To press on. To move on. To carry on. To walk that long ribbon of the road and adjust to a life when all seemed lost. Was she lost? Was this the end?

Were the ends of those ribbons to be severed and knotted. Cut and torn. Burning and spilling away. Lost to dark black of the ocean on a moonless night.

The new shoes were on, gentle slippers of cream and yet the change did not promise any alter of direction to arise out of the melancholy.

Rona was no phoenix. She could not rise so easily from the ashes of her tormented spirit to find that embered smolder of heat and passion again.

Surely she wanted to live, to breathe, to feel alive again... but the path was lost.

A close of eyes as she hugged her arms to her waist, watching a bonfire on the distant slope of sand dunes at the beach. Lovers seeking cold despite the winter's unforgiving bite.

Solace.

Solitaire.

Sorrow.

Ashira had returned from her wandering. Silver had found a port of call that was Rhy'din and begged and urged for the gypsy to join her on another adventure at sea. To find that wild spark that once had been within Rona's spirit.

It all had fallen to cinders. Ashes to Ashes.

Dust turned to Dust and the emptiness seemed to devour.

The tears slipped before she could stop them.

She didn't know which way to go. Where to turn.

New friends found in Colt but she could feel nothing but shame over her own misery, such a constant in his presence.

How could that not be tiresome.

In the sand she dropped to her knees, broken and defeated. Her tongue silenced by the thousand words of apology and forgiveness she could not speak... could not say...

Somewhere on that long ribbon of road... the ribbon of her own spirit had been shredded and shorn.

All she had left was the severed remains... and the pieces... were so hard to find.

She misssed the heat in her soul. The embers of the spirit magic deep within her. Missed that smoldering flame that could be a tempest or a calming offer of warmth on a cold night. She couldn't find the magic. To give it up to save Kusinage from the possible fear of all that she was, all that she had become, she had given it all up.

Rona knew when he found her there near gutted alive and damaged by the demon's possession and claim of her spirit that it had to be hard on the sentry. He was human... Rona... was different.

Empath. Spirit Dancer. Witch. So many names crossed and threaded through the gypsy's nature and spirit... Silver had understood what she was, and what she had become.

Would... did... Colt and Kean understand? More so did they accept it?

Kean wanted to paint her, a permanent vision of her on canvas. It had been an unusual request to the gypsy, so used to being the wallflower. Blessings came in the disguise of convincing him instead to have it be a paired photo of Silver and her.

After so long... Rona had laughed. Had felt those embers again in her spirit to remind the one that saw the ghosts within the shadows, and heard their voices in her mind like sultry whispers...that she was alive and not on the other side of that parted veil.

Comfort and Laughter. Warmth and Reassurance. It had all been there in that fleeting night. The concern for her general safety, and the conversation of the 'good ol' days.'

Who knew the gypsy was a lock pick save for Silver till that day? Who knew that she was the bargaining chip and plea case for the wild captain when it came to her best friend's arrest. Not a soul save for Silver and her crew.

Not a one until last night... and they admired her for it. Respected her rather then disdained her.

Her fingers rubbed together. Remembering small comforts. The simplest touch of friends, companions, and sisters of heart and spirit... it spoke volumes.

Brought that fire alive within her.

She wanted the warmth to remain.