Barrow Fields i don't fly around your fire anymore

caiaphas endured the disapproving clucks of aure as she tended to her work, bustling to and about her like a mother hen collecting her wayward chicks. the siren made no argument to the contrary as she was admonished, though she watched aure so very tightly -- lest the pale she-wolf have some trick or poison up her sleeve.

she scarce hid it, either -- as aure turned around caiaphas often craned her neck to observe whatever plant was muddled into the poultice. she had not lived so long, nor been so lucky to not be killed, by blithely trusting the good-will of strangers.

keeping silent, caiaphas sulkily allowed the white woman her dutiful work, hoping she had not made some terrible mistake in the process.

at length, aure finished her ministrations -- and the siren, loathe to share gratitude with the enemy yet not all-together too far gone of a wretch to deny the pale mistress some token of thanks, simply dipped her head with a brutish grunt and turned for home.