[ She reaches back into her bag and pulls out her hairbrush before she perches on the bed behind him. With her legs bracketing him, she unties the cord from his hair and begins brushing, her hand following behind each drag of the bristles. Her reflection in the bureau mirror shows a concentrated gaze as she gently pulls back the wisps and strands from the sides of his face and starts braiding them back along his scalp.

There's a quiet sort of efficiency as she goes, an exacting amount of pressure that's neither too much nor too little. She spent many nights as a girl doing the same for cousins and friends, or sitting on the floor in his position, having her own hair braided.

For a few moments, she's quiet as she works, braiding two rows backward from his temple, holding them in place with her third hand as she meticulously parts his hair for a thicker plait down the center. ]

Maybe this is what we should do next time some fucked up shit happens to us. [ It's light, more of a joke than anything. Abraxas is constantly on the brink of war -- there's no doubt that the Summoned will soon enough be pushed into some new political quagmire they didn't volunteer for. Having a nice vacation spot is at least a very minor comfort for them, and now they have constant access. ] Just come get drunk on fruity cocktails and splash around in the ocean for a while. Maybe that's the next thing the conclave can push for. Paid retreats in exchange for the bullshit.