Noctisardor Bypass Life, Death, Religion, Survival

And just like that, whatever sense of power and control he felt over Rivenwood dissolved in to chaos. When he saw the familiar figure of Druid outside of the den on one of her bids for fresh air, he was going to say hello and continue on his way; but instead, she came lunging through the trees to where he had been roaming and volleyed commands at him he had not expected to hear from her.

Druid was sick. It was a growing concern to those of Rivenwood, and Glaukos had noticed it himself as it crept up to overtake her; but it wasn't a huge concern once Fiona arrived. Now that she was standing before him, bristling, snarling, and commanding that he leave—this was proof that the sickness had grown. That was the only logical connection that Glaukos could make, at first.

He stared at her, tattered ears falling back atop his head for a moment, one bearish paw raised as he was mid-stride as she descended. The sense of accomplishment within Glaukos was shaky already, and having this woman shouting at him in this way should not have rattled him, but it did. He's frowning and bristling, but otherwise too stunned by this explosion out of Druid to react, for a second.

You're ill, Druid. Let me escort you back to bed, he offered, or appeared to offer, as he stepped boldly towards her as if to herd her back; she needed rest, clearly. She needed more medicine from Etienne, more mental magics from Fiona, whatever it took. What she said now made no sense to him. You're not yourself.

That's all this was. She was sick, and she would get better, and everything was fine.