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Mihaela sits cross-legged by the fire, her diminutive frame standing out against the flames as she peruses through the notes, cataloging and organizing them before handing the relevant ones to Yelena for further inspection. Now that she's taken off her trench-coat, her slender figure looks almost frail in her form fitting bodysuit, a fact emphasized by the occasional fit of shivering and shaking. It wasn't the cold, or the damp, which the fireplace's warmth has blessedly dispelled by now, but something far more primal — her own brain striving against being rewired by the alien logic intrinsic to Aklo's grammar has her body twitch and spasm against her will as the misshapen characters seem to move and rearrange in front of her eyes, unspeakable whispers emerging from the bottom of her consciousness.
(She remembers learning the language as one of the hardest parts of her training; one which never seemed to end, as she wasn't allowed to dedicate to its study more than a few minutes every day lest her mind be permanently scarred.)
Despite frequently laying down her papers to stretch and meditate, a couple of hours later their job is mostly done, though alas the notes didn't seem to contain much they didn't already know or surmise. Penned by madmen and fools they were, indeed, yet madmen made of flesh and blood, and fools whose knowledge of the Unspeakable Tongue didn't seem to run much deeper than hers. So in a way, the distinct lack of valuable information was balanced by her mind eventually winning its struggle against insanity.
Whatever Walter has been working on, on the other hand...
She listens to the wizard's increasingly erratic ranting without making a move or uttering as single word. Consciously, at least. Halfway through the flow of consciousness, her shivers start again, more violent this time. A penchant for eccentricity notwithstanding, she knows almost nothing of the man, but Yelena's face tells her whatever's happening in front of their eyes is the opposite of normality even for one such as him. Bottle and jar. Madmen and fools.
Horrors. Horrors can't be bottled. For that is not dead which can eternal lie. But madmen. Madmen made of flesh and blood. With strange aeons even death may die. They can die. They will die, if she stalks them, if she hunts them, if she cuts them.
Breath in, breath out. She has to force herself to speak, and when she does, only a few, broken words come out. "Two it already claimed. Three we need to find, and then kill." Simple enough.
She could do this. That's what they've trained her for all of her life, after all.