Zefiris sat on one of the stone benches scattered within the hedge maze, carefully recording observations and thoughts in Latin into her journal. It was something that she only did when the information being written did not need to be shared with others, as the language had fallen out of use for several millennia in her world and as such a translation would be necessary for communication, but the succinctness and precision of it fascinated her.
She had forgone a coat and a light, deeming both unnecessary despite the growing darkness and chill; her optical sensors compensated for low light levels while the brisk air helped her focus (one of her preferred places to think was in the air, just below the clouds, but she could not risk showing her hand early, so to speak). Her room had been a potential refuge, Maria and she had a relationship based a sort of mutual indifference, but the solitude that the outdoors had offered lured the Dragoon to the well-tended gardens adjacent to Asgard. Despite spring still being a month or so off, the evergreen dividers were lush, providing the privacy of walls without stifling the air.
Walking into the labyrinth, Zefiris had focused on the winding path, allowing her subconscious time to mull over recent events: the attack on Metatron (presumed, as they had no concrete evidence to support such a claim) and the earlier malfunction days. There had been much to consider and by the time she had found a satisfactory seat, deep within the confines of the garden, there were still thoughts to be unraveled.
The strange day that had occurred a month ago to this day, when everyone had been acting unusually, had been the first event to shake the foundation of her usual equilibrium. It had shown her that the instability of the realm extended into the very essences of the pawns themselves, including her core personality; she would have likened it to a tampering of the soul, if she had been a being more spiritual than digital.
Metatron’s condition compounded her disquiet, adding an echo of the helplessness that she had felt when she had watched her first master disappear. The invasion of zombies into Asgard proper a week prior did little to assuage it, affirming that she was capable of defending herself, but giving her no data on whether this entire war fell under the “humans-only” umbrella.
It was now, in the midst of reining in the unusual mental chaos, that the sounds of another person reached Zefiris’s ears. She tensed for a split second (unnecessarily, as her self-defense programs were still operational) before matching the voice to a sample from the communications system; Kamina’s shock of sapphire hair came into view shortly after. She watched him, her face neutral, her reserved nature coaxing her to wait for his reaction to her presence before venturing a response of her own.