Felltree Marsh lives of the witching circle

I’m just gonna… scoop this one up in my grubby little mitts.

Lestan had changed.

This on its own would not be too remarkable of an observation. Most folk changed, constantly shifting and growing and aging. The Mayfair man was unpredictable on his own. None of that mattered. The further inland they had journeyed, the more he seemed to slip into madness. Whatever grief-stricken curse had gripped him before was now gone and replaced with something darker, something frightening.

Swordfish watched him digging in the dirt, muttering his curses. He hadn’t eaten much. He’d barely slept. There was no telling how he might shift from day to day.

Lestan… he spoke up. Have ya smelled the two that took yer thing?