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It came out of nowhere. But that's how death usually works. Most people don't plan to die. And she had been careless enough to let a gnoll get the better of her while she was already weakened.She's not sure how long she had floated in the void with only the whispers. But apparently not long enough to drift too far towards a more permanent end.Then air fills her lungs. Eyes open but what she sees is still just the darkness. Yet despite being back on the plane of the living, she feels trapped, encased within something. Ithaca starts to panic, clawing at what feels like shriveled skin. When she finally is free, what she sees is looks of varying horror and disgust."Oh gods..." she hears Gale mutter, a hand flying up to cover his mouth.But Ithaca isn't sure why their reactions are such. What her companions had just observed was her getting revivified. It's not unusual to have to revive a fallen companion here or there. This was the first time it had to be done for her, and what an impression it left.Not long after the spell was cast was she brought back to life. Her traveling party bared witness to watching her rip through her own husk of a carcass, listening at the crunching of dried skin and cracking brittle bone. Then she emerged like a cicada that's shed it's exoskeleton, iridescent wings unfurling. From head to toe to wings she was covered in splatters of crimson and viscera. That wasn't as odd of an occurrence. Perhaps what's unsettling about it is how the gore belonged to her.Brows furrow as she stretches, wings flittering rapidly. "What? What's wrong with you guys?" Ithaca asks as she stands up, knees wobbling like a newborn fawn. Wings once more are glamoured away with a flick of her wrist. "You all look like you've seen a gnoll or something."No one says a word. But then again what would one even utter in such a circumstance?"Anyway, we should move along. It's a long way to Moonrise. And we still have the creche to go check out." The faerie winces when she takes a couple of steps. "I feel like shit. Could I bum a healing potion from someone?"
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The face that stares at her is not hers. Well, it is technically.Ithaca sits frozen in pure silence, staring at her reflection in the vanity mirror with comb grasped in her clutch like a vice. Atop the wooden surface an assortment of baubles and hair accessories are laid out, shimmering in the candlelight as well as her silver plated brush. Already she's started braiding several sections of cerise locks and adorning them with trinkets.How had she never noticed? How in the last few years had she neglected to realize that the resemblance she bears to her mother?Her mother who had cared not for her; not beyond a certain extent. Her mother who had aided in banishing her to the material plane. Her mother who she had idolized at one point.Ithaca still held onto the memories of the faerie that had given her life despite the souring feelings that had blossomed over the years. She had always held more love for Laylani than her mother ever did for her. And the mere thought always felt like a blade to the heart.So as she stares at her reflection, it's a reminder that she is her mother's child. The same smooth, orchid skin. The same eerily enchanting eyes with void black sclera and glowing rings of violent. And the same long, silky dusty rose hair that's always styled with shiny things and braids. Even their wings were near copies. The only things different was that at nineteen summers old, Ithaca still hadn't fully lost the youthful roundness to her cheeks nor completely grown into a more womanly figure. That would come in the next few years. She also lacked the extra set of eyes and second pair of arms like her mother had.Otherwise she appeared as a near 1 for 1 copy of Laylani.Before she can even think about it, the urge takes hold. Her fist smashes into the mirror once, causing shattered ripples and a multitude of hers looking back at her. Then her fist collides with it again and again, determined to pulverize it. Glass slices into flesh, tears at muscle and sinew and scrapes against bone.When she finally stops, the wood where the glass had been inlaid is smeared with sanguine blood. If one looked close enough, they could notice bits of skin as well. Her poor knuckles are shredded, looking like minced meat. Whatever pain she feels is superceded by the blinding rage.As if possessed, Ithaca stands up and starts rampaging through her quarters. Scissors. She needs a pair of scissors. She's ready to let out a howl on anger right before she finds what she was searching for.In her ruined hand she holds them and her hair is gathered up in the other. As crimson drips down her arm and splatters into her hair, she chops through it all. It's only when there's a few inches past her shoulders of hair left that she halts. The ends are a tad jagged but she can get someone to fix that. Now though, now she sees herself. Not Laylani.The storm of wrath is quelled, the sea once more calm. Whatever bits of hair and braids she can get a hold of, she takes and tosses into one of the bowls of burning coals that illuminate her chambers. The smell of burning hair is not too fowl; a scent she's experienced many times."Sceleritas! Get me a healer now!" Ithaca calls out. A resounding Of course, my lady, answers her as she tenderly holds her poor hand up to her face in examination --- unbothered and numb by the sight of self mutilation.