the temperature creeps lower and lower, but she does not mind it.

the others are elsewhere, but close by — she knows her hound would never leave her for long. such a thing is almost comforting but the oracle would never begrudge these quiet moments. it is not often there is peace and quiet in her life, and she is loathe to let it pass without indulging. it’s how she finds herself here, stretched along the glacier lake. after all, who doesn’t enjoy a nice water-side nap every now and again?

the chill in the air only serves to keep her company and she shifts until she is comfortable, a queen upon her chaise. her paws stretch out before her, her free paw bothering with the rosary wrapped there. the leather is so worn it is soft, yet made brittle by all the salt. sentimental, she knows, to still be wearing it after all these years — yet she has no plans of taking it off. not while grimur is so far away from her.

the sound of approaching footsteps pulls her from her reverie — ocean eyes shifting towards the sound. the steps were too light to be halvor, and so it must be —

@Calypso.

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how long had she been back, now? the days blended together almost the same as they did in the mist, leaving the broken woman a little less sure of herself. moments with her loved ones helped -- grit, hakon, calhoun, levi... -- but when she was alone?

calypso had always loved being alone. before.

now?

now she takes the moments of solitude and fills them with other busy-ness, wandering further and further from the cay. only when she is certain that grit will not miss her, for she has promised the girl that they would never be separated again. not for long. and when she leaves she notes her intended location with some kind of marking in their den, a piece of usnea in a particular spot would tell the girl that she had gone north.

there was no reason for her to come to the colder lands, though she carries a bag and will fill it with herbs. usnea is always an important one, and while they are not entirely out she is still rebuilding what was lost. grit had done her best (in the weeks she was back, alone, that haunt the mother still) but there was always work to do. especially as winter settled in to the lands.

but when she spots @Ofelía? calypso thinks that maybe it was not random chance that pulled her here, for there is something about the woman that pulls her in. she approaches (of course she does) and speaks a piece of her fractured mind -- "ye were gone before i was. aye?" -- not stopping to think that it might not make sense to the unusual woman.

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noting the approach of the medic, ofelía watches @Calypso quietly. she is known, at least mostly. certainly only in passing, yet in an island so unknown, even a little familiarity meant something. besides, there had to be a reason why this woman was often at her son’s side. this same woman, who, had once seemed so lost — yet today, their paths cross once more. surely such a thing was not a coincidence.

ofelía knows this, but does the medic?

ears tip once calypso is close enough, marking her words with a bland, close-lipped smile. no matter that her words are winding, scattered; no matter that there’s no way the skagos can truly understand what she means. i was never gone, ofelía corrects, not unkindly. a marked difference between the two of them. but you were? prompting, a door swinging open — if she wants to step forward and speak her piece.

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not gone. away, maybe.

or maybe not.

a small frown appears as she puzzles over this, worrying it in her mind as if it is the most important thing. it is not, of course, for it has no bearing on her life or her existence. gone, not gone... what did it matter?

unless it was an otherworldly mist that snatches you away and locks you up. then it matters.

and if you're the mother of the man who is loved? does it matter then?

calypso sighs -- "aye, taken." there is a long pause after this as she is lost to the workings of her own mind, all but forgetting her company as she remembers the time during. it mingles with the before and the after, as if she stands on three planes and not only one.

"by de mist." finally an explanation, if it could be called that.

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taken, the medic corrects. the oracle’s head tilts, quietly considering. the pregnant pause that calypso takes, washing the glacier lake in their silence, is not commented on — nor is it rushed. instead, ofelía lets the woman stand — watching her face carefully from her prone position on the ground. others, maybe, would feel the new to get up — to get on more even ground — but the oracle remains in place. her paws, though, stretch out, her body requiring her to shift every so often.

it gives her a good position to view the other woman from. there are new shadows cloaking her features, echoing those dark markings that curve along her face. @Calypso has always been an intriguing woman, ofelía thinks, but it is those shadows that she is interested in now.

yet, here you are. she says, lifting the paw that has the rosary wrapped around it ( it jingles, just a little, as the leather flops around with the motion ), gesturing it vaguely to the expanse of land between them. this place is snow-tipped and perfect, and it certainly does not have any mist lingering here. there is nothing amiss aside from the bite of winter creeping in. calypso is here and hale gone no longer. and yet — those shadows remain.

unless you have not returned at all?

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yet here she was.

a simple statement and yet... it angers her. there was no reason for the rage that rose so quickly in the wake of the seer's words, but it comes all the same. washing over her, hot and fast, and she powerless to stop the deepening frown on her face. or the curl of her lip that reveals a shattered tooth, a physical mark of the mist.

it is on display for a breath, two, and then it is gone, the lip sliding back in to it's normal rest position. "aye." here she was. how easy it sounded. how dismissive.

it is not @Ofelía's fault -- it is not anybody's fault -- but still the masked woman looks away even as she sits before her.

"ye said it yerself, hmm? here i am. so i must be returned." tangled and mixed up words, packing a double meaning and perhaps a hint of that anger. why is she so bothered? why is she so on edge.

it is a constant fight between the mental and the physical, and sometimes she wonders if a fight was what she needed. maybe with hakon; maybe if she could recreate that day she could exercise her demons as she had tried to exercise his.

with thoughts a thousand miles away she is not returned, and she knows she is not good company. "sometimes, d'ough..." a softer, meeker tone, as her eyes grow distant and unfocused. calypso does not finish the sentence, but only shifts her weight before the other woman and looks out at the lake.

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truly, the oracle does not mean to press against still-healing wounds.

she knows nothing of the mist, nor the hell it had unleashed upon the island. she knows nothing of the turmoil that @Calypso had been thrust into. she knows only this: the woman that stands before her does not seem like the one she’d met before. there is marked difference, the least of which being the chipped tooth that juts out from her mouth. ofelía notices this and more, answering the frown with a tilt of her head.

a different woman, indeed.

she is quick to bite, this medic, but soon enough something flickers across her face. something far weaker, something far more interesting. oceanic eyes watch it carefully, the way that calypso turns her gaze away from her and towards the water itself. a small tut falls from her muzzle, as if hoping to catch calypso’s attention and keep it. she is not used to people looking away from her.

tvivel, the skagos mother says, clucking her tongue as if it’s a scolding. that is the thing you are feeling: doubt. she comes from a place of privilege — any doubt that had lingered in her chest has long since been stamped out. indeed, it is rare that even fear graces her anymore. leaving your life ( and the lives of your clan ) in the hands of such a god as vellen is enough of a test. a shame, then, that calypso has not experienced such a thing.

and it will eat you alive.

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perhaps she should have been on her best behaviour. perhaps she should have even turned away and not approached. for this is the mother of the man she loves and calypso… she should care what she thinks, right?

strange, then, that she finds she does not. strange that she might bare her teeth and disagree, picking at the fraying edges of her mental state and not caring that she is there to see.

the sound is enough to pull her focus from the water (it does not hold much appeal for it is not the sea) to the mother. still the frown lingers, though.

“oh aye? is d’at all?” calypso is all sharp edges and ruffled feathers, all anger and fire. this Druid is not the same, no, but maybe one day…

a huff falls from her lips as she levels her gaze on the seer. “if ye were trapped fer t’ree mont’s in de mist maybe ye would doubt too.” it feels a lot like judgement, and it has clearly rankled the peach toned woman.

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ah, she has clearly hit a nerve.

when @Calypso turns back to her, her eyes are sharp. irritated, maybe even angry, but bright. there is little of that gnawing doubt in her chest now, even if ofelía is the target for her irritation. being the object of another's ire is hardly a new concept, and the mother does nothing except sweep her tail behind her. moving it to curl against a thick thigh, tapping her tail tuft against the heavy fur. a steady rhythm, the perfect backdrop to calypso’s strange anger.

the medic makes a good point — and were she talking to anyone else, this might be a point of consideration. alas, the skagos woman is nothing if not steadfast. an anchor against the beating waves, a steady current in a world that’s been flipped upside down. no, i would not. she says, easy as anything. and what’s more than that, ofelía speaks from deep in her chest. she knows this to be true and leaves little room for — well, doubt. she may be many things, but she is nothing of a skeptic.

and you should not, either. if it was not judgement before, it certainly is now. så att du inte drunknar i det. the swedish falls easily from her tongue, a quiet declaration, before she repeats it in the common tongue for the medic's benefit: lest you drown in it.

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the words pull another curled lip from the woman, a quiet snarl of displeasure at the audacity. how dare she? how dare she judge calypso?

the druid rises to her paws again, moving away from the woman, closer to the edge of the water. it is unlike her, to be so angry -- unlike the her of before, at least -- and she finds that she doesn't know much what to do with herself. unsheathed, her claws clench at the ground and she feels the unreasonable urge to sink in to the icy depths of the lake.

drowning.

"maybe i already am," and it is weakness that she displays, but again she cannot find it within herself to care. let @Ofelía think her weak. let her think her a weak and doubtful creature, if that is what she must do.

another huff of frustration as she keeps her gaze steadfast on the stretch of frozen water before them. "we cen not all be so..." so... what? again she leaves the sentence unfinished, wracking her brain for the right word and finding none of them to fit just perfectly.

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