don't look in the basement
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Ethereal Eclipse. 21 August.


The next evening, the thunder still rumbled, low and menacing in the distance, but the rain had lightened to a persistent drizzle and no longer came down in blankets. She was first aware of the dull ache that came from having collapsed in an awkward position, half-curled towards the tree, with her soaked-through cloak still covering her. Next came the sharp, pulsing pain in her shoulder, followed closely by the dozens of bruises and an twisting feeling in one of her legs. And last were the ghost sensations. Memories. Of the stranger's touch, the stranger's weight, the stranger's hot breath. And all the others, too.


Cassandra opened her eyes only to squeeze them shut again after a moment. A hard lump rose to her throat and escaped as a soft, pitiful whine. More threatened to come, a child's cries, a helpless girl's cries, but she swallowed them painfully. She opened her eyes again and lay there a while, trying to will herself to move. The rain fell and was filtered through the oak leaves, which funneled them down so that they fell in heavy drops. She could still smell and taste the blood on her muzzle. The coppery scent was still strong on her cloak as well, and it mixed with the mud on her body to mat her fur in sharp, uncomfortable tufts. The rain had not washed it away yet.


It grew dark again as she lay there. The sky was still covered with clouds, but she knew the moon was only a sliver behind it all anyway. There was no light for her tonight. She could hear Soir's soft hoofsteps in the distance and was comforted. The palomino had not freed herself in her day's neglect. Later -- minutes, hours, she did not know -- eventually, she rose painfully to her feet, left arm hanging loosely at her side while she steadied herself against the tree with her other hand.


By then, the rain had stopped, and shedding her cloak, she saw that there was nothing left of its original color. Mostly it was blood-brown, with deep stains and splatters that covered large areas, and the rest was caked in mud and dirty rain. She would need to find and modify another one, but she would not be able to get rid of this one until then. Cassandra looked up into the branches of the oak and did not see her stashed goods. For a moment, she was at a loss, but then realized that the bag was on the ground nearby, having been knocked free by the storm.


The pallid woman retrieved bandages -- colorful strips of repurposed cloth -- from the bag and over the next hour, wrapped her wounds the best she could, but her arms were tired and weak and she could had great difficulty pulling the wraps tightly around her shoulder wound. She knew, too, that it needed to be cleaned and more properly cared for, but that was not not something she could do alone, one-armed, in the dark. Cassandra guessed that her right ankle was sprained, but was not sure. At the very least, it did not hurt quite enough for her to think it was broken. She could not recall how the injury might have happened, but dismissed the need to try and remember. It didn't matter.


When she had dressed her wounds to the best of her ability, Cassandra stood again, picked up her bag and disgusted cloak, and limped slowly in the perceived direction of her horse. The summer night was warm, but she had been shivering when she first stood, and it was getting worse. There was a heaviness that pressed down on her skull, and she knew with odd clarity that a fever was coming. She knew she needed to find a safe place to rest and recover, but while trading with the leader of Cercatori D'Arte had been pleasant, she did not trust the pack to be a safe haven for her.


Cassandra Asylum did not want to go to Inferni. Now even more than before, she did not want to go. She did not want to go to her mother's family seeking refuge and she did not want them to see her in the state she was in. She did not want her sister to see, or know, or anything. She did not want to ask Myrika why she had stayed so long in Inferni, and she did not want Myrika to ask her where she had been. But the girl who had let out the soft, sad whimper did. And while ordinarily, Cassandra silenced her easily enough, she knew, too, that she wanted to live yet, and if Inferni could protect her, just for a little while, then she would be a fool not to go.


Soir was sleeping under a smaller oak, but lifted her head up with a start at the coywolf's approach, eyes wide. Cassandra knew that the overwhelming scent of blood would terrify her, but there was no remedy. The poor mare would just have to deal with it, and her rider could only hope that she had the strength to keep her under control. Soir backed away from her as she approached. "Shhh, it's me," Cassandra mumbled, but her voice cracked with pain and weariness and her appearance was certainly different from when she had last seen her.


It took most of the night to convince the old mare to allow her to load and mount her. More than once the pallid woman cursed herself for allowing the animal a long length of rope. She did not have strength enough to chase her around the woods and could only attempt to approach when the horse came to a stop. Dawn broke just as she clambered into the saddle, her body screaming in pain with every motion she took. Soir whinnied loudly and shifted uneasily as Cassandra drew her horrible cloak back over herself, enveloping both herself and her horse in another wave of dried blood. Crows called loudly a short distance away.


Clinging tightly to the palomino's neck and mane with her good arm and leaning forward tiredkly, she nudged gently and urged the horse forward.

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