inching ever closer

"Fucking Stormbreak," Isla concludes, feeling as though she ought to have a glass of wine to raise in a toast about their collective opinions. Things do seem dire, but call it PTSD managing expectations or otherwise, at this point Isla is used to working on the backfoot. "If neither of you get to it first, Cal or I can put a notice up about it." She nods at the idea that they ought to make the developments public, before turning her attention to the Wraith's tricks and treats. Pebble blues light up to see the syringe, and she offers Wessex a gentle smile. "Thank you," she says, dutifully trading back the items and upgrades she's been keeping warm since the general's jaunt into the Cordillera. "And I've not heard much about any other relics, but then I've mostly been here in the Grounds." Isla the flesh is weak