Cricket Creek Bog A liar and a cheat, but I could be so much worse

Eugh.  Fennec made a face as her paws squelched in the bog.  If possible, it had become even more of a swamp, and she picked her way extremely carefully across the sodden ground.  Despite her care, she'd already been submerged to her chest once, and now she tested each step tentatively before committing.

She wouldn't have come, but @Perdition had said pain was a side effect of his condition, and she knew there were a few willows that grew here.  @Eljay had taught her of it, and they'd run low quickly if she kept handing it out to the man without replacing it.

I know witches live in swamps, but there's no way I'm doing it without some kind of dry ground, Fennec thought with no small amount of amusement.  There was no way she could stomach this squelchiness, or the random pools and puddles, constantly.  Still.  It was a pretty cool image, and she lifted her nose to sniff the rot-ridden air.  That way?  She couldn't smell anything yet, but it seemed like a solid guess, if memory served her right.

He continued to crawl his way through the Wilds, otherwise quick travel made cumbersome by the hefty antlers he dragged over mountain and moor. The wetlands were perhaps the worst; his paws sank through the loamy ground and mossy growth caught against the once-proud antler's tines. Any other might have left the showy prize stuck in some tangled root in some forest far reaches behind, but this was the only remnant he had of his mother, at least the only tangible memory, and he would not be so quick to abandon her.

But the efforts made him weary, and here he stopped to rest upon a more solid swath of ground. The waters flowed in clear pools around him -- such a contrast, to the earthy mud that made his midnight fur seem almost like a reflection of the blessed. Curious -- and his mouth twisted in amusement. He wondered how far he walked from them now, wondered if they blamed him, wondered if he even cared. He wondered these, and caught his breath, and traced the carvings his mother had set within the delicate tines.

Fennec noticed the bizarre sound first.  It was something moving, but it didn't initially sound like a wolf... not with the dragging.  She broke off to follow, despite knowing it was a stupid decision, and caught the scent of a wolf.  Was it alone?

Fuck it.  I thought something smelled fishy here.  A trespasser in my swamp, then?  Fennec cackled as she made her way carefully towards the stranger.  I guess I can let it slide, but only if you can answer a question.  She turned her ears as she waited to see what they would make of this.  She had no way of knowing whether there was a sense of humor here or not, but either way, at least things would be interesting.

He turned his ear at the approach of another before he swung a glance over his shoulder to meet the strange maiden who neared him.

Glaedwine knew of witches from the folklore gossiped between his kin, and from the monickers they threw at those unfortunate enough to be born like winter's frost. Such a word was the first that he, upon instinct, classified the stranger as. But as the prejudice arose, he just as readily whisked the intrusion away. Ashamed, at how even he was not free from the superstitions of his kin.

"Pardon me," he mused, his accent obtusely foreign next to the local lilt of the other, "Something must have stolen my manners."

Witch or wolf, her doe-like grace and honeyed fur reminded him more of the blessed Deorwine than of those pale and twisted wolves they used to stain the minds of their children with, yet there was a way to the girl's face that roused his curiosity, and not just because he thought her pretty. He had seen many pretty wolves and knew their hearts were often the quickest to unearth as something devilish and sour.

No, there was something distinctive about the girl that he had not seen in any other, and Glaedwine appraised her for a long, quiet second.

"Speak. I shall answer."

Fennec snickered quietly when he brought up manners.  He had a nice voice, and she immediately knew that she didn't have to worry about attack.  Making herself known to strangers was always a gamble when she couldn't tell from appearance what a wolf's intentions were.  Everything she gleaned was from pace and carriage.

Pretty words, I'm guessing you have a face to match.  She replied.  She wanted to put him off kilter, play games and see what he'd reply with.  She hoped she was right and he was the type to reject a compliment. It was more fun when they squirmed.

I'm looking for willow trees.  Have you spotted any?  She could keep looking, but it was possible that this stranger could save her some time.

Her words perplexed him; had she not seen his face, when he had turned around and caught glimpse of her? The peculiarity filed itself away. Such was the nature of his mind; catching little things, and tucking them away, without much conscious thought. He hadn't made it this far in life by letting little things like this slip without notice.

"Perhaps a demon might find me striking," his lips twisted in a wry smile, and with this, he turned to face her, curious to how her composure might break, or hold. Much could be said about the thoughts of another, by those tiny flinches of the mouth, the ear, the eye. "Where I am from, my pretty face is more often called accursed."

Glaedwine had, in fact, seen willows nearby. "I suppose I can tell you where the willows are, but only if you can answer my question," his voice rumbled with some small mimicry of the playful notes the girl had offered him, and he lifted himself from the sodden ground. "Whatever do you need a willow for?" he knew, of course, the most obvious reason, but he wished to know hers. "An odd quarry, one might say," he took a step forward, "for a wolf, anyway."

Oh, now that was interesting.  Fennec's attention definitely sharpened when the stranger said accursed.  She couldn't imagine what might be wrong with him to make such a statement, but it was certainly one that struck a note with her.  You too?  She asked, teeth glinting with a smile once more.  Her attention was trained in his direction, best she could surmise it at least.

I need it for the bark.  A witch can't only deal in curses, it's bad for business.  She enjoyed the way the joke rolled off... flat, with no inflection to show her words weren't absolute truth.  She knew, deep down, that she was growing to love this trade.  It allowed her to embrace a side of herself she'd always loved, but in a way that gave her a commanding breadth of knowledge to draw on.  She'd only scraped the surface and already it was so satisfying.

You too? she asked, and this... this was not an answer he had expected, and he looked at her, ever thoughtful, and with the warming thread of empathy threatening to steal through his cautionary watch. He considered that she might be tricking him into a place of commonality, for such a connection often comforted, often pulled down the guards so carefully constructed in the name of self-protection. These things, they made smart wolves stupid. And stupidity was a thing Glaedwine could not afford to be.

But he wondered, too, if prejudice was simply an attribute spread across the minds of the sentient: to reject anything objectively different and uphold those arbitrary things that somehow made some more worthy, more loved, more desirable, than those who had been born a little less favourable than the mass.

These thoughts he kept however; he turned, rather, to the other most peculiar twist in this rather peculiar conversation they shared.

"I can imagine," he mused, paused, "You know, I've met a witch before." If one could truly call her that. @Whitney had been the furthest cry from anything like the devils the Fableists wove into their great and terrible tapestries of song, and he was wont to believe that this girl was no different than her. Powerless, but making truth of the ruse, perhaps to terrify, perhaps to charm, perhaps to exert some false control over a power that would never be hers. "What, pray you, will this blessing do? And who is so worthy to receive it?"

Oh, did you now?  Fennec's tone was full of dubious surprise, with a tidge of mocking for good measure.  She wasn't normally one to be straightforward and she was honestly in fine form today.  It was amazing what an improved mood could bring about... things were turning up pretty well lately, considering.

Are you sure she was a real one?  Pretty easy thing for a wolf to lie about.  That was pure hypocrisy of course, but from a natural born liar, it was sincere as sunlight.  My blessings are guaranteed to heal any aches, but a proper witch never gives anything for free.  So the one that pays receives.  Another lie, but she got the feeling mentioning her pack would break the tone.  And she was very, very much enjoying the tone.

The exchange continued, but in the end, Fennec was able to gather her willow and part ways with the strange man.  She knew that the life of a loner would never be one for her, but she wondered if any pack might not mind a witch who dealt with any that might pass her doorstep... especially if that doorstep happened to be just outside pack boundaries.  Something to think about as she walked homeward.