Moonspear Is there a spirit that spits upon the exit of signs.

His presence raises a few eyebrows. Did they think Hydra would let him waste away to his fever dreams, that she might toss the resulting carcass from the mountain, perhaps even feed it to her slithering spawn? He was an Ostrega. There had been complications, malign errors; he still held the blood in his veins. No rights to the mountain but no reason to perish.

Revui had lain in the nameless darkness as the fever reigned within. He had seen things in his mind that were close to reality, occluded and then twisted, in a way that made things difficult to tell apart. He did not know he was awake now, in fact. These faces he saw were permutations on a theme: they were faces he may have encountered and registered somewhere in his brain, revived again by the sickness.

It was Kukutux that proved otherwise for him. She, he never dreamed of. The smell of fresh herbs, of mountain green, of spicy autumn and Jarilo, came to him as she approached. She spoke, then bent by his face and spoke again. A touch to his face, and Revui understood he was awake. He looked at her. She appeared worn, maybe even haunted.

The attitude he held now melted away. He snuffled softly at her nearness, holding a private moment in full view of Desdemona as he had forgotten she was there with them. Forgotten Jarilo's scent that hung garishly upon her. Then as he remembered, he drew his touch away from her and lay his head across his wiry parallel limbs.