[IRP] Return to the Dread Isle

[Alusq]

Renata steeled herself for the thousandth time as the band trudged its way through the fog. Perhaps if Wratt were still with them, the man's crass whimsy would have lightened the mood... but probably not. Her sword hand white-knuckled on her weapon's pommel, she wondered if the morphs were intelligent enough to aim for the obvious weak spot that now existed in her armour.

Renata halted. Her sword traveled an inch from its scabbard.

"Just a tree," she murmured sheepishly, letting her hand rest. Her mind went back to the exchange she'd had with Tiras earlier. It was rather silly of her to presume that restless spirits could transport them across a sea. Even taking into account the magic of warping learnable by certain mortal clerics, such magic was often of limited range and therefore of limited practical use in the first place. That wizard of Lennox's seemed to have managed it... She thought back to the man they'd seen yesterday. If, by some fluke of luck, they found a staff on the island, would Renata be able to teach herself to use it? No. How many years would she have to spend trapped on the Dread Isle to do so? That's assuming we don't starve in the first place. There was plenty of material for shelter, but she hadn't seen any game roaming around.

"Suppose we're never getting off this island," Renata posited, no longer content to wallow in her thoughts in silence. "Then what do we hope to find at the Dragon's Gate?" She sighed. No one had an actual answer to that question, she knew, other than that Persephone was leading them there for some reason. But as long as they were walking along with nothing to do, she decided to try her best to forget about this bleak nightmare for just a moment. What if her speech attracted enemies? Well, Renata figured, they were already doomed one way or another.

"Personally, I wouldn't mind some hotcakes." There had never been less appropriate words spoken in such a place as the Dread Isle. "Just like the ones they make for the harvest festival in Laus. Got little bits of lingonberry in 'em— but you have to do a little dance before you get to eat, and gods help you if you've already started drinking..." She forced herself to chuckle. The mist swirled at her breath, as if to swallow up all the defiant mirth and leave behind only wistful nostalgia.