Page 205: Night's Black Agents
Night's Black Agents
Summary: In the darkest hour of night, sleeplessness stirs about the Flint campsite. A light discussion of politics and war turns strange as Cordelya sees spies in the darkness.
Date: 7/2/289
Related Logs: All the Markus/Senna Logs, and the crazy Cordelya logs.
Fenrir Cordelya Senna 
The Flint Campsite, Seagard
A large cabin-style tent stands in the center of the small area granted, the light and dark device declaring it to be House Flint of Flint's Finger hangs just outside on a make-shift armour stand. Dotted around the main camp are smaller tents for the cavalry (who have to share tents), and for the foot soldier (they are stuffed into tents like sardines). There is a small but adequate holding area for their horses with a tent for the tack. In the center of their small area is a cooking fire, with appropriate cooking supplies.
The Wee Hours of the Morning, Tuesday, February 7th, 289

"Light thickens; and the crow
Makes wing to the rooky wood:
Good things of day begin to droop and drowse;
While night's black agents to their preys do rouse.
Thou marvell'st at my words: but hold thee still;
Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill." — Macbeth, Act III Scene II

It's late. Very late. In fact, the first glimmers of dawn have already begun to break over the eastern horizon. Campfires burn eternally in the Flint camp, and there is a heavy watch in place - after the last time the camp was overrun, Fenrir takes no chances with security; the men patrol constantly, and in erratic patterns, the better to keep from getting complacent. So footfalls and conversations are frequent, making it rather difficult for the poor sots wrapped in their bedrolls and trying to sleep.

It's chilly out, for the south, but that just means the Northerners are feeling pretty comfortable - no one needs to huddle against the campfires for warmth, though a frequent stream of watch members come and go hunting for more of Orlagh Masing's marvelous tea. But everyone is quiet around Lord Anders' tent, the better to keep from disturbing the heir to the Flints in his healing process - and the better to avoid Fenrir's leathery tongue.

And there's the man himself; Fenrir is pacing the perimeter, checking in with a few of the stationary guards. His manner is amiable, indefagitable, and no one would know that he hasn't slept at all to look at him. "Alright, there, Jamys? Hey, you keep impressing me, I got a special honor for you - bannerman, eh? Keep sharp, lad." A slap to the young man's shoulder, and Fenrir diverts himself from the exterior to.. yes, to fetch a cup of tea from the special pot kept brewing near Anders' tent. Rank hath its priveledges.

The early part of the night saw the tent undisturbed because, well, the occasional sounds coming from beyond the flaps were absolutely the sort that said most is fixed between husband and wife, and Anders is feeling up to more than morning drills and spars. Then the tent fell into silence, the couple no doubt enjoying what time they can steal together and desperately needed sleep. However, deep, deep into the hours of the night, there is a quiet disturbance. The sound too soft, not wishing to break the sleep of maids or others, but the flap of the tent twitches open just a few inches before out slips a ghostly looking form.

In the pale moonlight, actually slipped into one of her elegant, but more loose and easy dresses, Corrie might look like a ghost. The dress is a pale blue in daylight, a simple empire waisted number with a low neckline and not many laces, but nighttime makes even the most normal of things look surreal and strange. Corrie is a pale shadow, so tall and thin, her brown hair down in soft, husband tossled curls, the only thing she's not bothered to properly fix before stealing into the night. She doesn't have a cloak, but as her body kisses against the night air she shivers a few moments. Pale jade eyes, a hint too wide, flicker back to the tent, debating going back to retrieve more warm clothing, but the thought of risking waking any maid is not worth it. So she pauses and looks forward, arms folding across her small chest. This would normally be the time of night she steals out to the Godswood, but there is no wood here. So she lingers and debates.

A sound. Fenrir's head comes up alertly, spotting Cordelya in her light dress. His eyes widen for a second, as though he is seeing some strange apparition - and then he realizes who it is, and a slow smile creases his face. He doesn't question, doesn't even raise a brow, merely unclasps his heavy wolfskin cloak and step forward. "Lady Flint. Do me the honor?" His cloak is offered out easily, held in one oak-gnarled fist.

"Can't sleep again, eh?" It's no surprise Fenrir knows of her insomnia - the man runs a tight camp, and no doubt some of the lads have commented on the Lady's restlessness. "Here.." His other hand comes out, offering the steaming mug of tea. "Warm yourself up. You want I should leave you to your prayers?"

Where as Cherise shyed away in disgust at the cloak, it's scents, wolfy odor and faint touch of sweat, Cordelya certainly does not. If nothing else, it's a taste of home as dearly sweet as her missing Godswood, and the scent of a man she's trusted with her life since she was a little girl, even if she did not much know it back then. "Fen…" She breathes out, this time of night not bothering with many of the curtesies that the day light hours would hold. "Thank you. I… I did not realize it grew so chilled here." She whispers, her breath just faintly kissing the night as a fog. It has gotten cold.

Then she tucks down a bit deeper beneath his large cloak. She practically drowns it in, only her own odd height meaning it doesn't fully drag on the ground, but it could probably go around her twice or thrice easily. She relaxes just a few more inches for its scent and warmth. "No… Gods, I should. I need it. And I cannot… " A light touch of miserable frustration escapes her voice there, eyes flickering into the shadows just a moment. She doesn't quite look back to him as he speaks. "I do not wish to pull you from other duties, but if you have no distractions… Your company would be a gift, in truth."

Silence from the lean master-at-arms for a time - not the awkward silence of a man pondering an exit, but rather a companionable stillness. He absently brushes his thumb up and down the antler-horn hilt of his dagger, watching Cordelya, his lean features cast in shadow and firelight. As she refuses the tea, he takes it back happily enough, sipping and nodding to the woman agreeably. Finally, he speaks up, his manner as relaxed as an old retainer might have a right to be. "Come on then, Lady, let's have a sit over here, so we don't wake the Young Lord."

He paces toward one of the fires, where a few logs serve as makeshift benches for the men-at-arms now slumbering in neat rows. A hacking, sawing, snore catches his attention for a moment, and he grins as he peers down at the broad, flat features of Jory, one of his serjeants. "Him, I don't mind if we wake," he adds lightly, settling down onto a log and resting his mug atop his knee. "So," he finally gets down to it, "You want to tell me what's off, then, Lady? Or you rather I tell you a story?"

Not nodding off, not yet, but just not quite so chatty. Cordelya recognizes when a discussion is over her head, and she can learn more by staying silent, listening and remembering than by interrupting the valuable words. The commentary about battle, training men, sell swords, soldiers and Markus himself is all remarkably valuable to her. If nothing else, Corrie is -more- awake than before, her jade eyes focused on every word as it's spoken, considering the issues weighed between the pair. But she does not interrupt.

<FS3> Cordelya rolls Mind: Failure.

"No, you're right," Senna agrees quietly with Fenrir. "Horses aren't much for sailing, and the landscape there isn't much for horses. Though the lance isn't really Markus' strength anyhow. He's best with a blade, mounted or otherwise." Pensive, she reaches up to shake a hand through her hair. "It's a waste of knights, but no one really trains foot soldiers anymore. Aside from the Naylands, at least, and you should have heard the stink Stonebridge put up when it started. So you'll need knights to anchor the ranks. Experienced men who won't run." She considers Fenrir in silence for a long moment, then offers cautiously: "Would you like me to speak with him?"

"No. He either works his way into the Flints, or he dies 'cos no common-born son of a farmer leaps out of ranks to save him. I train the men this hard 'cos I want them to break ranks for each other if they got to. But I won't have resentment breeding, neither. It's like leprosy - it spreads, and it stinks." Fenrir's soliloquy is delivered in low quiet, the better to keep from waking the men sleeping nearby. He offers an apologetic smile aside to Cordelya.

"I'm sorry. Work ain't what we ought to be discussing, Mistress, on first acquaintance. But you know, I fought in the last war, and I've fought plenty of bandits and Wildlings - and Ironborn, aye." His lips twist in a brief, wry smile. "Infantry wins battles. It always has. Ironborn know it, Northmen know it. Southerners gonna re-learn it." He laughs suddenly, relaxing as the tension of the conversation leaves him. "Enough. I'm turning into my father before my own damned eyes."

Whether it's the fact that the conversation is changing topics, or that the exhaustion has finally gotten to Cordelya, or just the time of night, but her eyes have finally strayed. She's staring into the darkness, far and over Fenrir's shoulder, where the fires no longer reach and some low trees even block the stars. Far behind that darkness the cliffs rest, the faint echo of the ocean, and it all has her eyes. She frowns deeply, back stiffening again, hackles suddenly up. "…I… I think we are being watched… There were eyes over there. From the trees. Spies from other camps, mayhaps." Corrie finally whispers, her voice dead serious and a touch frightened.

"Sure," Senna nods to Fenrir. "But if I leave the two of you to it, I've got a feeling it's going to turn into a cock-measuring contest, and while infantry might win wars, those lose them," she notes, a smile flashing white in the firelight. "Besides, I'd rather he have people watching his back, even if he doesn't think he needs them." When Cordelya speaks up, she twists a bit, head canting to listen to the sounds outside the fire, the eye closest to the flames half-closing.

<FS3> Senna rolls Alertness: Good Success.

<FS3> Fenrir rolls Alertness: Good Success.

Fenrir's head comes up, and his hand goes over his shoulder; it comes back with the long-handled bearded axe, as though by a conjuring trick. He rises, one hand coming down lightly on Cordelya's shoulder - only for a moment, but long enough to let her know that he's taking her seriously. His gaze fixes on the woodline, and he stands stock-still - head forward a bit, unmoving, the very image of what a wolf would look like, assuming it stood on two legs. After a few beats, he whistles - low, then high.

Two of the roving sentries are over at the trot. "Go and check that woodline, lads. Carefully, now. Shout out if there's anything." He looks down at Cordelya and Senna, features serious as he speaks, his tone gentle. "I don't hear nothing, Lady Cordelya. But if there's summat there, the boys'll either find it or scare it off. Right enough?"

<FS3> Cordelya rolls Mind: Failure.

"I don't see anything, either, my lady," Senna says softly, brows furrowing slightly as she looks to Fenrir. She seems fairly certain, though, accustomed to trusting her own senses. Moving slowly, she rises to join the other woman on her log, offering a hand in gentle support. "You were drifting toward sleep there I think, though," she suggests. "Serves Master Viiding and me right, babbling on about knights and formations."

While Corrie is a touch worried about Markus, she's far more worried about the things she sees in the darkness. Her whole body is on edge now, tension like a string on a harp, breath a bit more shallow and eyes just a touch too wide. She almost flickers a look to Fenrir as she feels that meaty, strong hand upon her shoulder, but she's more terrified of the darkness and the things that lie beyond. "…T-they… they'll be gone now… up the trees or out to the fields… But they were there, Fen. I saw them. Watching the boys… they know our rotations, nightly. Just waiting to see a crack, a weakness… Waiting to come back like the Others, out of the darkness…" She murmurs lowly, the words just slightly rambling, but with a tremble behind her voice as well. The fear is far more focused than her ways to describe it, her pulse fluttering like a trapped bird in her throat, fingertips white knuckled around the cloak.

"Corrie," Senna says softly to the other woman, reaching out to take her hands. "Look at me, Corrie." She keeps her voice low, gentle, and her thumbs press slow, easy circles at the inside of the lady's wrists. "You're safe here. Safe and sound."

Ah. He's seen this before, has Fenrir, though perhaps not for more than a few years. He settles down on one knee before Cordelya, axe resting down across it lightly. When he speaks, the words are very soft - but no less lacking in iron for the sound of it. "I want you to heed me, now, Lady Cordelya. I want your attention. I am Fenrir Viiding, I am. I serve your Lord, and I ain't ever going to fail him. My father served his father. And on back, through the years. You listening?"

He smiles briefly aside at Senna, acknowledging gratefully her attempts to calm the woman as he talks. "My people remember the King in the North. You do too, I know. We remember winters long as a man's life. And longer. But we also remember when the greenspeakers lit the sun, Cordelya Reed. Ain't no darkness going to come take your lord, Corrie-girl. I never let it when you was a girl, and I ain't going to let it now."

<FS3> Cordelya rolls Mind: Failure.

Cordelya almost allows her hands to be taken by Senna, trying to focus, to look at either of them, but if she turns her gaze away from that darkness, then the things watching them will be able to slip away unseen and who knows if she catches them again. Corrie jerks her hands back almost violently from Senna, not striking at the girl, but trying to stumble away from both of them as she stares into the shadows, shaking her head over and over again. "No one is safe, Senna… no one… We marched with two hundred men and have one now. Do you truly think the Ironborn took -all- of them? When so many other forces kept so many… we lost. There are things coming after them… in the nights, hunting them in tents… " Her eyes jerk just a moment to Fenrir, too wide, too knowing, but then she's back into the shadows, trying to back away from the fire. Woe be to the man she might accidentally trample. "You know it, Fen. You know the tales and the darkness. The things out there… That might come by sea, away from the wall… That is why you train so hard, day and night… You always trained, even before the Ironborn, you trained because they might -come!-"

If only the men could see Fenrir now, they would know he was truly unflappable. He rises up, towering over the waif-skinny Lady, his expression firm but kindly. "Now listen, now, Corrie-girl.." A form of address he likely hasn't used since she was a scared child in the Stark castle, "..You just listen, now, little one. It's true, just as you say.. Shh, shh - yes, I train them hard 'cos a soldier never knows, does he, just what he'll fight?" About now, the two men return, shaking their heads in puzzlement; Fenrir banishes them with a quick chop of his left hand.

"The fires are burning, Lady Cordelya. The fires are burning, and the darkness fears the flame, so it does. Shh, now. Come and sit." He reaches out with his empty hand toward the woman, not quite touching her, but as though to offer a lifeline from the shadows that pull at her back. "Come and sit and I'll tell you a story. All is well, and if it ain't, me and the lads shall make it so. You know me, Lady Cordelya. Come on now. We must never fear the darkness.. 'Cos the greenwalkers'll always bring back the light." Soft and intent, the words flow out of the man like blather as he and Senna both hold their hands out to the poor frightened woman.

<FS3> Cordelya rolls Mind: Failure.

Lies. They all tell lies. While Cordelya would never think such things in her right mind, the paranoia has taken hold of her hard now, the worst she's been in years. Usually a strong word and a gentle hand is enough to shake her out of even the most distracted of fits, but not tonight. Perhaps it's all finally catching up with her, or perhaps there is something else at work. She backs up another shakey step, quickly away from their hands, and then she remembers the cloak about her. The cloak that is not her's. A cloak that smells like a man who is not her husband and the wolves of the north. She rips it off, tossing it in Fenrir's direction as a brief moment of distraction as she tries to jog back and out of the immediate campsite. At least one poor soldier is going to be awoken for some limb being trodden upon for a delicate moment or two, but Corrie hops like a bird and is fast as a rabbit as she tries to make her escape.

"They have both of you blinded to it, then. Put things in your food and the water around here. That's why I always boil it… they give you herbs so you cannot see. It's in all the Southern rivers and ponds, these herbs, that is why the southern lords no longer believe. Why they cannot hear the Gods. They are all drugged to complacency. But I see them and they are there, waiting for us, and none of you will open your eyes. I will not just… stay here and let the darkness take me! Anders… Andy will understand. We must protect him. He is who they want… His power and his blood, heir of the North! They would take him for his strength." And unless one of them physically stops her, she's going to try and move for her husband's tent. Poor Anders.

<FS3> Fenrir rolls Body: Good Success.

<FS3> Senna rolls Unarmed: Failure.

<FS3> Fenrir rolls Unarmed: Success.

Senna glances at Cordelya, glances at Fenrir, then pushes up from the log to try to catch Cordelya's arm. Waking Anders up in this state could not /possibly/ end well. When Corrie throws the cloak, though, she stumbles, missing the other woman. "Corrie, wait," she calls, untangling herself to hurry after.

"Not a word of this. To anyone." The look Fenrir gives Senna is flat, calculating; he's already considering how best to protect his Lord from the repercussions. And then he's off after the woman, letting his cloak land atop the log where the trio had, moments ago, been speaking peacefully. Cordelya is fast, and rabbit-like, and she gives him a bit of a scare. One of the men wakes, looking up blankly, and is met by, "Shutthebuggeryupandcloseyerdamneyes," as Fenrir deftly dodges through, footfalls surprisingly light for such a large man.

He catches Cordelya up around the waist, his other hand covering her mouth - what an awkward time for a guard patrol to come through this area, but luckily, things seem to be quiet. Perhaps they know better than to interfere with crazy-time. "Shh. Shh. You can't wake him, Cordelya Reed - you know you can't wake him. Listen to me. I am his shield, by oath. And I believe you. I believe you. And I'm gonna make it all better." Fenrir, bless him, does his best to be gentle, but he's not letting go either. "..Just relax. Relax, and trust me like you done when you was a girl. I ain't gonna hurt you. I ain't gonna let anyone else hurt you nor your man. Not while I breathe."

<FS3> Cordelya rolls Mind: Good Success.

Maybe it's the sound of more urgent voices coming after her, or the poor man she stepped upon. Or, more likely, it's the fact that she's suddenly got one arm around her waist and the other hand over her mouth and Fenrir is whispering the hardest, but most heartfelt sort of words in her ears. There is a moment or two of panic, Corrie kicking up a vicious fuss, probably going to lend QUITE the bruise to his knee from her thrashing in the morning, but finally something breaks. His words set in and her eyes go wide, but in a different way. He can practically -feel- the difference in her body, going from all strung out tension and galloping heart to that of a unstrung puppet, boneless, panting for breath through her nose but almost beginning to calm from the panic. She does relax, as he instructs, her eyes then slowly pressing shut against a sudden sheen of tears as she nods to him, through his hand. She is better now. More focused.

Senna arches a brow at Fenrir's order, though it's hard to tell just what that look means. Perhaps there will be time for discussion later. When he catches Cordelya, she reaches into a pouch at her pocket, following after at a brisk pace. "I've got some milk of the poppy," she's saying in a low tone as she draws out a small vial. When she reaches the pair, though, something has changed, and she lets the vial disappear in her hand. "Corrie?" she says softly, trying to catch a look in her eyes. "Are you back with us?"

Fenrir feels the kick, alright. That'll hamper his run in the morning. But more, he feels the slow change in the young woman, and he releases her as delicately as possible, nodding once to Senna. The worst is over now. He surreptitiously turns away, wiping at his own eyes and staring into the same woods that the woman was so frightened of. Gods, but it's been a long time since this happened.

Turning back, his voice is all solicitation. "It's alright now, Lady Cordelya. You had a fright, but it's past now. Why don't we all go back to the fire, mm?" He's not altogether hopeful-seeming, but it's worth a shot. "Ought to come back and warm up now. I wager you're chilled to the bone, my Lady."

Cordelya relaxes a bit more as Fenrir puts her down, though her knees almost go out from under her, still slightly trembling, the after effects of a great panic sending all of her faintly weak. She reaches one white knuckled hand up, clutching Fen's shoulder to steady herself, but she doesn't actually go down. Corrie drags in a shaking, shallow breath, in and out deeply, thankful she's in no bodice tonight. Her pale green eyes flicker over to Senna now, glassy, but this is with unshed tears and not madness. "…I'm here, Senna…I'm here. I'm…sorry. That…. You shouldn't have seen that. I'm sorry." She confesses weakly, shame beginning to replace the fear.

As Fen guides her to the fire, Cordelya walks, but she probably wouldn't have the motive to go forward if he wasn't coaching her to do such. Towards the fire and warmth, slightly shaking, but probably more from the after-effects of fear than any actual chill. "I'm fine, Fen. I'm… sorry. It is too late for all of us, I suppose." She tries to play it off casually, and probably fails.

"Honey, I've seen worse," Senna assures Cordelya without even a pause, gathering up the discarded cloak when Cordelya moves to sit again. "And those are stories that don't bear telling right now. Settle in," she urges, reaching up to wrap the cloak around Cordelya's shoulders. "I'll get you something warm to drink."

"We keep some tea boiling near the lord's tent," offers Fenrir to Senna, his features grateful - if a touch world-weary at the moment. He eyes her a moment longer than is necessary, though there is not a hint of lechery in his gaze - the man seems apt to take her measure, as best he can under these circumstances. But there are other matters to tend to. He looks back to Cordelya as she's settled beneath the cloak and leans forward slightly.

"Lady Cordelya.." A pause, his eyes on the woman, tongue darting out to dampen his upper lip hesitantly. It's not like him to be bashful about what he has to say. "..I want you to know. I'm as fond of you and your husband like I am of my sisters. Maybe more. I've shared blood with Anders. And I seen you get spells like this before. But it always comes for a reason. What's eating at your heart, little sister?"

Cordelya sinks back into the offered cloak from Senna's hands, colder than she realized, but there is still a strange disassocation with her own body, as if this fragile, trembling, breathless thing couldn't be what anchors her to this weary world. She reaches a small hand up, clutching the cloak shut. Surrounding herself in the scent of Fenrir which she found protective before and will again. A small nod is given to Senna, thankful and yet still embarrassed. "I…I'm not always like this, Senna, I swear… " She apologetically protests again.

But then Fenrir is taking her whole gaze. She stares up into his pale eyes, breathing in and out slowly to try and calm her hummingbird pulse. She does consider his words, focusing on him instead of the shadows, trust returned to her jade gaze. "I… I do not know, Fenrir. It… I suppose it's probably everything. First, the loss of Tall Oaks… You know I could hear the trees weeping? Even when I was fully myself. All the weirs wept in such pain… and then to come south… It's been a long journey. And I've run low… or out… of some of the things I use. The things that keep the Greensight quiet. It's just all… become so much. I am sorry, Fen… so sorry."

Senna is a cool head in an emergency, all practicality and what must be done. Every movement is purposeful, nothing shifty or shady about it. And in short order, she's pressing a warm cup of tea into Cordelya's hand, settling on the edge of the log next to the other woman. "What do you need, Corrie?" she asks, reaching up to brush the hair away from the other woman's face with a gentle touch. As formal as she was to begin with, she moves seamlessly to something more casual and intimate in the wake of the episode. "I can check my supplies for you."

"Don't ever apologize, Lady Cordelya. Remember.. someday, you will sit on a throne beside your Lord. You won't ever need to apologize to me." Fenrir is sincere in this; he glances around for a moment, noting a few men awake and listening. Nothing to be done now, but they'll certainly be spoken to later. "I tell you what. You can make it up for me by talking pretty to Orlagh about me. Tell her I been right nice here or there."

The man keeps his distance, now that the Lady has come to herself, as is right and proper. He smiles a brief thanks aside to Senna, settling back on his heels and letting the young woman take over the show for awhile as he considers Cordelya's words. The weeping weir trees.. Suddenly, a shiver runs through the stolid master-at-arms, his arms wrapping tightly around himself at some thought.

Don't ever apologize. The words almost seem foriegn to her, uncertain and confusing. Cordelya might understand more clearly in the morning, but tonight she's now just so thoroughly embarrassed and rattled by it all that apologies are the only thing on her mind. She has no other way to fix this. Senna's gentle brushing of her hair draws her green eyes back to the other healer and she takes a slow breath. "Perhaps one or two things, Senna… some of the nettles and mushrooms, but most of what I lack I've only ever seen to grow in the swamps. Certain thistles and reeds… Mudweed." She explains softly, the worry still clear in her tired, now more drawn face. She looks so thin and delicate now, half ready to break. "If this doesn't pass, I… I'll have to go home, is all… just for a little bit. To get things. Perhaps I could bring you some back too, Senna.." She offers, almost trying to find a strange hope in this all. She then looks back to Fen and offers quietly. "Of course I would speak to Orlagh for you…she'd be lucky to have a man such as you."

"I might know some people who know some people," Senna smiles faintly to Cordelya. "Mudweed doesn't sound familiar, but if you can show me some pictures and tell me what it does, I might know of something else that does something similar, too," she points out. "I've a feeling we learned from different regions, but illness strikes everywhere, and every place has their own treatment for things." She lowers her hand, though she holds the other woman's gaze steadily. "Your master at arms is right, though. You've nothing to apologize for."

"Mistress Senna, I got to go calm the men down. I'd appreciate if.." He pauses, turning to search Senna's features for a moment, then nodding to himself as if liking what he finds. "I'd appreciate if all this stays between us three, like. There's rumors aplenty floating from the Charlton camp and others, and I don't want us added to the list." He rises to his feet gracefully, though his back pops in a rather ominous way. "..Not as young as I used to be. Lady Cordelya, when you go, take Jamys with you. I know as he's eager to please, and I trust him to be smart." And I can spare him on the battlefield. That much he doesn't say aloud, though the thought hangs in the air. "And get some rest." He turns, moving quietly into the shadows.

Cordelya frowns as Fenrir mentions going off to tend to the men, but Corrie can't even imagine the sort of mess she's stirred. Just as Anders speaks of wishing her to turn a -good- face to the men, she's shown her worst side ever. There is a sick acceptance in her eyes that she will not be able to remain here much longer without her brew. She nods to Fenrir, "If I go, I shall… Good night, Fen…" And then she's looking back to Senna, her exhausted eyes doubtful and hopeful at the same time, a messy mix of tired emotions. "I can try to describe some of them but… there is no place in the worlds, Senna, like the Crannog. The things that grow there… are delicate and strange, unique from all other climes. If this does not pass… If I cannot keep the gods from singing through my head, I will have to go back. I am no fool, I know this is not normal. It is not fitting a lady. You… you won't tell, well you?"

"There's nothing to speak of," Senna says easily to Fenrir and Cordelya alike. "You dozed at the fire and woke startled from a nightmare. Any gentle born lady would suffer from nightmares after everything you've gone through." The lie falls from her lips like silk, smooth and elegant in simplicity. "Besides," she laughs softly, conspiratorial, "I'd rather not tell the whole camp why I was hanging around in the wee hours of the night anyhow."

The Young Lady relaxes just a bit more as Senna mentions that there was nothing to speak about. Her smile is easy and thankful, very much back to herself, normal, intelligent, sweet and easy to be near. The differences are almost frightening, they are so dramatic. "Yes, this war has taken it's toll upon…. all of us. And I'm glad you found some way to relax, Senna. I'm glad you were here." She squeezes her friend's hand for a tight, desperately grateful moment before she lets go. "But… I…I should try and return to sleep. As should you."

"Mmmm," Senna hums, returning that squeeze. "Do you want a touch of sweetsleep before you go back to the tent?" she offers, standing and reaching out a hand to help Cordelya up as well.

Cordelya considers that, debating the merits of drugging herself there or keeping mostly in her right mind. "I…I think I have some of that left, at least, if I cannot find rest. You keep your stock, Senna. Thank you, though…" She pauses, staring straight across into Senna's gaze, so the woman knows that gratitude goes far deeper than simply being polite. "For everything, Senna. Truly. Thank you." And with that she slowly stands, still in Fenrir's cloak. She carefully loosens it and hands it back to one of the boys to return to his master when Fen gets back to camp.