>>5145330>>5144821>>5144824>>5144825>>5145055>>5145202“You're right,” you say, with only a slight sniffle and barest misgivings.
‘Damn right I am!’ Irinnile cheers on your resolution. ‘Edwin's just some GUY, some HUMAN guy. I mean, I get it. He's cute. Nice dick. That MANA! But he doesn't get you like I do.’
That much is true—probably nobody in all the world knows you as well as the dream-demon nesting in your very heart, privy to your sleeping dreams and your waking ones. Maybe… Maybe Edwin of Engel was a mistake. Maybe Irinnile is all you need.
‘Thatta’ girl,’ Irinnile whispers, and you feel her spectral caress.
Still, she is a parasitic demonic entity—one who takes and drains. Edwin? Edwin was giving, and loving, and…
You shake your head to clear the clouds. You need food, and despite your resolution, you need comfort. Where better for either, you reason, than the home of Oxford, Agatha Johan’s uncle? Agatha Johan is your oldest human ‘friend’, the peasant girl and former temple aide turned seamstress, who traveled to Hawksong with you from the farming town of Sparrowton. She’s shy, deferential, and very easily bullied. She is, in other words, perfect to take your mind off of… Him.
“Ismena?” she greets you at her door with surprise. “I was worried sick about you! Oh, you look… Oh, well, um, still good but… Come inside.”
Not the greeting you expected, but you graciously accept. Oswald, Agatha’s uncle, is hard at work with a block of wood and a saw and knife; you recall vaguely that he did some form of carpentry work, primarily furnishings.
“Ismena,” he acknowledges. “It’s been a while.”
You smile slyly and say, “It’ss been hectic.”
“I heard about the Gala,” Agatha says, taking your cloak. “Are you alright? Is Edwin?”
You wince at the name, but nod. Agatha catches your reaction, though. You can see her squirming to ask, but too polite and withdrawn to do so. You sigh, and clear the air yourself.
“It’sss… Complicated. We ended up…” You stop, taking a breath. “I won’t be seeing him for a while.”
“Oh no!” Agatha says. “Have you got anywhere to stay?”
You hear Oxford’s carving abruptly stop, and can sense the sudden spike in his anxiety—he’s afraid his niece, well-meaning girl that she is, is about to volunteer his home. You stifle a laugh.
“I do,” you say. “The Pretty Kitty hass a room for me. But if you’re offering food… I haven’t eaten ssincce the Gala.”
“Oh! Of course! I’m sorry.”
Agatha stammers her apologies, hangs your cloak, and sets about hustling and bustling to make you a meal. She even remembers your preferences: meat, eggs, a minimum of starches and greens, and water.
