Word Count » 316
Ah, so that was what she meant. The grayish-tan jackal flicked an ear at her comment and listened on as Symera proceeded to question him further. She was very much a child even if she was already capable of killing. Still, this was not uncommon these days. Dedication to combat was something that Inferni needed…though genocidal thoughts were not the sort of thing that the clan would benefit from. Wolves were scum without a doubt; Enkiel had seen their deeds well enough and lived through Haku’s bloody war to understand this. Yet the Lykoi line did not exist without such blood; even their grandmother had once loved a wolf.
“I have studied for many moons,” he explained. The concept of time was a long one; he did not wish to further weigh her down with numerical boundaries. “And I study still. As you said, it is failure to stop.” He offered her a faint smile at this, a peculiar thing for such a stoic man. He pulled forth the root and shook clumps of dirt from it with one hand. “A wise healer will gather plants. They can be dried and used long after the snow comes. Inferni is lucky; we have a greenhouse that allows plants to grow even when it is cold.”
It was her other question he now pondered with some thought. He brushed the final bits of dirt from the plant and placed it into his bag, rising. “Not all sickness look alike. Some you can smell; fever smells hot, and rank. Some you must look for other signs; droppings, liquid from ones nose or mouth…commonly, though, sick people will cough or seem strange. Sickness can make men mad.” Sa’adat had been such a case; he had watched her descend into madness brought on by fever, and he himself had once slipped into that peculiar place, losing himself if only until waking.
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