"My pitcher broke." The consecrated water spilling across the dirt, becoming mud. Her hand scrabbling uselessly, trying to salvage some drop of her power and finding only ugly shards. And then the hot flood of rage had seized her, and her hand had closed on a jagged ceramic fragment and she'd slashed—
"My pitcher. When it jumped on me." She stood abruptly, wobbled a bit, set her cup down on the coffee table. "And, a-and it was going to... but then I—"
She was dimly aware that she wasn't making much sense, but her mind was fumbling ahead, through the disjointed memory of picking herself up off the dirt, hand still clenched around the blood-drenched shard. The journey home was a disoriented blur— she couldn't remember— gods, please let her have held onto enough of her senses not to let go—
Qebhet retraced her path through the apartment to the door, catching the psychic stench of rot a moment before her eye landed on the hall table, on the pottery fragment stained dark red-black.