in tenebris est veritas.
The hapless intruder can be heard long before she can be seen, grumbling and stomping as she did. Chaele had been filling their waterskin when they first detected her but, upon realizing that she was approaching, darted into the underbrush. They are not the least conspicuous thing in the oerwoud, but luckily this place is rife with distractions-- the poor girl had made plenty of her own.
At first they simply watch her like a vulture, curious and unsympathetic. Human finger bones are particularly good for warding totems, after all, and their livers are valuable for divination rituals. But Chaele cannot help but wince as she twists her ankle. The creature becomes more like an injured bird than witless prey, all but demanding a guiding hand. Although she is clearly not native to these lands, neither is she a threat to them.
Her words are easy enough to answer, and the shaman does not seem to mind that they might startle her as they reply from the darkness between the trees, “Sit back. Put your injured foot up on that rock.”
A gnarled, rune-carved hand reaches out of their cloak and points toward said rock as they emerge from the foliage. Remaining out of arm’s reach, perhaps they still seem to loom over the prone woman’s form as they inspect the injury from afar. The scrutinizing tilt of their head is amplified by the long antlers protruding from their skull mask.
“I have wrappings for it,” they mention, almost like an offer for help that does not quite find the pitch of genuine care. There is no use for bedside manner when there is no bed. “You are lucky you are not dead.”
At first they simply watch her like a vulture, curious and unsympathetic. Human finger bones are particularly good for warding totems, after all, and their livers are valuable for divination rituals. But Chaele cannot help but wince as she twists her ankle. The creature becomes more like an injured bird than witless prey, all but demanding a guiding hand. Although she is clearly not native to these lands, neither is she a threat to them.
Her words are easy enough to answer, and the shaman does not seem to mind that they might startle her as they reply from the darkness between the trees, “Sit back. Put your injured foot up on that rock.”
A gnarled, rune-carved hand reaches out of their cloak and points toward said rock as they emerge from the foliage. Remaining out of arm’s reach, perhaps they still seem to loom over the prone woman’s form as they inspect the injury from afar. The scrutinizing tilt of their head is amplified by the long antlers protruding from their skull mask.
“I have wrappings for it,” they mention, almost like an offer for help that does not quite find the pitch of genuine care. There is no use for bedside manner when there is no bed. “You are lucky you are not dead.”
