Lucille was gone. Cassandra's own time at Fandom was over.

And so would be Anders's. She had offered him the leniency of life here for some amount of time, but now, Cassandra reflected as she bustled the last of her armor into her trunk, that would change. He belonged in a Circle, after all, not running amock here.

She grunted as she lifted the bag. It was the books inside making it heavy, she knew.

She lifted her sword. "May Andraste give me strength," she muttered. The mage would likely be vexing, and he wouldn't make it easy.

And thusly armed, she stepped out of the door of her dorm room...

... and into the Thedosian woods. "--Maker!"

[[ can be open right before she leaves, but slow. ]]

It had taken more time to move all of her things than Cassandra had entirely anticipated: her armor and equipment were happy, and she had gathered more books over the past year or so than she had thought. And of course, there were the bookshelves they had bought at the Isle of IKEA, which now took up most of the room. Still, as Cassandra put down the last of her book on their joint 'already read' shelf, it had been a good day's work.

"This is perfect," she said, stepping back from the shelves.

She appreciated her and Lucille's handiwork for a moment longer.

[[ open post, open door! ]]

Cassandra woke up early, as she did every morning, and rolled over so that she may leave the bed, as she did every morning, and then crashed to the floor in a flurry of hooves and tail and other such nonsense.

"Maker!"

She scrambled up to her-- legs, breathing harshly, eyes big. "What magic is this?!" she snapped, staring down at her front hooves. She padded around in a circle, attempting to get some impression of her ordeal. "Andraste's--"

She neighed. Loudly. Angrily.

"What is the meaning of this?!"

The bloody island!

[[ closed door, open post! ]]

It was a morning as any other. For some measure of the phrase: the stars above were still inescapable, the island warmed by the heat coming up out of the planetoid it was set on rather than any recognizable sun. But that did not matter overmuch to Cassandra, who was intent on her morning exercise. She left the mountainside early and trudged towards the path leading out, through the preserve, fully-armored and ready for her morning jog.

Just another day, indeed.

[[ for one, please! ]]

Cassandra had returned the last batch of books to the library. She was beginning to run out of novels in her preferred genre, which perhaps made her sadder than she should have necessarily been.

So she had done an experiment today, and now she was hauling in the results: five books, randomly picked off of the shelves, going by covers she didn't recognize. She put them on her desk as she came in, then sank down on the bed with a pleased sigh. At least she would still have plenty to read for this week; after that, she would have to ask Garik to help her find the novels on the line again.

"Computers," she muttered. "Maker."

[[ open! ]]

The book of dirty poetry Cassandra had confiscated from Garik was still... there. On her nightstand. Mocking her. Moreso now that her one class of the day had finished and she would have all the time in the world to stare at it while it mocked. And it mocked fiercely.

Perhaps she could just take a single peek?

No. She had taken it from Garik to ensure he returned to doing his work the way he was intended to. It was merely here for safekeeping. Yes.

... if this resulted in her spending most of the remainder of the morning sighing in the general direction of the book as she attempted to focus on cleaning her bracers, well. It did.

[[ open post, open door ]]

Hey-o, folks! This is just a quick update of my characters outside of the new boy, since at least one of them has some new stuff going on you should probably know about. In fact, let's start with her.

( The Seeker. )

( The Poor Boy From Bristol )

( The Good Jedi )

( The Bad Jedi. )

( The Valkyrie. )

-

( The Chicken Lady )

It had been a long and arduous... how long had it been? She did not know. She did not remember: did not remember her name, her being, anything beyond this room. She was empty. A vessel, which sat on thin knees and prayed. Over and over again, she had spoken the Chant, and now she was hoarse; she had eaten and she had drunk, but nothing of any noteworthy flavor. It was as it should be.

There was nothing left in the world but grey. It did not matter. She pressed her hands together more firmly and whispered the words. It hurt, but the pain was distant. Colourless. It was...

...

...

It was white. Hot, burning like the sun, settling deep within her core. It stretched its rays outward and touched every part of her, scorching it. The greyness burned, like Andraste's pyre, great white hot flames that licked up through her every extremity. It was beauty. It was grace. It was everything. It was... too much.

She came to hours later. She was curled up on the floor. Above her, the familiar faces of a dozen Seekers.

"Congratulations," said Byron. He was smiling.

---

Two days later, she sat outside the fortress. There was a small park here, far away from the bustle of Montsimmard, but not quite as outside it all as the fortress; it was good for her, to experience the colors and the scent of the world again, even if it left her rather... distracted. Cassandra had new power burning in her veins, power she scarcely knew how to use. It kept gripping her at the strangest of times.

But now she sat, and she watched, and she--

--watched a jagged line of magic slice clean through the air, sparked by a small bundle at the side of the fountain. A trap, surely, laid here by a mage, waiting for a Seeker to come and...

Cassandra was up on her feet within moments, drawing her sword. "What is this?!"

[[ for one! ]]

If one thought that getting out of radio duty for the day meant Cassandra would sleep in, one did not truly know Cassandra Pentaghast. No; she was taking advantage of the extra time to put in an early sweep of the island before resuming her training in the salle. She had done such sweeps recently, but they had lapsed to twice a week rather than once a day, largely because it had become rather obvious that simply walking over the causeway would not get her home.

She had explored various exit points already, to no avail. The causeway was both the most obvious and the least likely choice, which made it her end point.

She regarded the long stretch of road critically, the metal of her armor clacking together as she crossed her arms. The books had always said some nonsense about 'thinking of home' when you wanted to return, but that had clearly never helped. Still, she brought the image of home up in her mind: the vast spires and artful bridges of Montsimmard, the halls of the Montsimmard Chantry, lit with candles. The Seekers, their armors shining, running their swords along the whetstone. The sound of the Chanters outside, reciting their lines.

"The one who repents, who has faith," she murmured, "Unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace."

She took a step, and then another step, and then another, all in firm rhythm; there was no uncertainty in her, nor in her gait. She saw the blue sky, and the road before her, and she heard the bustle of Fandom, and she felt...

...she felt a sweep of cold beyond her nose.

Her gait stuttered, then stopped. She looked over her shoulder and saw mountains.

"Cassandra!"

Her gaze snapped back. Candles. Runes. Empty vials. Bodies. And--

"Byron!"

[[ establishy! last five lines nfb due to distance. ]]