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With each morning she's starting to notice something about the morning sun, specifically how it feels when it first creeps upon her skin. It's something she hardly misses now in her Don't Sleep Era, the first excuse she comes across to start her day in earnest. But something about that morning sunlight, the warmth of it, it feels warmer somehow when she's bathed in it, it tingles more than in the afternoon. It's only recent has she ever entertained critical thought about her new name: Skúmálfar. Not a Denizen of the Day or a creature of the Night, but something stuck in the Dawn, this small respite when the day is truly hers. As it forces its way through the small window of the flat she hoists her head back and truly lets herself feel it.

-Oh, Im g..g..glad I got to feel the sun... one last.. Time.

The Human man laid on the bed finds it takes so much more effort to push past the cold, the bleeding and the exhaustion to say even simple sentences now. Even at a time like this he finds himself fretting about the stains he's leaving on his student dorm bed, silly really. The mattress now absorbing what was once blood and now white translucent Humanity, that trickles in-between the icicles that now pierce his stomach.

The Elf chuckles, as her gaze returns to the window.

-In my first life I never took enough time to take in the machinations of living on this rock. That there's sunrises and sunsets to witness every day. Taking time to just be bored out of your mind and watching them. I never did it enough, always tried to be busy. The Elf reflects.

After silently staring at the sunrise for a few moments more, she sighs and decides to get dressed. Her tights had been round her ankles this whole time, she just got a little distracted in the moment. She grabs the waist of the trousers and hoists them up, turning to face her companion in the meantime.

-I am sorry for this you know. She says, while buttoning up her flies. It's just I don't want anyone to be able to track me and Humans are notorious grasses, as I'm sure you know, especially in front of the Elves.

The man just kind of exhales rhythmically, perhaps its laughter? Skúmálfar grabs her top from the floor and puts it over her head as The Human tries to speak again:

-I'm fank... ful. I got such a nice... Last night.

-Well, your welcome. Replies Skúmálfar, giving a small bow as she adjusts her top.

-Mah... Be. Maybe, ish for the best. He continues, seemingly getting the hang of speaking in his condition. I knew it. Knew, I wasn't meant ta... Be here y'know? If I.. Ha.. Hadn't turned by now, heh I was never gonna.

Skúmálfar having applied her neck piece, smiled as she walked over to the Human. And rested the palm of her hand on the side of his face. It was an assessment she had come to as well, what was this pitiful boy going to amount to in this world? He is a relic that insists on continuing in the world of Destruction, Darkness and Death. What could he amount to? The co-worker that gets the promotion over someone marginalized who deserves it more? The figure that makes someone cross the street for safety? The lingering presence behind them on the bus ride home? The Anxiety when the lift door opens? The reason the disabled seats weren't free on the tube today? He was someone's son or brother, but when you take that away? No one who matters will miss him when he's gone, and it's that fleeting nature which fascinated Skúmálfar about these humans. Their life span, a blip compared and as such some elect to not even live it, lest they suffer the pain of when it is wrest. Skúmálfar can spend the evening in his company and kill him the next morning, and nothing in this world will fundamentally change. So fascinating, compared to all the connections Elves make in comparatively even a fraction of that lifespan in comparison. Fascinating indeed. She even finds herself being smitten about his satisfaction with her, when it really does not matter if any Human thinks shes a good fuck or not. Huh... It's weird being on this side of this, she wonders if this is how they felt with her back then...

Skúmálfar gives The Human a kiss on the cheek, as she intensifies the process of freezing his body. As his body becomes covered in frost, she then tightens her grip, her nails creating huge cracks in the ice and then... A life, reduced to little shards and ice cubes in an instant. The Elf grabs some towels from the bathroom and kind of thoughtlessly chucks them on the ice, it'll absorb some of the moisture... Maybe... Well, better than doing nothing. She takes her little green translucent shawl from the coat rack, puts her shoes back on and heads out of the door, only stopping to take one last look before leaving.

Outside of the accoms she heads to a secluded spot on the campus, just a big patch of green and nothing so no one would bother her. She begins to trace the inside of a circle in the grass with her finger, leaving behind a glowing blue outline behind her, as letters, drawings, signs and scripture begin to fill the circle out. She had been regaining her proficiency with Elven magic, slowly, as memory and recollection transform back into instinct and innate knowledge. But even in her prime teleporting was uuhhh, well she was messy with it let's say. It's not exactly Elves strong suit, it's more of a Faerie discipline, but imagine the Corona they could save not needing to use Shortcut? After her circle has been complete she steps in the centre, breathes in and crosses her fingers.

---

In a swirl of blue flame she disappears from sight, well in that location anyways, but on the T crossing just next to The Hounds of Tyre, the circle appears a flame and after a small amount of time so does Skúmálfar herself. Success! Except for her shawl being on fire again. Fuck! She quickly removes it from herself and sighs as she burns the entire thing into ash in an instant. Sulking over to the store next to the Pub: Better Days Are Coming for a replacement. She sticks her head in the doorway and points to her bare shoulders like "It's happened again." The shopkeeper sighs and points to the identical looking shawl on the mannequin next to them, as they ready the little device on their desk for payment.

Skúmálfar, walks back into The Hounds of Tyre and sits behind the bar, as Rotter spotting her presence, sniffs around the area.

-You've got to stop trying to teleport yourself Skúmálfar, it's bad for the environment. Suggests the Jiangshi.

-No no, only burnt the shawl this time. The Elf points out. I'm getting better you know.

-You clearly come from a minted family or something, stop being so bloody cheap and use an app. The oozone will thank you.

Skúmálfar brushes the Jianshi off, despite his protests, The Elf hasn't had a penny to her name outside of what she used to pay for her room. She got some employment to qualify for UBI doing work for the MCP. Though don't let that sentence fool you into thinking she is any good at her profession. In work that requires subtly, espionage and delicacy... Well she's the kind of person that will walk onto the job, decimate a building with a fireball and call it a day. Needless to say the MCP only deploys her when they need a hail mary, knowing it will take the will of the abyss itself to get her to show restraint. Deciding perhaps it's better to keep her on the payroll as a motivation to NOT contribute to society as opposed to the opposite. Giving in to weaponised incompetence? Or accurately reading they have a Major Antagonist to a functioning Monster Society on their hands? One that they can delay Being A Problem by letting her afford getting Fish and Chips on the weekend? You decide!

But it has given her; time. It's been a month and a bit since she checked into The Hound. While she doesn't exactly see herself timing out her years on the clock she has booked there, she is taking her time adjusting to the new world and chronology she has found herself in. It's been time enough to get to know the bar staff at least, since no matter where she explores she ends up in the same place every night. Tho the one she seems to bump into the most is the Jiangshi.

-I'm shocked you're still bumming around here Skúmálfar. Explains Rotter. You don't get many Elves, or many High Monsters in general wanting to set their camps round these parts.

He then leans in and whispers in The Elf's ear.

-Are you dodging the draft? He asks.

-What? No. I didn't even know there was a draft to dodge! Explains The Elf.

As the words come of their mouth, recollections begin to unlock, medals, uniforms, battles, command. She shakes it off for now, that's something to rudiment on in the evening. She continues:

-I guess the main thing is, well I was hoping to have bumped into someone by now.

-Yeah? You have many friends in the Monster World?

Rotter's words were intentionally vague, does that mean this Realm? This Country? A social circle?

-Hahahaaaaaaa, yeah not exactly. Laughs Skúmálfar. But even an enemy would be of some comfort in my situation.

-Well... Who were you hoping to see? Maybe I can let them know you stopped by.

-Oh I dunno if they even come here anymore, everything's so different now... But my uuhhh ex, they used to live around here and come to this place a lot. Ugh saying it out loud I realise how stupid that is, they probably moved away!

-Well if it's any consolation, distance doesn't mean too much to a place like this.

-Yeah? How so?

-Well aside from there being roads to this place from all over the country, still there from the times of Human Supremacy. This place, if you have a connection to it... It has a habbit of following you where ever you go.

Skúmálfar looks at the bartender with bafflement at this explanation. They know that well... It's symbolically true but...

-If they come here, they still come here no matter where they are is what I'm saying. Explains Rotter. Now come on, who are they? Skúmálfar taps the bar top with their nails in irritation, but then relents to the request:

-There's like no way you know but, they're called Butters, a Western Grey Squirrel. We had a thing, it wasn't exactly a noble thing on my end, but... Well I loved them, which is more than I could say about my supposed 'Sacred Marriage' arranged by the glorious Elven Empire. Despite that I didn't treat them right, I believed lessons I was taught in my youth, somehow they still hung on, even as I was trying to runaway from my life. That Monsters were just creatures of Chaos in need of seeing the light, I couldn't just love them for who they were... Actually you didn't ask for my sob story. I'm not looking for penance or owt, I fucked up. I don't deserve to see them, but hell if I'm not gonna try and grab at anything resembling familiarity in this new world you know? Even if I get told to fuck off like... It's something right?

Skúmálfar looks up, expecting to see a neutral if not, very bored bartender. Instead he looks... Almost terrified, as if these words are a contradiction to a reality that he knows. Skúmálfar notices his eyes dart back and forth between the seat right next to The Elf. She turns her head to see what he's glancing at and... Nothing. Just an empty barstool. As she's looking she feels a cold hand touch the side of her face.

-Hey, hey. Hey! What are you doing? Asks Skúmálfar.

-Sorry, sorry it's just I was checking if you were real. Explains Rotter. Because... You can't see them?

Skúmálfar's face lights up as they go looking to their side again, expecting a different result. Again... Empty. She looks up to see Rotter speaking to the empty barstool, as if someone was there. But what he's saying is being blocked out, reading his lips as the words escape them yields no knowledge. It's not because she can't understand the words, it's that she is not permitted to keep this knowledge.

Just then like a sharp dagger in the side of her ears, the sound of a brass drags The Elf back to the present. A horn, but not one derived from a street performer, nothing of such comfort. She recalls this melody, it's from home.

-Hhhmmmm fucks sake, looks like I got to make some calls. Rotter notes to himself.

Skúmálfar sighs too, as she takes the nearest wine and downs it (it absolutely was not hers) and marches to the outside. They really were just... Wandering, lost and perhaps wherever they want to take her is where she can be found.

The Elf, like so many Monsters before her skulks her way to outside of the Hounds of Tyre in order to meet the identity of her antagonists. Perhaps she can sense comradery with Monsters past and present as she feels some sense of... Security to this journey. Having said that The Elf isn't exactly anticipating a fight as she'll likely go back to where ever the Elven country is without much fuss. While Skúmálfar will absolutely take the credit of this being a selfless act of her taking responsibility or whatever, her motivations lie in needing to explore this arcane side of herself. She feels she may of once had pride in these abilities and maybe the use of them will help her to recall more of this new history she has been made to partake in. To be blunt there seems to be a limit to what exactly The World of Monsters can help her reclaim, least for right now.

Waiting for her outside are two Elves dressed in... Military Regalia is not the word, like whatever the Front Desk Clerk version of that is? These are the kind of uniforms Skúmálfar recognised from people in charge of offices and admin work from her time in the service... From her time in the service? Oh FUCK me, okay okay, that's something to unpack for later. But you see what she means? Just this little clashing of worlds Skúmálfar unlocked something quite informative about her past, yeah this is the right move, it has to be. One of them clears their throat and announces.

-Skúmálfar Dawnsaber, you are late for your return back to the Kingdom, I understand you've been through some temporal related trauma, but this is more than enough time to gather yourself for return. I trust you won't do a disappearing act this time?

As he speaks, the Elf next to him readies a stream of magic from his finger tips, clearly this is a threat. But Skúmálfar does feel a weird tinge of offence. She was going to co-operate but like... Two guys, clerks no less? She is insulted, but maybe they're cognizant of something she isn't. Maybe her recent gains in arcane, well aren't as impressive as she tells herself. She sighs and walks towards the two without a shred of hostility in her stride.

-Yeah, I guess it's time to go back to my old life huh?

-For your court marshal hearing yes.

-....Oh. Skúmálfar replies, her entire body cadence having drops a centimetre or two. It's that serious huh?

-Of course, you were a Lieutenant who left her post, to fraternize with the Lower Species. You broke your Oath to Empire and your Family. 200 years imprisonment would be fitting for such, gallivanting. Perhaps you can grow up while you're in there.

-hahahha, hahhaaaaaaa... Yeah fuck that.

Skúmálfar drops her body as low as she can while being able to maintain her footing enough to aim her fingers at the Elf who was addressing. This was the right call as a stream of flames, from the Elf who had magic prepared, shoots just above her head, giving her plenty of time to shoot an icicle through the Elf in front's shoulder. She goes to lunge forward, hoping to at least get one of these guys out of the way before he can react, but the Elf from behind predicts this move and throws a bolt of flames at just the position Skúmálfar was about to lunge towards. Thankfully the Elf stops herself on instinct, enough to be spared a fireball to the face instead the flames just singing the tip of her nose... But I mean that still fucking hurts tho! She turns to the Elf with a flare up of rage, an aspect of her personality suppressed till now: This fucking Desk Clerk has the GALL to fire magic upon her person!? Where on earth does he find the nerve? The arrogance!?

Before she knows it, her hands guide her themselves, almost recollecting the perfect way to express this... This indignity! The light blue arcane travels and collects around her arms and at the apex of her rage she dispels it. This manifests in the air around the attacking Elf's feet, becoming hostile, as he is lifted from the ground by a sudden, violent burst of wind from beneath him. A force powerful enough that a muddy blue stream of blood ejects from his nostril, before he's even hit the floor. Skumalar's temper doesn't quell even after this display, as she immediately manifests flames from her finger tips. She screams:

-You do not DARE strike at me with magic, you nobody desk clerk piece of SHIT!

Before swiping her hands down and unleashing a bullet of flames towards her attacker, which tears through the his body with little resistance. Like oh... Was hoping for a little resistance, haha, oh god. Something that is currently being lost but not yet gone, jerks Skúmálfar back to an older personality that tenses up. Despite being such a frequent proprietor of violence herself, the ease in which she was able to summon Something from thin air and enact it with such ease elicits a panic. Actually... No that's not it at all, it's the willingness to direct that violence at an elf that gives a history which lays dormant within her pause. How can such a contradiction exist within her? Call it fate, call it karma, as this split second of dread is enough time for the fireball from the remaining Elf to strike Skúmálfar directly in the back.

Neither history is used to this pain, the solider too infallible to even fall for such a crude strike in the back, nor the civilian who had become a master of navigating the violence endemic to an upbringing in Essex. Any pain is unfamiliar, this sheer amount as the flames erupt and decimate her back, as she vomits out something of a colour foreign to one of her histories. She collapses to the floor, she hyperventilates, even breathing is a skill she can no longer master correctly. She turns around, but not enough to expose her back wounds to the tarmac and sees the Elf looking over her.

-I expect to see flare ups of the woman you used to be, you must've been terrifying in your heyday. He explains. But mere flashes of a Elf now long dead and now this Rookie, temporally appropriating her life remains. Let us do this timeline a favour and put you out of your misery.

He lifts his hands as he summons another flame, ready to put and end to Skúmálfar in her entirety. But then a steak of something goes by and not just in Skúmálfar's view, but through the Elf who towered above her, his expression goes blank and the fire extinguishes in his hands and he collapses besides Skúmálfar. Wanting to protect her wounds from any contact, let alone from a body, she grasps the floor to get away and pull herself up as soon as she can. She swings her head to the direction the... Whatever that was came from, the T-junction at the side of The Hounds of Tyre. She notices a flicker of something in the air, like a curtain flapping in the wind revealing something in the window behind it almost. This is when she spots of all things a bushy tail receding around the corner of the pub, grey with small streaks of dark red around the tips. Of course, it all makes sense "Squirrels are known for their dexterity, being observed to use tools in the wild..." and all that, she remembers that, she remembers WHO told her that. She runs to the side of the pub, expecting to see a familiar face, but only a barren street greets her. Did they run away? But so fast? And where did they go exactly?

At this point jolts of pain run up Skúmálfars back, as the feel of her top and what was left of her shawl touching her wounds is becoming unbearable as more and more of the adrenaline wears off. Not again, not like that night, not like the cabin, not again, NOT AGAIN was she ever supposed to feel this kind of pain, to LOSE. Not again. She kneels to the floor under the oppressive weight of all it and strikes the floor in frustration. Not. Ever. Again.

Just then Skúmálfar hears a cry of pain from an unknown assailant, she flips her body around so her back is now to the floor and held up by her hands, to see a third Elf pointing their fingers at her, ready to deliver the death blow while she was vulnerable. That is if not for the end of a Scythe's blade that now stuck out of the middle of his head. The blade sinks back into the Elves face as the body collapsed on the floor in a pool of aquamarine blood. Skúmálfar looks up to see the owner of the Scythe, who seems to spin it around in a circle, causing it to disappear in that curtain like mirage that Butters seemed to despair into.

He was a Monster, a big fat Bat to put it bluntly, covered in brown fur, piercings all over his face, wearing a fishnet top underneath a swampy green hoody that has been cut to his middrift. Slutty grunge is kind of the aesthetic going on here, as he also wears a beanie with little black denim shorts and big black boots, modified to fit a Bat's paws. He examines all the bodies that now litter the pavement outside of The Hound.

-Well I think that was the back-up. The Bat begins. But I think that was the last of them. At the risk of sounding rude; that's probably as many resources as they wanted to allocate towards getting you back Skúmálfar.

Skúmálfar slowly starts to compose herself and get herself upright again. She removes her shawl to give her wounds a little breathing room and then addresses The Bat:

-I almost don't wanna ask because I know the answer will be upsetting and add even more questions to my plate, but nether the less: And how, do we know my name?

The Bat laughs to himself a little and looks as if he's about to answer before stopping himself, he looks around at the mess that is their current locale, before turning to Skúmálfar again.

-Y'know it's been -A Day- for everyone, why don't you get us a round inside?