“Something of both, I suppose,” Iona retorts with a laugh. Regret she’s drowning in, but she’s been throwing gauntlets in challenge in some fashion since the Conclave. Or, the gauntlets she’s thrown have had more importance since then, anyway. She’s never been one to sit idly by.

Which might be part of why the quiet of the Quarantine makes her so bloody restless. All there is, is idleness. Almost. (And too much to do back home.)

She holds up her glass, knocking it gently against Natasha’s. “To surviving shitty days."