#&&. where my dreams all pale in comparison to this new soul. ( swordsman. )

[ryuhart]

          THE WITCH OF THE WILDS is an interesting creature, the nomad notes as he considers her from the other side of her cottage. the bed she’s laid him to rest on is far from comfortable— irregular beneath the mattress, digging the soft fabrics into his back, where his wound lays bandaged beneath his robes.

            for a time, he considers silence — he considers standing, unsheathing his blade, finishing what he’d arrived here to do what felt like mere hours before. there is no debt to be repaid here — she is an enchantress that strikes deals &. blood pacts, nothing more, he attempts to convince himself.

            ... but then why would she tend to his wounds? her potential murderer? he doesn’t know. doesn’t want to know. if there were answers, he’d prefer to not know them — misses the simpler times when he wasn’t in the woods, hunting witches. how ironic.

            when he sees her turn towards him, he makes no move to hide. he neglects to pretend to be asleep — eyes transfixed upon her, with the slightest scowl upon his lips, black hair spilling across the duvet. he’s still groggy, still feeling the effects of the poison that had once laced the arrowhead.

            “you healed me.”

            a mere observation.

            “I suspect I should not grow used to such kindness.” / @valkyrel.