Serpent Lake go for the throat

scarab's gaze watches as she shifts slightly away from him. it was a minuscule movement and in the fever fog he isn't sure that he actually saw it but after a few seconds of closer examination she does appear to be a tiny bit further away from him; and suddenly, without warning, scarab feels the power from that. it is short lived, of course, for whatever small boost of energy that small moment gives him is rapidly and mercilessly consumed by the fever. while scarab supposes the woman thinks she's being kind, he just finds her talking in circles to him. he needs help — medicinal, probably — and all she wants to give him is blessings? he scoffs.

i don't want no exorcism or blessing or whatever. i want real medicine — it doesn't occur to scarab that she may not know anything about healing ...and when it does — in a delayed spark — his patience has also all but been consumed by the fever ( though, to be fair it's always been a bit thin ). whatever, he huffs. leave me to rot. scarab snaps though takes his own advice and turns, gritting his teeth with determination to make it back to fairspell meadow.

this fever wouldn't kill him. he was the deathreaver, he thinks. if he was going to die it would've been in the cave-in or the merciless toss and pull of the sea.

nanowrimo: 245