Anya Lehnsherr | Earth 97400

( Narration TLDR )



[Private to Ben]

Ben. If you can hear this, tell me where you are.



[Private to Morgana]

[There's a lull of silence, just Anya's face, frowning faintly at the screen. She doesn't know what to say. She's harder and colder than the Anya Morgana knows - not bright and sharp like she was on the mirror barge, but hunched and honed.]

Do you have information about me, too?



[Open spam]

[She paces out the bounds of her new prison. Larger, nicer, stranger. She wants to rip someone else's hair out. Malachai walks behind her, with a buffer of air between them, one foot of No Man's Land. He's a sandy-brindled creature in the shape of a sleek, low-slung dog, some kind of mutt, certainly part greyhound - unless someone really looks at him, realizes how big he is despite the way he slinks, over six feet from nose to tail tip, or the curving, not-quite-right way his hips are slung. He is nothing like a dog.

She's been told there are no other daemons here, that it doesn't make them mindless, or monsters. but every time she passes anyone, she has to struggle not stare, and Malachai draws mincingly closer to her, though she pushes him away.]



[Spam for Riddick but also Open in the CES]

[Zane is hungry. And he's some kind of sea creature and not - (her brother) - not the one she knows, not the one she promised to try to come back to. But he's still hers, somehow, and he's in a box, and he's hungry.

Anya is the sort of person who leaves herself notes, nowadays, in case of floods just like this: a little folded placard in her own handwriting sitting on top of her warden's item, This opens doors, like a much more helpful version of Alice's Drink me. So she looks for a door with food behind it, and finds a forest instead. She hears rustling and bird calls and she doesn't understand, but it doesn't matter: Malachai is an ambush predator. She climbs a tree, and he stalks out a place some twenty-five feet upwind. It's a small stretch, for them. And they wait.]

[It's been a few days since the end of the undersea port, and Anya is...not really dealing well with certain ramifications of it. She hasn't been dealing terribly poorly, even off the Lehnsherr curve, but not well, either. She's not freaking out or breaking down, but she feels persistently discomfited, alien in her own skin, more isolated than she's felt since she arrived here.]

[She's doesn't look frazzled at all, except perhaps a little shadowed under her eyes from lack of sleep. She reclines in her windowseat, the stars sparkling softly behind her. She's solemn, pensive.]

So, who else here has dealt with...something that was your identity, what defined you, being taken away? Or just changing, suddenly. I can't imagine it's a terribly uncommon experience, given the peculiarities of our population.