1875-12-16: The Next Step
The Next Step
Summary: Alia, mostly recovered from her injuries, returns to work.
Date: 1875-12-16
Related: Follows a few days after: The Battle For Rykers, Part 1.
NPCs: None
Players:
Alia  Brennart  Cervantes  Darius  Ludovic  

Alia rose from the healer's bed onto which she had been carried. Her injuries had been severe, but that was not the worst of it. She had had worse. The worst had been trying to keep her magic under control. She had been coated with snow, and towards the end, ice, and she had had to be exceedingly careful not to allow herself even a second to draw on the flames inside of her. Not to cast, not even to draw on it just a little, to heat her skin. She had forgone the draught, of course, for she had been in the field, but it had cost her. She had fought long years for control, but the turn of phrase 'let off steam' was not only a metaphorical one, in her case. Even after she has been tended to, her wounds bandaged and covered, and she as put into fresh clothes, she had remained in danger. Finally, the medicos had resorted to making her take her draught and giving her something that would force her to sleep. When she had finally awoken, it had been here, under heavy blankets, with the cloak she had worn into battle dried and laid over her. It was this she pulled back around her as she padded over to where there was a small writing desk, wincing only a little at the pain of sensation that throbbed in her leg. She could see the pile of reports waiting for her, and she took a moment, lifting the fabric to her nose, inhaling that scent that lingered there, that brought to mind safety, and home, and comfort.

She allowed herself only a brief respite though. She had already been two days abed, and she had left others to do her duties in that time. She trusted Aeneas to do them well, and without question, but that was not who she was. And that was not who the Legion needed her to be.

Alia settled at the desk, sorting the most important reports from the less so. The injuries first, those wounded, who could be saved and who would return to the fight and those who had been killed in battle. She winced as she read. It was too many. It was always too many. Even a single life added to the tally of the dead either as a result of the war or by the enemy's own hand was not to be borne. She was certain the commanders had their numbers, but still, she would make certain she gave them all that they needed to see to their dead and to tend to their injured. Food, for now, was still in good supply, for they had been laying in stores through the long fall, and the fortifications in which they sheltered were yet safe and secure from the worst of the weather. All would be as well as it could be on that front.

Reports of activities in Paras and Cotswold were returned to her as well, for those were her demesne. The reports on Candeo she received at second hand, the parchment marked with the sigil of the 8th, showing that their commander had viewed them first and sent on word to her. For now, the colonias were quiet. Never safe, but for now, quiet.

Finally, she opened the last message which was both the most important and the one which would inform everything they did from this point on. A second assault. She nodded, reading over the cipher that, when translated would let her know where they were intended to be. It would not be for a few days yet. The men and their beasts needed rest.

As for Alia, well, she had rested enough. Rising from the desk, she moved back towards the bed and the trunk of books and scrolls she had had brought with her to the fortification. She had not been idle, in the weeks since Spirit Day, and she had begun the process of gathering every scrap of information she could find. On magic, on creation, on the old things, on the ones who had defeated them and how. And what histories the Empire had brought with them, what histories of the Empire before they had went East, those too she had been actively searching for, using her contacts at the guild and in Four Corners. Perhaps she would reach out to the Repton Viscount, see what histories he had as well. She had given him a gift once, perhaps he could repay her in kind.

For now, though, she took up the first tome, tugging the cloak around her so that the scent enveloped her, an anchor to keep her while she set herself adrift, seeking for answers.

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