A week after waking up with a head full of new memories, Tally struggled to come to terms with the turn her life had taken back home. From her short time spent as one of General Alder's biddies with youth nothing but a memory to the honing of her specific talent as a Knower to invoking the Rite of Proxy to save the found of the Spree so the truth would be known. Her beloved Bellweather Unit and their newfound family in the Sehkmet coven. M and Gregorio. Rebellion and the start of a revolution where witches might have a choice in where their lives lead.
The Camarilla.
Her meditation had already been broken but now she felt as steel cords wrapped around her chest and pulled tight. Tally swallowed hard but it did nothing to ease the tightness and she let out a soft gasp, leaning forward. The hot tears she fought to hold back all week finally overwhelmed her and she buried her face in her hands. Closing her eyes didn't bring any relief but brought into stark vividness the image of Penelope Silver, the young witch absolutely oblivious that someone made her the Trojan Horse for the witch plague that wreaked havoc on Fort Salem, confused and hurt as to why her fellow soldiers ran from her while tendrils of the plague reached out to catch and destroy.
Raelle tried to push back with the Mycellium but it wasn't strong enough. In the end they could only contain the plague while Abigail Worked up a storm to destroy the source. Penelope's death was for the greater good, saving so many lives, but the cost. The young witch they formed a bond with, introduced to witch life after the discovery of her heritage. It happened and Tally acknowledged it for a moment before bottling up the pain as life continued to come at them fast and hard.
Alder. Alder who survived over a century at the head of the army, who carried a burden on her shoulders and made decisions both right and questionable. The woman Tally looked up to growing up and then learned the truth of. Gone in the same attack as if she hadn't been alive all those years, bigger than life.
She didn't have the constant change to fall back on and the grief finally hit hard and fast. The sob slipped out and she had to do something, go somewhere. Tally tried to get to her feet but couldn't find the strength, hitting her knees on the ground. Her hands shook and she rocked forward as grief gave way to anger and then rage. Always trying to be to be the optimist, the one who saw the good, who fought for right. She tried to hold it together, maybe not always succeeding, but she tried.
The scream ripped out of her throat, taking on a strange vibration from the seed underneath. The old fallen tree stump in front of her shattered into pieces, shrapnel flying outward and around her. Rage given outlet, she eased back down to the forest floor, looking up to the patches of sunlight filtering through the trees.
The tears began again and Tally mourned for a lost friend, a lost mentor. Fellow soldiers attacked and murdered in their beds, in their dorms. Most of them little more than teenagers who just happened to be the one thing the Camarilla hated most.