If you don't know my name, you'll know it now

POSTED: Fri Apr 14, 2017 8:11 pm

Spring sickness.

When she first heard that he was sick from a packmate, spoken as if it was a juicy rumor, Quicksilver pretended that she did not hear.

She took extreme care to avoid him; during one instance, she had instructed Corrine to fetch her only when he left the communal quarters where Khirot and Tarat rested and to warn her when he was to return.

Corrine was quickly becoming a familiar to her. The Frenchwoman was as skilled an herbalist as Bane was and Quicksilver half-asked, half-demanded the slave to teach her craft to her. The woman was nothing but eager. The old slaves weren’t recovering and she wanted all the help she could get, which the silver witch offered when she wasn’t busy learning.

After a few days of this, the slavewoman told her that he was sick in both body and spirit. “He’s different,” was all what Corrine had offered to say. Corrine cared too much, her compassion encompassing a monster even. After the conversation, Quicksilver realized it was the first time she had to still her hand; she never had reason to strike a slave before but the implication that she would have shared pity with her (for him!) made her terribly angry for a split second.

The silver woman caught herself when she saw Corrine flinch away. The Frenchwoman fumbled over her apology but the Warden soothed her and told her she’d help with him the next day. Corrine seemed in want to insist otherwise, but she remained silent, perhaps afraid to invoke her ire again.

Quicksilver did not wait for the Frenchwoman to fetch her. She knew he would be there—if the slavewoman had been accurate with how fast he was falling ill, he wouldn’t be outside the quarters. Corrine was hovering over Khirot when she walked into the room, giving him drink from a water skin. “Where is he?” she asked plainly. The woman balked for a moment but obediently pointed where he was.

When she saw him, she saw no monster, only an ordinary man. The flesh could betray so many truths. “You,” Quicksilver said and she approached the dark wolf. The single word hung in the air as if she had more to say about him, but she didn’t. “Tell me: how are you feeling?”


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Shannah
Luperci Witch

POSTED: Wed Apr 26, 2017 1:52 pm

00+

See galleries for credit.

The fever had set in quickly. He lay on an old rug in the corner of the ramshackle old cottage, shivering, feeling hot and cold all at once, his half-lidded and crusted eyes gazing at the patched ceiling and the cobwebs shining in the rafters. Everything had an eerie halo around it, as if he were looking at this world from another -- but he knew the truth of the matter.

He was alive. God wasn't so kind.

He trembled and dug fingers into the rug, a racking cough parting his jaws. Blood along with spittle flecked his chest when he dropped his head down again, and he wheezed quietly -- wondering at his misery, wondering if this was divine punishment rather than the act of evil ones that he had assumed it was. Had he not been faithful enough? Had he questioned too much? Everything and more had been taken from Silas, and he couldn't -- he couldn't understand --

"You."

Silas groaned with the effort of sitting upright, and stared at the silver stranger in the cabin. Loki, he thought at once, and bared his teeth in spite of himself. That perfumed, womanly scent that could not quite mask the musk of a man, that lilting voice, it had to be him, and in the daze his perception was true.

How do you think I feel, Crone, the slave asked. What magicks did you work on me? Have I not suffered enough at your hand?

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