Whitefish River that man is not your maker

She was shocked, in a pleasant sort of way, to find out that Turquoise, like herself, wasn't well-acquainted with her role in the pack, which seemed similar to a warrior from the woman's brief touch on the subject; perhaps it was something the females would need to bring up to Styx, since there seemed to be a lack of clarity on the subject of rank, but maybe that was to be expected with a newer pack. Jinx's experience with packs was limited to Shearwater Bay, which was in her mind a permanent fixture of Seahawk and had never not existed, and Neverwinter, which was definitely new. For her, it was an issue that needed addressing, but it was possible the leadership believed these things would become comfortable knowledge over time.

She shared in Turquoise's laughter when the Gunner revealed the scene of the pair of them, inexperienced as they were, and Jinx was woefully afraid that the real scene would probably look very similar; the bulk of the foliage here was somewhat unfamiliar to the Surgeon, so Turq was, unfortunately, probably right in thinking Jinx would be running around with a leaf trying to cure her. “Just don't get your ass kicked,” she chuffed, “and I won't have to try to patch you up with dead flowers.” As for being inexperienced with fighting, she couldn't say she was any further along; in a fight, she was almost guaranteed to lose if her speed didn't save her, so she couldn't even give pointers, nor would she try; Turquoise was larger and probably much stronger.

But then came the interesting part, the part she almost regretted saying: her companion, easily likeable to Jinx at this point but also still quite unfamiliar, locked onto her explanation and immediately picked out the hardest-to-explain part; Jinx believed everything she had ever been taught, but teaching those things to other adults and expecting them to believe them, that was tougher. Turquoise wore the look of someone who hoped that it was truly possible, but Jinx was certain — although it was a guess at best — that her companion had well-hidden incredulity, as well.

“The spores on the bottom of the bracken fern are sacred,” she explained, feeling no need to explain that she was religious because, to her, that's all there was in life, and non-believers were heathens in a way. “My Gods view them favourably and bestow upon them the ability to conceal their wearer. Should a wolf use the spores in a construct — I like to stick them to blessed stones with sap and adorn them with feathers and bone fragments — then the wolf carrying the construct, which my family and my Shaman always called amulets, will be watched over and granted immunity from sight by the Primary Loa, and can pass by their enemies undetected. Their power is weakened under certain moons and if the wolf is not devout,” she added, sort of an afterthought, as she remembered some wolves were incapable of tapping into the power and magick of the voodou, “but a wolf devoted to the Gods and who serves the Loa faithfully will be given their blessing.”