Barrow Fields i don't fly around your fire anymore

with a sour expression on her face, caiaphas listed to aure recant her own reasons - excuses - for being of the enemy's ilk. glum and still full of vinegar, the siren hissed and recoiled as aure finished her speech and advanced anew.

like a toddler refusing the last spoonful of disgusting baby goop-food, caiaphas stiffly turned her neck away from the healer, her gaze cut into a fierce scowl and her teeth set in a grimace. "no, i have not been treated -- i have been too busy, collecting those --" she motioned at the moss and sundry herbs she had collected before aure had ambushed approached her.

she did not for a minute trust this drageda cur, even if her exasperation was believable. setting on her haunches in defiance, the crone shook her head. "no," she growled as aure looked as if she were to inspect the wound -- "your supplies could be poisoned. i do not trust you. use mine instead."

the briefest of schemes came to the siren's wicked mind; what if she got this wolf within kiss or kill distance, summarily executed her, and threw her heads to the dogs?

wouldn't that make for a nice housewarming gift from their new neighbors?