act she's spun sets in, Khatmi cannot help the way a tiny smile pulls at the corner of her lips anyway as Morrigan preens over the compliment, playfully batting the words aside with faux humility. It's nice to see her so happy, to see those blue eyes sparkle just a little more than usual, and to know that something she's said or done has been the reason for it-- in the same breath, it... it stings to know that she cannot let herself grow too accustomed to falling back into old patterns. The idle flirtations of the Lantern Light Wood feel different on her tongue, now.

It is inevitable, of course, that words carry a different weight when they gain new meaning. It is not as if Khatmi ever said anything she did not mean back beneath the pale rose lights of that moonlit forest, but oh, how time and compassion and understanding can shape a few flimsy little crystals of sugar into sweet and heavy syrup.

And, she thinks bitterly, how divine will can change honey into venom.

"...you are too kind, my dearest enchanter," she says quietly, the words fond but her whisper scared, fear sewn into the cadence of her voice like the undercurrent of a symphony, guiding the whole song. Even so, no matter how that unease bleeds through her, she cannot help the way some of that tension leaves her body as Morrigan adjusts one of those flowers adorning the neckline of her dress, the brush of her fingertips against skin like some calming serum. "I... I am glad you think this suits me, at least. I trust you to salvage it should anything happen to it."

Khatmi is quick to try and rein her expression back into something neutral, something pensive, but not even she can hide the way her eye goes wide and her cheeks color as Morrigan goes and pulls vials out from her top, as if she's somehow managed to stash her alchemy station there. It's an expression of equal parts confusion, embarrassment, and fond exhaustion-- a flashing echo of a moonlit forest and a quiet sunlit cafe, back before a starless veil of snow and cloud unraveled so much.

"...did you just-- nevermind," she sighs, her fingers curling over the crystal vials, surveying the contents carefully. She'd recognize the swirling sparkles and clouds of dust of Morrigan's glitter bombs anywhere, two little nebulae pressed in her palm-- one is a pale lilac, the other a deep indigo, both of them vivid and beautiful. The other vial is similar, also purple in color, but it's a dusky lavender, murky as a flower backlit by night-- poison. Inevitably, poison. The very kind Morrigan had once sent flying toward a displacer beast ages ago, all to distract it from going after Khatmi, on the very first night they had met.

...How long ago was that, now...?

"...Thank you," she says, managing another weak smile. "I... I appreciate you looking out for me. I will do my best to keep you safe as well, my dearest enchanter. Now where do I-- I don't have pockets-- I--"

She fumbles over the words, her cheeks regaining that roseate hue all over again as she tries to figure out where to put the vials and only settling on that one same answer. Khatmi can't maintain eye contact with Morrigan as she takes a deep breath and slips all three vials into place down past the neckline of her dress, ensuring that wherever they settle, they settle securely, all while remaining within reach-- glitter bombs on the left, poison on the right. Gods, this is stupid. This is so stupid. This is humiliating and she can feel Morrigan's eyes on her and it is not helping whatsoever.

"If you truly think we will be fine, and trust things to be fine, then... I can only hope things will be fine," she relents quietly, adjusting the flowers pinned in her hair one last time before she glances around the room, searching for anything they might be missing. Really, there's not much they can take with them-- tonight, they're posing as two aspiring Sirens, no weapons in hand, merely along to show up for this gathering and nothing more. It isn't as though they'll need to bring much with them beyond what they can hide on their person. "I... I am ready to go if you are, Aaleahya."

Khatmi takes one more deep breath, assembling the fragmented pieces of her composure before opening the door to their inn room and stepping out into the hall, already beginning to stitch the patches of her persona for the night into place. She is Khatmi Kazemi, some mysterious and levelheaded enigma of a woman with an interest in alchemy, one with a deeper fascination with the kinds of love that's been denied her time and time again.

It shouldn't be too hard of a part to play.

“It’s just fabric.” Aaleahya assured Kvasir before she could get too worked up over the dress. It was an elegant, lovely thing, really, with pearls strung along the hems that resembled dew on morning flowers, and fabric bunched together in the skirt, a plethora of greens and purples mixed together. The craftsman ship was lovely, but it had been made by human hands. It could be remade once more. Aaleahya couldn’t help but get distracted by its fine make. Her own dress had simply been purchased and hemmed at her favorite clothing store in the Zeinav marketplace, but next to this piece, Aaleahya thought that Kvasir was the one closer to a siren than herself. She ran her fingers over the cloth, enchanted. “Did you have this commissioned? It looks like it was made just for you.”

The sharp look Kvasir gave her said that now was not the time for such questions or distractions. Aaleahya sighed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. It seemed that Kvasir was too nervous to engage in even their regular banter. Flirtations and compliments that once flowed naturally felt more like they were hitting a wall. In that case, Aaleahya would just have to dig in her heels deeper and press harder to break through that barrier.

“Of course I keep my stash in my bra!” She said with a wink, one that looked infinitely more sultry than normal with the black makeup smudged in her eyes. “Where else would I place them? It’s Solaria’s natural pocket for hiding things, my dear medic. Do you see anywhere else in this slip of a dress that I could conceal potions?” Well, aside from the dagger strapped to her thigh, barely a glitter of pale ice under the light from the lantern in their hotel room. Even with her tattooed legs on display, the dagger would not be visible. The potions were a touch harder to hide. Concealing them required clever thinking, and a lot of extra padding and fabric. And there were still more nestled away in case of an emergency.

She hid a laugh behind her fan as Kvasir reluctantly hid the vials in her own dress, face as red as beetroot as she did so. It was honestly endearing, watching her act so reluctant over this. Aaleahya had listened to her tell stories of gnarly, broken bones and rotting illnesses without batting so much as an eye, and yet this was where she hesitated. Once Kvasir finished readjusting her dress, Aaleahya giggled, nudging her in the side. “Not so bad, is it?” It was… fun, watching Kvasir attempt to break out of her comfort zone, even though she looked like she was about to have a heart attack from it all.

That was fine. The goal was to purge those thoughts of Kasra from her mind, and make more memories to add to the collection. The book of loosely-bound parchment paper was currently settled under Aaleahya’s bed, ready to be added to once everything was said and done. But for now, Aaleahya would grab Kvasir’s arm and give her a sharp smile that was barely visible underneath the translucent mask affixed to her face. “I was born ready, my dearest Khatmi.”

And Aaleahya would whisk her away on a world of adventure, a party in which they would have the time of their lives dancing and playing espionage, hopefully one where the spell would not be broken by the end. It was time for Aaleahya to take her princess to the ball.

… Only to immediately be slammed by the cold winter air the second she stepped outside.

“What the hell?” They screeched, rubbing at their bare arms as the cold wind hit them. Winter’s Crown had since passed, but Salina, it seemed, would not be content until she’d coated the entirety of Charon in ice, as there was a biting chill to the wind that almost settled into her bones, reminding her of another outing, a venture to the World’s Crown where she froze much on a day like this-

No.

That was in the past, and it deserved to stay buried in the snow of the frozen north.

Aaleahya risked a glance back at Khatmi, wondering if the medic showed any discomfort on her face at the sudden, unbidden memory. This wouldn’t do. The charlatan’s tail flicked behind her as she considered what to do. Eventually, the answer came to her, as it always did.

It was something stupid.

She slipped her heeled sandals off, clutching them in one hand while gathering her skirts in the other. “Come on. Let’s have a race to see who can get there first!”

Before Khatmi could even so much as respond, Aaleahya took to the streets, skirts swirling behind her and a joyful look in her eyes, challenging, daring Khatmi to follow.

Dear Solaria, only Morrigan could possibly be capable of being so... insouciant about something as embarrassing as this.

Khatmi knows quite well that she should have had the foresight to sew some pockets somewhere into this dress, but the harder she thinks about it, the more it dawns on her that there are... not many places she could do that; the skirts flow too freely, and it would hardly look natural to go lifting the hem up every time she needs a potion, nor would it be very easy. There's no space anywhere in the corset, the sleeves are too short-- her one option really is shoving vials in her bra and hoping for the best. Gods damn it. Oh, she had better just hope that these don't break-- getting glitter everywhere wouldn't be fun, but... ooh, she does not want to give much thought to the possibility of the parasite poison vial shattering.

She shudders a bit, banishing that extraordinarily grisly concept to the back of her mind, electing to focus on the only slightly less dreadful thing before her-- Morrigan's eager teasing. Those glacial eyes flash with amusement as they walk through the hallway together, clearly finding cruel delight in Khatmi's humiliation over shoving potions down the front of her dress, and Khatmi immediately has to glance away, her face only burning an even deeper shade of scarlet.

"You are ridiculous," she sighs quietly, though there is, as always, no bite behind the words. She merely sounds exasperated, fondly so, shaking her head to herself as she wills the heat to leave her burning cheeks, wills all traces of embarrassment to trickle away from her body. "...I may very well lose my mind if a single one of these women catches sight of me having to reach for one, though. I'll die on the spot, in fact. You had best know a good way to resuscitate me should that happen, my dear Aaleahya."

It may take a bit of getting used to, calling Morrigan that, but Khatmi does not think it will take long-- such a name suits her. It is elegant, lovely, flows off the tongue-- she thinks it may originate from one of the nomadic languages, not unlike the one she herself has chosen. Really, the thing that will take the most adjusting to is calling Aaleahya by anything other than a full name accompanied by three or more titles-- addressing her by one name and one name alone is a strange and foreign feeling. The first-- and last-- time Khatmi ever called her by one name was... somewhere in the depths of a dimly-lit wood, when she feared for a then-stranger's life. She has not called her as such a single time since.

She's snapped out of such idle thoughts as they step out of the hotel doors-- she almost laughs at the way Aaleahya immediately squawks at the wind, almost laughs at her incredulity, but then the chill sinks in against Khatmi's own bare skin, stinging against her legs, against her neck and shoulders and arms, against her hands, numbing her fingertips, and for a moment, she swears she sees scarlet stains against her painted nails.

For a moment, she is in the bitterest depths of the Frost Gale, splashes of oleander against her hands and a backdrop of crystalline edelweiss against her frozen spine and a half-dead weight above her, unmoving beyond a labored, shallow breath given every few seconds.

For a moment, she remembers a story-bound hero with innocent, bright eyes and handmade golden wings, his long and horrid downfall framed in melted wax and despair.

Ruin. She will only lead Aaleahya, her molten-winged hero, foolishly chasing a sun she should've let go of, to ruin.

Khatmi chokes on a breath, a cold mist following the exhalation.

Before she can say anything, before she can try to pull herself together and patch up the pieces of this composed facade she wants to force for the night, Aaleahya's whole face lights up in that way it so often does, the corners of those kohl-lined eyes pinching up with impish joy as she turns to Khatmi, a bright smile lighting up her face as she suddenly slips her sandals off, gathering her skirts up, cheerfully throwing forth a challenge for a race before tearing off into the streets, gleefully laughing all the way.

All Khatmi can do is gape, lips open in shock, but she just lets out a heavy sigh, lifting the skirts of her own dress so she doesn't trip and fall on her face over the layered fabric. She debates taking off her heels, but... she would prefer not to risk stepping on anything like a stray nail, so running in heels it shall be.

"Aaleahya, wait--!" she yelps, tearing off after her, her stride unsteady. "At least give me a fair chance...!"

She sprinted through the streets, vaguely aware of Kvasir on her heels, exasperatedly giving in to Aaleahya’s antics, as usual. She was moving much slower, hindered by her shoes and her gown, which was much more constrictive than Aaleahya’s own. And so, they funded through alleyways and breezed past crowds, aware of the passerby who were giving the two strange, wild ladies sprinting through the streets bewildered looks.

Aaleahya, unfortunately, had not been graced with the common sense most men and women had learned to acquire at her age, and sprinted barefoot with gleeful abandon down the streets without a single care in the world whether she stepped on a nail or not. Perhaps it was the same unwarranted bravado that she threw at everything in life, as if simply believing you were untouchable made you so. Or perhaps she simply didn’t care about depriving herself of life’s pleasures simply because of a risk.

And perhaps there might have been a smaller, third reason- that when she was around Kvasir, she actually felt like there might be some truth to the facade. That Kvasir made her feel untouchable, like she was capable of everything Kvasir believed her to be, that she might even be able to fly should she wish to try…

It was worth noting for posterity that this was the moment that Aaleahya gleefully leapt through the air, a streak of lavender and black and silver, and immediately fell into a nearby fountain in the middle of a crowded market square.

“ACK-!” Aaleahya immediately choked on a mouthful of ice-cold water as she flailed, attempting to pull herself into a sitting position. The water was seeping into her dress, and even as Aaleahya eventually managed to scramble upwards with all the elegance of a dead fish and none of a suave Zeinavian seductress, they knew that their look had been ruined. She blew a strand of wet hair out of her face as she spotted Kvasir eventually rounding a corner into the square, struggling to keep up with Aaleahya in her heels.

Aaleahya waved to her.

“Khatmi! Over here!” She shouted gleefully, catching the medic’s attention. When Kvasir looked over, she would spot Aaleahya sitting in a fountain, Kohl and glitter running down her cheeks, resembling a wet, bedraggled kitten. And yet, mirth sparkled in her eyes, looking far more gleeful than she had in a long time. The brightness of the woman in front of Aaleahya reflected off of her, making her shine more in turn. “I seem to have found myself taking an impromptu swim- you should join me, my dearest medic!”

Now would probably be another good moment for Kvasir to reassess her choice in life partners.

Khatmi is starting to wonder if Aaleahya is capable of producing a thought before she launches off to chase the first whim that enters her mind.

The answer is quite obvious, really, and only becomes more obvious as she tries to keep up, as the winter wind whistles around her, nipping at her bare skin and singing its eerie song against her ears, as she overthinks every step she takes against the cobblestone streets of Sol City and prays her ankles don't give out. She's no stranger to running in heels, but these are far feebler than the boots she favors for foraging, designed for walking across a ballroom floor or being swept into a dance-- not sprinting at maximum possible velocity across ice-kissed streets.

It really is a miracle she's keeping up at all, especially considering the fact that Aaleahya seems to barely care about the forces of nature; she does not wince at the cold beneath her bare feet or the wind whipping around her, does not give a second glance to the strangers giving her odd looks, does not give a damn about the world beyond the part of it she's carved out for herself tonight. She is the picture of vivacity, life thrumming through her limbs as they carry her forward, joy bursting through her laughter prettier than any bard's song, uncaring of threat of death or pain or nature's rules-- she is Khatmi's fallen lilac star, one who does not give a damn about the brilliance she's been thrown from, determined to bring the heaven she can no longer reach right back down to earth.

And, Khatmi thinks, as she distantly watches her star fly and fall right into a fountain, Aaleahya is also a moron.

Her moron, of course. Her dearly beloved moron. Not that Aaleahya can ever know.

Khatmi slows her pace, then, letting out a heavy sigh as she steps closer to the fountain, quirking an eyebrow as Aaleahya shoots her a sparkling smile, eyes crystal-clear and jubilant, elation electric through her body like she's been immersed in holy water instead of some mere ordinary fountain. She's a mess of powder and pigment and her beloved glitter, her eyes framed in smoky shadows of dampened kohl, residue trailing like sparkling inky tears down her cheeks, but there is not even the briefest illusion of sadness to accompany the visual. She looks--

...She looks so... happy.

How is she still so happy...?

It's vexing, really, how she's been all smiles and radiance since they were given this assignment, as though nothing ever changed between them; Aaleahya is still luminous, burning with that same joy she always seems to, and it is, as ever, contagious. It is-- it is so difficult to fight off, so difficult to pretend she doesn't want to race along and get swept up in that wild lust for life, because she does-- she yearns for it, yearns to cast away the fear that binds her, yearns to go back to when things were simple and easy and she could smile and laugh and spend her time with the person who shook her entire world without the fear of handing a dead god the arrow to strike her in the heart.

How can Khatmi ever forgive herself if her selfish desire for happiness is what ends Aaleahya's?

"...Aaleahya, dearest," she sighs quietly, trying to purge the strain from her tone. "You do realize this means we will have to turn around, go back to the hotel, and spend a bit fixing your attire? It's fortunate that I can help you and cut the time it'll take in half, at least."

Khatmi shakes her head to herself before extending a hand for her dearly beloved mess, still unable to mask that twinkle of fondness lighting up that forest green eye.

There was the fond exasperation Aaleahya hoped to see on Kvasir’s face, the worry lines from underlying fears of Kasra chased away by stress lines watching Aaleahya roll around in the fountain in their best impression of a mermaid. Still no smile- not yet- but if Aaleahya was the type to give up easily, they would not be here in this present moment. Aaleahya laughed in glee as Kvasir approached the stone lip of the fountain, slightly out of breath from the exertion in the run and hair in disarray but still perfect, obviously debating whether she should simply leave Aaleahya to flounder.

“No, there’s no need to fix me up.” She insisted. That would waste time, and despite Aaleahya’s flippant attitude, she was all too aware that they shouldn’t dally on this mission. Another second wasted was another bomb set off by some poor unfortunate soul who’d only been hoping for an explosion of romance. Besides, this gave her a bit of an idea. For all Aaleahya’s faults when it came to thinking ahead, it made her incredibly good at thinking on her feet. “This gives me an idea. What better character could there be to approach the Sirens than a love-scorned lady, one whose lover has found himself in the embrace of another?”

She gestured towards her eyes, which resembled the cascading waterfall of a woman who’d spent her recent hours in tears. All she had to do was increase the waters- perhaps Khatmi would be a Siren hopeful who’d sympathized with her plight- and the ladies who loved love would welcome them with open arms and plenty of tissues.

Kvasir held her hand out a moment later, there to help Aaleahya up when she fell, as Kvasir always was. The fondness in Kvasir’s Solaria-touched eyes were reflected in Aaleahya’s own as she reached her hand up, as if moving to accept her help.

And then she splashed Kvasir in the face.

Aaleahya had to stifle her giggles behind her hands at Kvasir’s stunned face, mouth hung open in shock and visible eye murky with surprise at Aaleahya’s audacity to poke at the hornet’s nest. The potions stuffed in the bosom were one thing, the racing was another, but Aaleahya wondered if she might truly snap from the stress of Aaleahya’s antics.

That was just fine. Kvasir could push back all she wanted, could look at Morrigan and see a dead woman walking, only waiting for the moment that Kasra’s hands would wrap around her neck and choke the life out of her- and Kvasir could believe that divine will had already decree Morrigan’s fate, but Aaleahya had defied fate by choosing life back when she left the Scorpions. She’d defied fate by choosing life in the World’s Crown. She would defy it as many times as it took to show Kvasir that she was here to stay.

Kaivalya had died so Morrigan could live, and she would do so the way she wanted to. And that was with Kvasir by her side, in any way Kvasir would have her.

“Doesn’t the cool water feel nice?” Aaleahya asked as she pulled herself up, Kvasir too stunned by her stupidity to offer proper support. “One day we should visit the ocean together. I’ve been to the Crescent Isles before, but had no opportunity to enjoy its waters.” It was the first time Aaleahya had seen the ocean in her life, and it was lovely. She wanted to take Kvasir there one day. She wanted to take Kvasir to a lot of places, whisk her away to parts unknown where thoughts of the White Sand Sea and what lay under it no longer touched her thoughts.

For now, though the ocean was far from here, she would settle for the fountain and the Sirens. That was close enough to the coast. She pulled herself out of the fountain, wringing the water out of her soggy skirts the best she could. The cold air was hell on her wet skin, but a few seconds later, and she’d tied her hair out of her face once more, and she was ready to go.

“If only I had a potion for drying oneself off…” She tapped at her chin in thought. Perhaps that could be her next venture, an elixir for self-cleaning. “But enough about that. I’ve had my fill- now, you and I have a date with danger!” New ventures would come after they confiscated the potions here. Aaleahya looped her arm around Kvasir’s, propelling them forward at not quite a sprint, but a brisk pace through the streets, towards the Siren’s warehouse just outside of the marketplace.

Ah, there it is.

For every moment of bizarre idiocy that seems to strike Aaleahya, for every strange whim she seems to go and chase after, whether it's leaping from a cliff or doing battle with a beast with no more than a sickle and the fruits of her alchemical labor, there is a sharpness, too-- a sparkling brilliance that sparks to life and illuminates those whimsical clouds. As strange of a decision as it had been for her to go leaping into the air, as inconvenient as it was for her to wind up in the center of a fountain, nearly looking the picture of some vengeful water spirit, the way she's spun her newly-unkempt appearance in her favor is incredibly smart. Of course such a story would win the hearts and trust of a band of women like the Sirens; any precautions they might take would likely fly out the window on the winds of sympathy.

Khatmi has no doubt that Aaleahya can play the part well, too. Theatrics are her callings, drama her nebulous middle name-- an act like this will inevitably be a breeze for her. She commands a room, seems to always know the right things to say at any given moment, is luminous and dazzling and impossible to take your eyes away from; the Sirens will fall all over her with endless offers of comfort, and... it will likely be up to Khatmi, the shadow, to go and fetch those sample potions.

It is a good arrangement. It'll be easy, really, to simply stand off to the side and pretend she's sipping at some drink and maybe spare a few words for the women around her, while Aaleahya shines like the sun, drawing everyone into her orbit, all so Khatmi can slip off and handle her side of their mission.

Gods, it's strange how Aaleahya can be so impossibly, eerily sharp, capable of spinning situations in her favor so quickly, and yet so prone to idiocy all at once-- it is utterly vexing. Khatmi lets out a fond sigh, pushing another idle musing over how this is all just another note in the long list of things she adores about Morrigan Moonweaver to the back of her mind as she watches her lift her hand, waiting to pull her out of the fountain--

Aaaand then there's water against her cheek. Cold water. Very cold water. Fantastic. Great. Wonderful.

For a moment, Khatmi just gawks at her in silent disbelief, painted lips pursed with the beginnings of a sentence she isn't ready to say, eye wide with surprise and maybe just the faintest trace of exhaustion, before her expression settles back down into full, unabashed weariness, eyelid set low, mouth drawn in a tight line. And even so, Aaleahya is giggling, mirthful as ever, as if this is what they're supposed to be doing-- as if this was always just meant to be for fun.

Really, how can she be so casual about this? Has she somehow missed the fact that they're supposed to be infiltrating a potion ring and preventing bombs from going off in the confines of Sol City? Has she missed the fact that she's running around with her would-be murderer like nothing is wrong at all, like an old god doesn't watch her every move through Khatmi's eye?

Just what the hell is going through her head?

"...now likely isn't the time to-- to think about the Crescent Isles," she sighs quietly, already moving to carefully brush the water off of her cheek. Her heart aches, distantly, at the thought of roaming those starlit beaches with Morrigan, of searching for strange and wonderful plants like normal, of tucking scattered cherry blossoms into the coils of their hair when they aren't looking; it is a fantasy. Nothing more than a fantasy, something she can hold in her heart when she closes her eyes at night, something she can use to ease her into better sleep, but nothing more.

Never anything more. Not again.

As soon as Aaleahya steps out of the fountain and gets to drying herself off as well as she can, Khatmi just watches solemnly, waiting until she seems content with how much dampness she's shed. Gods, though, the fountain water is cold, and... and it's cold outside, and all she wants is to speed the rest of the way to this hideout so she can get Aaleahya out of the winter chill and spare her from the risk of hypothermia.

"You really are going to kill me," she whispers, not sure if it's to Aaleahya or to herself, but she does not resist being tugged forward, quick to match her pace so they can reach the warehouse as quickly as possible.

It does not take long, thankfully, not at the pace they're going; it is a sizable location, matching the description they'd been given, just on the edges of the marketplace. One would think that maybe an operation like this may choose more distant grounds, but... these are ladies in love with the very idea of love, not criminal masterminds. Hell, they likely don't even think they're doing anything wrong.

Khatmi glances over to Aaleahya, then, smoothing out her dress for a final time and doing what she can to tame her hair from the wind's teasing, giving her companion one last worried look.

"...are you... ready for this, my dearest enchanter?"

Just as expected, Kvasir’s shocked face was a sight to behold, dripping water and betraying every single shocked, bewildered thought playing behind that pretty eye. But, to Aaleahya’s satisfaction, not a speck of gold besides that molten ring. “I think now is the perfect time to be talking about the Crescent Isles. When else but the present?” She countered. “We are not yet at the hideout, and there’s no point filling my head with grim thoughts of what lies a head. I’d much prefer to think about what I enjoy. Besides,” Her eyes sparkled with mirth, reflecting starlit beaches and glittering sands, “I do believe you still owe me a picnic. I am simply collecting what is due.”

Under better circumstances, this time- not one in the lava-filled pits of the Ash Lands and not in the frozen north of Frostgale, with champagne staining their arms and a triumphant smile on her face. Neither of those were true picnics. Aaleahya ramped up everything she did to a ten, threw glitter and polish at something until it shined brightly with an over-the top attitude that became comical. She wanted to show Kvasir the world, and all of its joys, give him something to cling to before he fell down the slippery sands of Zeinav’s desert. Yes, she would pack nothing but the best food from all over the world, she would give Kvasir something worth remembering.

No, Aaleahya thought as she caught the tail end of Kvasir’s whispered lament, likely not meant to be heard by Aaleahya’s own ears. I’m going to show you how to live again, if you’ll let me.

The two set off joyfully through Sol City’s marketplace, with Aaleahya pointing out little bits and curiosities that she found interesting. Smells of food from street vendors wafted through the air, making Aaleahya hungry. Perhaps they would go to dinner after all was said and done- but for now, they were rapidly approaching the Siren’s hideout, a room just above what looked like an incense shop. Kvasir smoothed out her dress, taking on the countenance of her role, becoming Khatmi once more. Aaleahya smiled in anticipation, a scorpion with its stinger poised and ready to strike. “Oh, I’ve been ready for some time now, my dearest medic.”

She then reached into her bra once more before whipping out a lavender handkerchief, allowing the crocodile tears to begin flowing with earnest. The powder on her face began to smudge even further, snot running down her nose as Aaleahya Chandrika dissolved into a puddle of emotions, crying so loudly that a few passerby whipped their heads around and stared at her in alarm.

Aaleahya blew her nose into the handkerchief, whispering just quiet enough that Khatmi could hear. “Wrap your arm around my shoulder and lead me inside. I’m a damsel in distress and you are my lady-knight in shining armor.” Then, loud enough that anyone within earshot would hear, Aaleahya stepped into her role with earnest. “Oh, the humanity! When I get my hands on that conniving, two-faced son of a whore, I will surely…” She trailed off into another, loud sob. Khatmi awkwardly led her inside the shop, where a single lady stood in the back, polishing a counter. The woman’s head whipped up at the sound of the bell on her door ringing out, and the even louder sob of Aaleahya’s misery.

“Erm, is there something I can help you with, my dears?” She asked uncertainly, eyes flitting tone Aaleahya with something like apprehension and concern dawning in her eyes.

As Khatmi explained the situation in a quiet, demure voice, Aaleahya interjected with another broken sob. “We were to be wed!” She wailed, balking up her skirts in frustration. “He promised me a ring, but then his traitorous eyes wandered straight up the skirt of the next pretty young thing that he saw!”

“Oh, goodness. That does sound like a problem.” The lady put her head in her hands, sympathetic but unsure of what to do. Was she a secret siren? Aaleahya had no idea, but that was no matter. She was about to amp up the drama, as she was known to do. She buried her face in her hands before screeching,

“OH, LUNALA, AM I DOOMED TO DIE AN OLD CRONE, STILL UNMARRIED BY THIRTY-FIVE? WHAT I WOULDN’T GIVE TO HAVE HIS EYES ONLY ON ME ONCE MORE!”

She then took the opportunity to peek through her fingers, glancing at the lady to see if she would buy this pitiful act.

In all the time she's known her, from that first meeting beneath the pale glow of the Lantern Light Wood's bioluminescent lifeforms, to their mirthful venture through Zeinav's High Market together, to every camping trip and herb hunt and general chance they'd leapt upon to spend time together, as colleagues or foragers or friends, Khatmi has always been well-acquainted with Morrigan Moonweaver's peerless tenacity, her boundless stubbornness. It pops up every time they spend Solars on another gift for her in an attempt to make her smile, every time they insist Khatmi could never bother them or be a waste of their time even if she knows she's intruding, every time they've stared down a god and all his remnants and merely rolled their eyes.

Morrigan is an unfathomably tenacious creature, and they both know it well-- hell, they go as far as playfully calling themself a leech, clinging to people and ideals they fancy with rows of dream-spun teeth, nurtured by the things they chase. And still, as stubborn as Khatmi knows them to be, it is... it is vexing how they manage to shrug aside her every attempt to reroute things, to remind them both that this is meant to be a serious mission, to hand them the reminder that they are parading around with the puppet of a deity who wants nothing more than to spill their star-woven blood.

They parry her every concern with the grace and flourish of a fencer, the smile of a charmer, some dashing rogue battling away at an old demon in a crowded square, ready to take her in their arms once her own resolve crumbles. And though Khatmi knows she should save the poetics and focus, not even she can deny how lovely the dream sounds.

But a dream is a dream, and she's only scarcely allowed those, now.

She's about to speak, about to add on to the conversation when Morrigan-- now truly Aaleahya-- bursts into tears, utter despair painted across every feature of that pretty face, the wails spilling from her lips shrill and aching with what can only be called despondence, grief. She snaps into the role of a woman scorned so quickly and so easily that it almost gives Khatmi whiplash, but before she can think about it too hard, she's being given instructions, and all she can do is cradle Aaleahya against her side, arm draped around her shoulder like it has a thousand times before, and she leads her forward into the shop before them.

Gods, Khatmi almost can't help but pity the woman at the counter, who looks so utterly lost-- but there's a gentle sympathy tucked into her eyes, the budding seeds of understanding. There's no way of knowing if this is one of their Sirens just yet, but...

"...good evening, Miss," she says softly, voice light and hued with sorrow, one of her hands rising to pet at Aaleahya's hair in an attempt at expressing comfort, a quiet, soothing shhhh interwoven between her words. "My apologies for the commotion, I... I was wandering through the streets, and I met Miss Chandrika here just... sobbing her eyes out. I asked her what was wrong, and... she'd found out, just tonight, that her beloved has been unfaithful."

Aaleahya's histrionics stand in stark contrast to her own gentle, demure demeanor, but Khatmi does believe it works in their favor; it is astounding just how easily Aaleahya takes to the role of pure grief she's immersed herself into, how well she steps into her role in the story, how naturally it all comes to her. If she was not Khatmi's dearest enchanter, diviner, storyteller, alchemist, godslayer, and myriad other titles, perhaps Aaleahya could've been an actress, the centerpiece of those tragedies and comedies they perform at the hearts of big cities. She'd be a natural at it.

It's fascinating, really, Khatmi thinks, as she wraps her arms around Aaleahya and tucks her head beneath her chin, offering more of that gentle shushing, doing her best to step into that role. How has Aaleahya never considered the performer's life before?

The shopkeeper seems to debate something in silence for a long moment, faltering in the wake of Aaleahya's outburst, but just as she opens her mouth to speak, there's the sound of footsteps from above, the unmistakable sound of someone descending a flight of stairs. The lady at the counter glances over at the door off to the side, and Khatmi's gaze follows, just in time to catch the sight of a woman emerging from the doorway.

Long black hair cascades in ringlets down her back, pinned out of the way by clusters of rosebuds, and her eyes are carnation pink, framed by dark lashes and rosy powder, lips smudged with the same dewy color. She looks like a spring fairy, small in frame with slightly pointed ears, clothed all in those same shades of carnation--

And an unmistakable light of sympathetic curiosity illuminates her whole face.

"Dear me, I heard quite the commotion!" she says, hand rising to her lips demurely. "Is everything quite alright?"

Khatmi doesn't even hesitate. "Oh-- I... I apologize," she says softly, matching that timid tone. "My companion here-- she... she found out tonight that her beloved has been unfaithful, and... and I merely wished to get her out of the commotion of the streets. We do not wish to cause you trouble."

"Oh? How awful!" The girl gasps, hands clapping her own cheeks in a same echo of theatrics, though Khatmi isn't sure they're anywhere near as calculated. "Oh, you poor thing-- that's dreadful! I... I..."

She pauses, gaze flitting over to the shopkeep, pink sparking to life with hope.

There it is.

"...I think we may be able to help you."

Aaleahya was the very picture of a poor, pitiful creature, only accentuated by Khatmi’s soothing words and her gentle demeanor. Even as Aaleahya paused her waterworks, peeking between her fingers like a child who could not contain her excitement at the prospect of a surprise, she could tell the lady behind the counter was beginning to melt. The Sirens may have been elusive and distrusting about women they welcomed into their ranks, but if there was one thing they couldn’t resist, it was a woman in need.

Good.

Just as Aaleahya was about to seal the deal, a pixie in human form fluttered down the stairs from a door in the back of the shop, summoned by the commotion. She looked like she’d stepped right out of a rosebud rather than an illegal alchemical hideout, but more importantly, she looked concerned. Khatmi tried to gently explain as she asked what had happened, and Aaleahya sniffled into her handkerchief once more, burying her head into Khatmi’s shoulder.

“I fear I shall be forced to live the life of a spinstress… oh, why am I doomed to be a miser! My only crime was to be in love!”

That seemed to seal the deal as the delightfully pink wisp of a woman gasped, pressing her hands to her equally-pink cheeks in shock. A glance was exchanged between the woman behind the stall and the woman at the door, a silent conversation.

In Khatmi’s shoulder, Aaleahya smirked. A scorpion’s stinger never missed its mark.

She bid for Khatmi and Aaleahya step behind the curtain, up the rickety stairs to a safer location. Behind them, the shopkeep left the counter, approaching the shop door and locking it- preventing any customers from wandering in, and preventing them from slipping out all in one simple twist of the key. As best she could, Aaleahya watched the shopkeep tuck the key in her dress pocket right before she was ushered into the back room, and the pink pixie closed the curtain behind them.

She kindly reached out to pry Aaleahya from Khatmi so she could get a better look at the crying lady’s face. Aaleahya allowed her to put her hands on Aaleahya’s shoulders, as the lady clicked her tongue at Aaleahya’s appearance. She was sure she was a sight for sore eyes- pink and black smudging her cheeks, mixing with the glitter on her face. Her lower lip wobbled, promising more tears that had yet to be shed. Not to mention, despite her best efforts, the fountain had made a mess of her hair, which now hung limply around her in wet, clumpy strands.

“Oh, you poor thing.” She cooed. “Heartbreak is a terrible burden to bear. You must love him terribly, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

What?

Aaleahya was so stunned for a moment that she nearly broke character, blinking owlishly up at the Siren. She shouldn’t have been able to see anything. Aaleahya was acting, playing a part. How silly. The Siren, in her pity, must have convinced herself that she’d seen a spark of love in Aaleahya’s mind for a love that didn’t exist. There was no way she actually… saw anything, did she?

Focus, Aaleahya. Now, of all times, was not the moment for her to get distracted. Aaleahya sniffed, fiddling with the hem of her skirt. “I… I do.” She said quietly. “I would do anything to keep him on my side- to make sure he looks…” She hiccuped. “Looks at me with the same adoration in his gaze that he did when we first met.”

“Shhh… there, there.” She pet Aaleahya’s hair in slow, soothing motions. When she spoke next, her voice was hushed, as if keeping out for any watchful ears, utterly oblivious as to the identity of the two ladies she was about to spill her secrets to. “I think I might have something to help you, my poppet. But you must promise that you do not tell anyone. Do you understand?”

She looked between Aaleahya and Khatmi, waiting for their approval. When both gave her small nods, she sighed in relief. “I… we… have a business. We help lovelorn women like yourself. If you follow me, I might be able to give you something that will bring his attentions back to you.”

“Oh, you can?” Aaleahya’s eyes sparkled with something new- hope. “Oh, I would owe you a great debt, my lady. I would to anything to earn his love.”

The Siren gave Aaleahya a warm smile and a giggle. “There’s no need for any of that. We help people because it pains us to see such heartbreak as your own on such a pretty face. Come, and I shall take you to our shop.”

She beckoned for Aaleahya and Khatmi to follow. Aaleahya sniffled, climbing up the wooden steps to the second floor, trying not to think too hard about how easily the Siren had bought her act, or that the first excuse that had left her lips were ones that she’d thought about Khatmi herself in the past.

Khatmi has always known Morrigan Moonweaver to be utterly spellbinding.

There's an undeniable charm that flows from them like water from an urn, steady and glistening beneath celestial light, woven into their shining smile and clear voice and pretty, pretty words like some sweeping violet tapestry. Even in the midst of their wildest antics and most infuriating of ideas, it remains steady, always there to soften any anger that may blossom to life in Khatmi's soul over watching her favorite person in all the world launch themself carelessly into danger. And just as she is always so effortlessly charmed, the rose-clothed lady, too, is spellbound.

It is a lucky thing, really; Khatmi feels quite like a parrot in comparison, squawking out the same words over and over again in the same tone to try and carry along the story, but Aaleahya's grand charade is so brilliant and believable that neither the shopkeep nor this pixie all in pink seem to doubt her for a second. She has to bite back a sigh of relief as the stranger sweeps them back beyond the curtain veiling the stairwell, petals of sympathy layered over pistils of determination in those round eyes as she pulls Aaleahya from Khatmi's arms and drinks in the sight of her, painted nails starting to comb through slightly tangled strands of lavender hair as she coos out reassurances.

A coldness looms against Khatmi's side where Aaleahya had once been, a gentle chill shaped around a ghost of a body, and as she watches this Siren whisper words of comfort and pet at Aaleahya's hair like it's something she's done before, she knows she cannot blame the lingering dampness from the fountain.

It is an ugly thing, envy, especially when held for a stranger, when held for things you are not meant to hold.

She stands as steadily as she may, spine straight, fingers laced together, tension rippling through her shoulders as she listens to those whispers, listens to the aching love poured into every word Aaleahya speaks. Ha, she... truly is a brilliant actress; she has yearning down to an art, desperation to be wanted stitched into the ache of her voice, into the rasp resonating beneath the sorrowful words. Was Khatmi not in on this and aware of the fact that they'd concocted this particular part of the scheme on their walk here, she'd have fallen for it all herself.

Her bubble of misery and jealousy for something that does not exist and all these other ugly twisting feelings shatters around her as soon as the woman asks for their silence, laying forth her offer. Khatmi nods without thinking about it, carefully piecing together an expression of feigned cluelessness, allowing nothing to betray the flicker of triumph sparking to life somewhere within her.

This... this is actually working. All of it-- Aaleahya's careful theatrics have given them an easy way into the midst of something that should have been an absolute nightmare to navigate, and now one of their targets is ushering them upstairs, captivated by the story they've spun.

As soon as the woman's back is turned on their venture up the stairs, Khatmi shoots Aaleahya a look, disbelief, triumph, and relief coalescing into a hazy puddle within green and gold, but she falters as soon as she processes the stormy quality on her dear enchanter's face. For any outsider, anyone who did not know the star-bound diviner hidden beneath the layers of makeup and glitter and black silk, it would be indistinguishable, but Khatmi swears she catches what might very well be confusion in those blue eyes, an edge of similar disbelief. Is... she really so stunned that her act worked so well? Is that it?

"...it will be alright," she whispers, hoping the words are vague enough to not arouse any suspicion. She falters for a moment, hesitant, as though she doubts whether she has the right to do this, but after the seconds trickle by, she slips her hand into Aaleahya's and gives it a gentle squeeze, cradling lilac fingers between her own for just one moment before withdrawing, returning her focus to the ascent.

It does not take long before they're swept before another curtain, the young lady giving them another smile and a wink as she grips the edges of it, only starting to pull it away.

"Remember now, my dears," she says sweetly, eyes sparkling. "Keep this hush-hush; but as long as what happens within these walls stay within them, feel free to do as you'd like. My name is Fiora-- I'm going to run back and fetch something for you, but if you'd like to chat with the others while I get things settled, you may feel free. I am quite sure they'll sympathize with your plight, my dear."

She giggles with all the gentle ringing of a wind chime as she sets her free hand against Aaleahya's shoulder, gently ushering her forward past the threshold, and Khatmi merely follows along.

What lies beyond that glimmering curtain is hardly the vision of an alchemical warehouse that Khatmi had envisioned-- no, the room is adorned with strings of Lantern Lights and tapestries and carpets in pastels, with flowers, with chaises, with anything and everything that could cultivate those brilliant ideas of romance-- she catches sight of a few flasks about, a burner or two, but they are hardly the focus. No, this is more like stepping into a matchmaker's lounge than a potion brewer's.

Fiora immediately gives Aaleahya one last pat before slipping off, weaving through a few clusters of ladies of all races and origins, who offer her smiles and curious glances that wander quite readily in the direction of the new women among their ranks. A surge of mild unease floods over Khatmi at the feeling of unfamiliar eyes on her, her gaze flitting to Aaleahya once more, voice so quiet it's nigh-impossible to hear over the background noise.

"...I hope you're ready to keep that act up, Aaleahya."