The little Rakash cleric hides her expression behind her tangled and wild ruddy hair, knowing it shows her mood clearly. She’s never been able to keep her face from showing what was in her heart, and right now her heart is in turmoil. As she nods and waves to the departing members of her ever-growing alchemy operation, her mind replays the earlier violence at the picnic, and she grimaces as self-doubt swelled. She’d gone down fast to those necromancers, despite having half-a-dozen empaths on hand and a god-touched Paladin trying to shield her. It had been years since she’d felt so small and helpless, and she clenches her eyes against the sudden and vivid memory of her father’s ravaged and mindless face as his shambling body clawed his way towards her, but not before the tears well.

Nawain slaps her palm against the stones of the Tower in frustration, then winces at the sharp crack and glances towards the other person who occupies the snow-blanketed ruins guiltily. She’s never sure if Saragos is asleep or awake with his eyes hooded by his wide-brimmed hat. She examines that practical headgear and its wearer for a long moment. He was their best chance at succeeding, and she knew it. It must be an awful burden to bear, and she hoped he would have reason to smile soon. He doesn’t twitch, but she goes back to her remedies more quietly. The movements have become meditation, now, and she opens herself up to the mana and pulls it down in great, greedy handfuls, channeling it into her construct with practiced abandon. But nothing she does seems to require enough attention anymore to keep her mind from wandering, and she scowls behind the curtain of her hair.

She’d been training so hard for so long to become what necromancers feared, to never again feel helpless in the face of their horrid minions, and she’d failed tonight. Worse than that, other people had died. Thank Coshivi that they hadn’t gone after Unaka. Her heart clenches anew at the thought of the polite and helpful ‘Tog under the knives of those fiends, and her fist tightens around the pestle, punching it into her mortar until chips of diamondique begin to fleck from the tool. She mutters a curse and hunches her shoulders against the darkness that seems to crowd in against the Tower in the depths of night.

The quiet, steady voice in her head that offered sense and reason is chiding. It sounds, like it always does, just like her father, and she can nearly feel his hand on her shoulder. “There were three of them, you’re exhausted, and you’re carrying enough to make a horse groan. They targeted you and went after you until you fell. That was not a fight you were going to win, no matter the odds, pup. Your season will come. And what did those Praxium people say?”

Despite herself, Nawain feels one side of her mouth twitch upward in a smile, and she mumbles, “Losses are opportunities for excellence.” She pulls in a deep breath, and exhales, willing her shame and fear to fall away like shed fur after moonskin. A rising surge of stubborn determination fills her heart, and she takes a moment to cast her spells and reposition to better keep an eye on the staircase before cleaning out her mortar and beginning again. Vengeance was a little, selfish thing, and it could wait. Her operation was nearly self-sustaining, but she couldn't slow down, not yet. She'd made Enelne a promise, and she was going to keep it.