He's… finally dead…

He's dead.

…

I… don't feel any different…

Surrounding the silhouette, a tavern was alight with bustle and business. It was a small and humble pub, located in downtown Scara Brae. Several neat stone fireplaces crackled throughout the room, the smell of smoke still strong enough to make one cough. - Or was that the smoke of sizzling pipes causing the foul scent? Many were merrily cheering under the influence of rum and alcohol. The drunken shouts in the background were shame worthy. She loathed drinking. It made the most respectable people into low level maggots when that beer was consumed. Considering the health problems drinkers and pipeweed smokers faced, she wondered how anyone could drink it…

… except that now, she had a pint of hard apple cider sitting in front of her. Gazing at the untouched beverage, she wondered. She had never tried before, and she never planned on it. She pushed the drink away, pulling her arms onto the oak table and resting her head on them. The cloaked woman sighed. She would not.

Instead, she closed her eyes. Confusion swept across her mind in hurricane force winds. Drafts of questions and negative debres flew left and right as the trees in her head struggled to stay rooted in place. Outside, she just seemed exhausted. Her dark hair was tangled, hanging in her face. The green cloak covered a simple wear. A V-necked black shirt and brown pants. Her weapons hung on her hip for any sign of danger. Paranoid elvish ears perked in any direction over the slightest sound that disturbed her. She was skinny, too skinny. Her shirt was small and was only a bit too wide. Beneath her shirt, her ribs were just starting to become faintly visible. She was physical weak. Her skin an unhealthy pale, her hair was knotted. She opened her eyes again. One was azure, the other burgundy.

A deep sigh was emitted from her heartache and anxious lungs. A lithe tabby cat, a whole lot healthier than she, sat on the table. It was close to her side, grooming itself. The burning orange cat, its emerald eyes ready for a solid nap, was elegant in how his sandpaper tongue swept across his flame colored fur.

The woman glanced to her companion, but was too tired to reach and pat his head. She just closed her eyes again.

The other thing, aside a moral compass, keeping her from drinking was her lack of hunger.

Water was okay, once in a while, but even beautiful apples could not intrigue her stomach fluids enough. She had not eaten a solid meal in a long while. She only ate an occasional red delicious or slice of bread when her stomach actually worked. This was once in a blue moon. She was slowly becoming malnourished. She was already weakened by continuess travels and nature's backhand, as well as mental and emotional illness. Somehow, she still felt unable to eat on a regular basis.

Her family betrayed her.

Her country was laid to ruin.

Her own people wanted to assassinate her.

She was always dead last.

She lost her husband, left her daughter to better care.

Her apprentice left her.

Now, her arch nemesis had been slain, and not by her hand.

Somehow, the fact did not bother her. Somehow, the idea of him just finally being vanquished was enough. Even so, his death caused more than relief. Relief was actually the only positive emotion she felt. In fact, the second emotion was not joy or victory… it was confusion and… sadness…

Was it that her obsession was finally at an end? She felt no sympathy for the white haired wretch, so that could not be the reason. So how? How could she feel remorse for it? Her addiction to hunting the Crimson Hand was finally able to dissipate with the snake's head stepped upon, and once again it was a relief. So how? How…

As the disgraceful drunks danced around the small cabin bar, she simply glared at her full mug with an odd discord.